ecology on rollins island by varley lang _man's every resource was being stripped to feed the millions on earth ... but george was a throwback, and a poacher, and his punishment had to fit the crime...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, august 1955. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] there's a library in a small town near charles neck on murdock sound. it's so run down and useless that a lot of old books still hang around on the shelves, the big kind with stiff backs and all kinds of fancy little stars or small, curly designs to show the end of one section and the beginning of another. very quaint. after the wfi took over the sound in our remote area, i didn't have much to do in the day time, so i used to walk down the road to town and get a handful of these stiff backs once in a while. from reading them i got the notion i'm a one man resistance movement, which is pitiful and foolish, and, i gather, always has been a seedy, run-down sort of thing, a backward state of mind and feelings. that's me, alright: backward. i tried to be forward, but it made me hard to live with; and since i live mostly with myself, i had to quit. still, i knew i couldn't get away with backwardness, and that sooner or later the wfi would slap me down, squash this bussing insect, and get on with its work again as usual. * * * * * sure enough, one bleak november morning, when i was half through a couple of eggs and a cup of coffee, i heard the throb of a motor. i walked down to the end of my wharf and looked skyward. i was pretty sure they wouldn't come by land, because most of the secondary roads were in bad shape; and they wouldn't travel by water, because that took too much gas and time. in fact, the wfi never wasted anything. they couldn't afford to. everything went for food, its growth, collection, and processing. the big freighters, some of them, had atomic piles, but that power was impossibly clumsy and expensive for smaller boats. so they came by air in the usual inspection helicopter. the pilot dropped her in the cove right alongside the wharf and made fast. three men stepped onto the planks. they had the wheat sheaf insignia of the wfi on their overcoat arms and caps, and they looked cold and bored. a small sea sucked at the pilings and the helicopter rose and fell, grating against the wharf. i looked at the pilot and said, "better put your chafing gear out if you intend staying a while." we all watched while the pilot put a few kapoks at the tight spots. then he looked at a notebook and said, "you george arthur henry?" i said, "call me george." this inspector was the usual type: tired from long hours, bored from doing nothing on a weary round of food inspections. he hunched his shoulders against the wind. i said, "it's warmer inside." they followed me into the kitchen of the house. all three of them started to sit down, then stopped, and walked over to the table in perfect step. they looked at the cold remains of my breakfast eggs. the wfi inspector shoved his hat up and said, "eggs." the others nodded, wordless with wonder. then the inspector said, "chickens?" "where," i said, "do you think i got the eggs?" the little man alongside the inspector came to life. in three dextrous movements he had glasses on, a notebook in his hand, and stylus poised. "what do you feed them?" he inquired eagerly. "seeds," i said, "insects, chopped up garter snakes, mussels, ground up oyster shells. you boys have all the grain." there was an excited light in the little man's eyes. he hurried out to a broken down shed to examine the chickens. that left two of them. the inspector continued to gaze at the remains on the plate in a dreamy way. the other man straightened his big shoulders, looked at me, and said, jerking his thumb toward the shed, "mr. carter's an ecologist. he just came along for the trip. he's on his way to the government experimental farm over at murdock. i'm a government sociologist. i was sent here to have a talk with you. my name is ranson." "sure. sit down. i guess i'm licked, but there's no use making a rumpus about it." i turned to the inspector whose eyes were still caught in the egg plate. i said, "ever taste them?" "once," he said, in a far away voice. i went to the cupboard and came back with a paper bag full of eggs and put it in his hands. he held them as if someone had just given him the wheat sheaf badge of merit. "i won't be needing these after our little talk, i expect. take them home to the kiddies." he smiled, looked at the sociologists, who grinned back and nodded. the inspector walked very carefully out of the back door and down to the wharf to stow his eggs in the helicopter. ranson shifted in his chair. he said, "that was very nice of you, mr. henry." "george," i said. "against the law, of course." there was a smile around his eyes. "are you against the law, george?" "yes. no use bluffing. you know the story. all the waters and everything in them are wfi. all the land and everything on it. i don't like packaged food. i like real food. i don't like my oysters, crabs, clams, fish minced up and blended with chick weed, cereals, yeast, algae, plankton, and flavored to taste a little like steak. and plenty of others feel the same. i have a market." "an illegal market." "yes," i said. "by god, if you had told my father, before i was born, that the oysters he tonged could not be eaten as oysters, he'd have laughed in your face. and if you had told him he wouldn't even be allowed to tong them, he'd have cussed you good and proper!" "people have to be fed. the only way we can do it is to combine the total food resources of the world, process and package them, and do it as efficiently as possible. that means absolute control of _all_ food sources and their harvesting. you could work for wfi, george. it would be important work." "i know. it's so important nothing else gets done. have you seen the roads around here? half the bridges are down across charles neck and walter hook. you can't get gas. you can't get telephones, and if you happen to have one, it doesn't work half the time. and the busses don't run any more. and--" ranson held up his hand. "it's an emergency, george. you have to realize that. it's been building up for a long time, long before your father worked the oyster beds in murdock sound." "there's another thing," i said. "before you fellows closed the sound, i was independent. i had my own boat and i made my own way. now you put your wfi scoops in the sound and the whole job is done in a month or two. and who are the watermen? a couple of clerks to every scoop who turn a valve every once in a while and draw their packaged food, clothing, and entertainment once a week. do you call that a job? why, those food clerks couldn't even lift a pair of thirty foot rakes, let alone tong with them." "we get more oysters, george, and in less time, and we do it scientifically." ranson tapped his notebook with the stylus and he looked out of the kitchen window. he was giving me time to cool off. he'd been kind and patient when he didn't have to be either. with his job he had no time to sit and reason with a one man resistance movement. he had no time for anything but food, and organizing society to keep it grubbing incessantly for food, and, at the same time, to keep society as orderly and contented as possible. i was not orderly and i was not contented. but i was just one man, not society. i cooled off. i said, "look, ranson. it's like this. i know you're right. i've had a look around, and i've thought about it some. the figures are with you: too many men and not enough food. only thing is, even from your point of view, i'm not fit for wfi. i have to be on my own. there ought to be somewhere, someplace for a man, instead of a food clerk--�" i trailed off unhappily. * * * * * "i'm afraid you have no alternative, george. you are a criminal in the eyes of the wfi. either you will work for wfi or you will be punished." he paused. "i won't work for them." carter, the ecologist, burst in at the door, slammed his gloves down in the middle of the kitchen table. "ranson, you never saw anything like it. fifty in the flock, two roosters, all in fine shape. lice of course, some bone malformation in the legs. but healthy." he began to ask me dozens of questions, but ranson interrupted. "i need your help, carter, and time's wasting. among other depredations, george henry, here, has been robbing government oyster beds, trapping government crabs, netting government fish, presumably at night. i needn't add that he has a ready and lucrative market. in effect, he refuses to cease his depredations, he refuses to join the wfi, and he is generally uncooperative." carter said, "uncooperative," in an absent way. he dragged his mind away from a flock of fifty fowl living in a most unusual ecology, narrowed his eyes, and asked a shrewd question. "how did he get there?" "what?" "to the beds." ranson said, "where did you get the gas, george?" "i didn't. took the engine out, put in a well and center-board, shipped a mast, and rigged her for sail. she's tucked away up in marshwater creek." they were astounded. nobody had sailed pleasure craft for a generation: no leisure and no money for such a waste of time; and sail craft were too inefficient for food collecting. "my god, george," ranson said, "you're a living anachronism!" carter nodded. he adjusted his glasses, looked at me, and said quietly, "he is also an able man." "his abilities will be largely wasted in a penal food processing plant," ranson said grimly. "oh, i agree, i agree." carter nodded his head emphatically. "the wrong environment entirely. no scope. no initiative." he gave me a glance of understanding that warmed me right through and also had the unfortunate effect of taking some of the starch out of me. i had been prepared for hostility and indifference. i stood up and walked to the sink for a glass of water i didn't want. "now," carter said, talking to ranson, "you take the way he walks. notice how he swings his arms, with his hands a little forward, as if ready to grip, and the tilt of his head, alert, watchful. you don't see that often. different attitude, different environment." ranson sighed. "get down to business." "yes. there's always this terrible lack of manpower, machine power, everything, all swallowed up in food. and besides, the men can't stand those bird stations. too lonely. can't meet an emergency. four of them died on rollins island three winters ago when the power plant failed. just sat there and froze. terrible thing. had to install emergency two-way radios; need the equipment elsewhere." "they died of loneliness, if you ask me," ranson said. carter nodded. "and no gas available for boat inspection. helicopter too wasteful for a single station. put george out there with one or two others. could you sail out? seaworthy? big enough?" i said yes. "good. food processing all done by machines. just feed birds in. take up to half the colony of young birds when bred, half the old ones when coming to nest. regular inspection of tern colonies by sail, your boat. helicopter lands june twenty, small freighter in july to load processed birds in rollins harbor. just the thing." he took off his glasses to show that the problem had been solved. "look," ranson said. "i don't have anything against george personally. i want him to be useful and contented. if he can't be contented, then at least i want him to be useful, instead of wasteful. robbing government food resources is a grave offense, but even that doesn't justify putting him down in the middle of a pile of excrement where no ordinary man can breathe for more than a few minutes without stifling." "healthy," carter said. "healthy. it does stink. that's one reason we have such trouble keeping the stations manned." "boys," i said. "what is this pile of dung i'm supposed to sit on? and what birds? and why?" carter explained. in the desperate search for food, the sea birds were now being subjected to an annual harvest. from various nesting places along all the ocean coasts in the world, birds were harvested, to say nothing of their eggs, in large numbers. it was simply a matter of catching and killing the birds, gathering their eggs, and feeding the processing hoppers with same. these foods were later shipped to food processing plants to be added to other harvests and packaged for consumption. in some cases, more specialized processing was necessary, as with the fulmars on rollins island. the fulmars were much prized because their alimentary system contained an especially stinking oil rich in fat and vitamin a. in their case, no eggs were collected, since they bred only once in a season, and the birds were separately processed to retrieve the oil. literally millions of sea birds and their eggs were cropped yearly from nesting sites on the east coast of north america alone. it was a regular and assured source of food on an enormous scale the world over. the thousands of tons of excrement were also gathered every five years to be used in food processing and in agriculture. it was the policy of the wfi to waste nothing and to use everything. the cropping of the young birds took place in the spring and early summer, depending on the species. the adult birds were trapped by various devices when they returned to their nests. over-cropping was carefully avoided to insure a steady annual production. "if it's the island or a penal food plant, i'll take the island. i'm a waterman, not a bird collector. at least i'll get a chance to use the boat once in a while." both the wfi men looked relieved. then ranson put a question. "do you know of anyone else around here who might be fitted for such work? i'm not asking you to inform. i know there's been a good deal of discontent in this sound region, which is one reason why i'm here. the island may be a solution for other misfits as well." i thought it over. "the jackson boys aren't very happy. they were the best men with drift nets this sound has ever seen. now they sit on stools all day long and watch a row of bottles pass in front of lights. once in a while they lift a bottle out of the line and put it aside. they get very drunk every night on some stuff they make out of berries and dandelions from the marsh." ranson sighed. carter again passed a warming look of complete understanding, and nodded encouragement. "then there's pete younger. he was a trapper before wfi closed the muskrat areas. he turns a valve several hundred times a day in the small fish processor. he oils his traps and talks to himself. he may be too far gone. i think he is." "anyone else?" "others. but the wfi has a bight on them for good, i guess. they were men, once." "are the jackson men married?" i smiled. "no. we're dying out." carter chuckled. * * * * * it was a twenty-five mile sail to rollins island. the jackson boys and i loaded the boat with clothing mostly. food was stored on the island. i took along four pairs of oyster rakes, i didn't have the heart to leave them behind. and bill and joy took a huge ball of linen twine, ropes, corks, rings, all the makings for a drift net. unexpectedly, carter showed up at the last minute by helicopter to see us off. he jumped up on the wharf smiling. "about those chickens," he said, "they're condemned stock of course. better take them along. and keep an eye on them. want to know how they make out in a new environment." then he took me aside and handed me a small book. "lot of information in this. written by a small animal ecologist. read it. read it carefully. think about it. read it again, and think some more. got that?" i said, "sure. i'll read it." i had the notion he was trying to get something over without actually coming out with it flat, so i listened carefully. he paused for a while, wiping his glasses and pursing his lips. "that island's not right for fulmars and gannets. wrong environment. never have multiplied as they should. whole thing should be concentrated north. plenty of cliff sites north. none here. won't do. terns, yes. fulmars and gannets, no. trouble is, wfi is tenacious. stupidly so. it works, they say. i tell them it works badly. it's going to take a lot to move them: total failure of a colony or two. "you're intelligent, george. put two and two together. wish you luck." he shook my hand quickly and jumped into the helicopter. bill and joy had to call me twice before i could come out of a trance of bewildered speculation. in a daze i helped the boys load our last piece of equipment: a huge barrel of salt they had pilfered from the local food plant. * * * * * the island is big, about five by fifteen miles, and it must have been a fine piece of land. it still was, even though mucked everywhere with white-to-greenish bird dung. there were steep hills on the mainland side, marshes to seaward, and in the middle natural meadowland broken by woods containing pine, and some beech and maple. we moored in a small but fairly deep harbor at a wharf for loading foods. our barracks stood just off the wharf. in addition to all the necessities, there was a two-way radio, marked "use in emergency only", and a handbook with information on approximate numbers of birds to be taken, locations of nesting sites, and so on. equipment, including snares and nets, was stored in an equipment room. and there was a storeroom containing packaged foods, no freezing or cooling necessary for preservation. behind the barracks stood a warehouse for storing processed birds, and a shop with the processors themselves. everything looked orderly and efficient. a small plant supplied us with light and heat and power for the machines. we arrived in november. by december, the first sea birds began to return to their nesting sites, a few at a time. soon we were so busy snagging them as they came to land that we had little time for anything but work and sleep. even so, bill took the time to salt several dozens of gannets and fulmars for future eating, and he was looking forward to the eggs. spring and early summer soon rolled around, and we were collecting young birds, the nestlings. so it went. i can't say any of us liked the work. for one thing we all sickened of the endless slaughter. for another, the stench and dirt were overwhelming. the island should have been a fine place for living. there were sheltered spots for houses, a small harbor, woodlots, meadows for cattle and pigs, some bottom land for food crops, the sea for fish--a fine location; but it was ruined by birds. it was a slimy, stinking hell. the birds flew everywhere in huge flocks, especially in the morning when the gannets and fulmars came back from fishing at sea. excrement fell from the sky like a stinking sleet. we couldn't get away from the smell or the smell away from us. it was in our clothing, hair, under our fingernails. no watermen ever washed so often or so thoroughly as we did, but the stink remained. we lost weight and appetite steadily, for the packaged food tasted of excrement soon after it was opened, or seemed to, which is just as bad. however, by the end of june most of the birds had left, and we had our helicopter inspection. the same man who was fascinated by the cold remains of a couple of eggs in my kitchen was on this route, and we cooked three or four of our chickens. his enormous appetite sharpened ours, and we had a feast. he was almost tearfully grateful. by july, the freighter had put in, loaded, and left. for the first time in many months, we were unoccupied. bill and joy immediately set about knitting a large drift net. they were happily excited at the prospect of gilling large numbers of government fish. as for me, i sat down to read a book on small animal ecology. i read that book through three times. i kept at it night and day, and it was the hardest work i've ever done, because i wasn't reading just to pass the time. there was a message in that book, i was sure of it, a message from carter, a man i liked and trusted. by the time i began to get a glimmering of an idea as to what carter's message was, the boys had their net knitted and hung. i went back to the book to find out what to do about this idea, and the boys sailed out to drift the net. i waited for them in a sweat of impatience. they came back at dawn the next day with a boat load of food fish. i met them at the wharf. "bill," i said, "what are you going to do with that load of fish?" bill looked at the fish. he said with slow and tremendous satisfaction, "i aim to eat them fish, george henry." "bill," i said, "not even you can eat all those fish. i've got a scheme. save back some of the fish, sure. let joy smoke a few even. but take the rest into murdock tonight and sell them to hornsby. he used to buy my oysters. he'll buy your fish." "what for?" bill asked. "get some bootleg gin," i said. "that makes sense. what else?" "rats," i said. "i want rats. buy some traps or get pete younger to make some. not muskrats. barn rats. as many as you can catch." "fish," bill said. "fish for rats. boy, the birds has got you." he gave in after a while, more to keep me good natured than for any other reason, that and the gin. he came back with two dozen live, healthy specimens, and watched with an open mouth as i let them loose. * * * * * the months passed, and i was worried. to drive the problem from my head, i took the boat out and surveyed the shallow waters off the island. i found something. i found a bed of oysters in broken rock, a bed not marked on wfi charts, because you could see it hadn't been worked for a long time. later, i located clam beds on the marshy side of the island. the damn place was a paradise, or might be, once those birds were cut down, but i couldn't eliminate them by sheer slaughter because of the wfi. there didn't seem to be many rats around. december came and all the filthy, stinking work with it, and still no rats. once in a while, eggs would be missing from occupied nests, and that was all. gulls could have gotten those. we toiled through stinking february, foul march, odiferous april, and evil-smelling may. still no rats. i sent bill back to the mainland for more; and by september, rats were everywhere. bill looked at me from his bunk one night and said, "i hope you're satisfied." i was more than that. i was terrified. they absolutely swarmed. it was impossible to walk from the barracks to the boat at mid-day without having to kick rats off the path. they consumed most of the non-metallic gear in the boat, including the sail. so far, they hadn't gnawed a way into our barracks store room, or we'd have literally starved to death. "boys," i said, "just sit tight. wait till december. these rats are the best friends you ever had. they're going to make this island livable. no more stink and stench." "what," said bill, "are you going to do with the rats when the birds are gone?" joy merely moaned. "we'll kill them." "if they don't get us first," bill said. it was an awesome and bloody slaughter. the fulmars and gannets, most of the gulls, some of the terns, were either wiped out or harried off the island in a single season. and the island became a heaving, moving, revolting mass of rats, and nothing but rats. they attacked us on sight, from sheer hunger. not a blade of grass grew anywhere on the island, and rats are not grass eaters as an ordinary thing. there was one hopeful sign. they were beginning to eat each other. day after day we were caged in our barracks. the constant squealing and scratching under the barracks was bad enough. what made us desperate was the fact that they had gnawed a way into the store room and most of the packaged food was gone. we still had some smoked fish hung on the rafters, and a few salted fulmars in the barrel, but that was all. it was then that we remembered the two-way radio, marked "use in emergency only". bill said, after weighing all the evidence coolly and carefully, that this here, in his opinion, was an emergency. i got wfi mainland and finally persuaded them to put me in touch with carter, bird stations ecologist. i told him we were having a little trouble with the genus rattus, and would he, for god's sake, do something about it, quick. i can still near him laughing. it was a while before he could speak at all. "keep them at bay, general. i'll be over early tomorrow morning." i don't believe any men have ever been so happy to see carter as we were. "they'll balance," he said. "starvation will do its work. i've brought along a couple of pairs of barn owls. they'll help a lot. i see you read that ecology book. good job. station virtually wiped out. i'm sending supplies over in a week's time. anybody wants to know, you're supposed to be helping extend and restore the tern and gull colonies. wouldn't be a bad idea to try a few other animal experiments. milder, though. smaller scale. send canvas for a sail too." he was gone before we could answer. the small freighter put in july fifteenth. she had no cargo of processed birds to take back, of course. the captain detailed a few men to unload our supplies, and we helped them eagerly. there were six calves and heifers, two cows and a bull, five pigs, one boar and two sows, several dozen hens and a rooster. best of all, there was a big case containing seeds: corn, barley, oats, seed potatoes, melons, beets, kale, dozens of others. a plow and two draught horses, mare and stallion. several pounds of rat poison. a hand forge and several tons of coke. iron. a hundred pounds of linen twine for nets, as well as ropes of all sizes. canvas. tools of all kinds. a big medical kit. * * * * * in a year's time, we had prospered. no richer land, due to the bird droppings, was ever farmed. and the sandier areas could be depended upon for melons and other crops demanding a lighter, drier, and not so rich soil. not only that, but we were five, now, instead of three. the jackson boys had lured a couple of husky girls to the island in the boat. the boys claimed the women fell in love with them. i think they fell in love with the island. this fast work on the part of the jacksons seemed a little rash to me. i was still not at all sure we'd be allowed to remain and enjoy the work we had done. several times, i was tempted to use the radio again, but decided to wait. i'm glad now i did. * * * * * in august, a little more than a year after his last visit, carter set his helicopter down at the wharf again. after lunch in the barracks of baked fish, fresh milk, potatoes, salad, and melons, he pushed back his chair and said, "i suppose you've been wondering." "we'd like to know," i said. he nodded. "the mainland's going to pieces. so is the whole world. it isn't just food. we can still produce that. remember what you said about the bad roads, bad telephones? you put your finger on it. so much manpower, machinery, energy, material is used up in getting food and processing it and distributing it, there isn't enough for other things. a tenth of the world's population and a quarter of its total power resources go into processing plankton alone. we are literally eating ourselves to death. utilities and services are breaking down rapidly. no new dwellings of any kind have been built for ten years or more. oil is short, cement, iron, steel, coal, plastics, wiring, radios, telephones, everything is in short supply and getting shorter. transport is staggering to a halt." he paused, took off his glasses, and twirled them by one side piece. "many of us saw it coming. a few decided to do something. we thought there should be undisturbed nuclei, a few able people with ample food supplies. you are one such center. there are others at various bird stations along the coast. you'll be joined shortly by a few more people, young men and women, among them a trained nurse, a doctor, a skilled carpenter, so on." bill cleared his throat. "what you said, i guess it was all around me, only i never seen it, not to put together. just one thing. the manager at the food plant, he used to stop and kid me about all the fish i'd stole from the government in my time. he was abraggin' about how wfi had newer and better ways of gettin' things done, always newer and better every year. how come they couldn't keep caught up?" "bill, those new techniques that manager talked about were old stuff a hundred, two hundred years ago. the applications are new, some of them, but the basic ideas are old. "the world food institute drew off all the scientific, inventive brains of the world, and put them to chasing food. no time for basic research, basic development; just time for tinkering and retinkering old ideas. been no new basic idea for a couple of centuries. too much need for immediate, practical results. the well is dry, and it won't be filled again with a reservoir of new, big ideas, not in our time. been living off the past; and the present has caught up with us." * * * * * before carter left the island to visit the other stations, i had a chance to have a talk with him. "was that sociologist, ranson, in on this?" "no. we had to be careful. still have to be. just a few of us. that's why the loss of the bird colonies here had to seem natural, or at least a natural accident. and i had to keep clear of it. you can see that." "carter, what happens on the mainland when things break up?" "won't be pretty. bad. very bad." "for example?" "you read the ecology book. what happens when a species multiplies beyond its ability to feed itself?" * * * * * a dozen new rollins islanders showed up a few at a time in carter's helicopter. we've been working and waiting a long time now, waiting for carter to come back. for over a year now, our boat has made no crossing to the mainland. last night, over twenty-five miles of sea in clear weather, we saw the sky lit by a great fire. i haven't forgotten those rats. i dream about them, tearing one another with bloody fangs. available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 46233-h.htm or 46233-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46233/46233-h/46233-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46233/46233-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/withblackprince00stod with the black prince * * * * * * books by william o. stoddard. uniform edition. each, 12mo, cloth, $1.50. the red patriot. a story of the american revolution. illustrated by b. west clinedinst. mr. stoddard is at his best in this stirring story, which among other themes pictures incidents of washington's campaigning in new jersey. in this vivid account of a boy's part in great historical events there is a leading actor, "the last of the susquehannocks," whose share in the hero's adventures has given the title to the book. the windfall; or, after the flood. illustrated by b. west clinedinst. "full of adventures and incident so well conceived and described as to keep the reader in a continued state of absorbed attention. it is the kind of book that one wants to sit up nights to finish. one can not lay it aside comfortably until the final outcome is known"--_springfield union._ little smoke. a story of the sioux indians. with 12 full-page illustrations by f. s. dellenbaugh, portraits of sitting bull, red cloud, and other chiefs, and 72 head and tail pieces representing the various implements and surroundings of indian life. "it is not only a story of adventure, but the volume abounds in information concerning this most powerful of remaining indian tribes. the work of the author has been well supplemented by the artist."--_boston traveler._ crowded out o' crofield. the story of a country boy who fought his way to success in the great metropolis. with 23 illustrations by c. t. hill. "this excellent story is interesting, thoroughly wholesome, and teaches boys to be men, not prigs or indian hunters."--_detroit free press._ the battle of new york. a narrative of the civil war. with 11 full-page illustrations and colored frontispiece. "the description of these terrible days and more awful nights is very animated."--_new york evening post._ on the old frontier; or, the last raid of the iroquois. with 10 full-page illustrations by h. d. murphy. "mr. stoddard's stories of adventure are always of the thrilling sort which boys like most to read. this tale, which relates to the last raids of the iroquois, is as stirring as the best of those which have come from his pen."--_philadelphia evening bulletin._ chris, the model-maker. a story of new york. with illustrations by b. west clinedinst. the metropolis is always an attractive scene for a story, and doubly so for a story like this, which tells how two boys and a girl made their way by their own pluck and ability. d. appleton and company, new york. * * * * * * [illustration: firm as a rock stood the young warrior. (see page 18.)] with the black prince by william o. stoddard author of crowded out o' crofield, the red patriot, success against odds, etc. illustrated [illustration] new york d. appleton and company 1898 copyright, 1898, by d. appleton and company. contents. chapter page i.--the king's deer 1 ii.--the men of the woods 25 iii.--the earl and the esquire 49 iv.--the king's messenger 70 v.--the ending of the peace 96 vi.--the sea fight 119 vii.--the great plan of the king 143 viii.--the castle of bruyerre 166 ix.--king edward at paris 188 x.--the great day of crécy 212 list of illustrations. facing page firm as a rock stood the young warrior _frontispiece_ loudly twanged the bow 102 "yield thee, de renly!" he shouted 132 up went the ladder, and on it the english climbed fast 177 soon the air was full of the roaring 224 "arise, sir richard of wartmont!" 230 with the black prince. chapter i. the king's deer. there came a sudden sound, breaking the shadowy silence of longwood forest. crash followed crash, at short intervals, with the snapping of dry twigs and bush branches, and then came ringing, clear and sweet, three notes of a hunting horn. out into an open glade, where the sunlight fell upon the long, green grass of midsummer, there bounded a splendid stag--a stag royal, a stag of ten--fit to be the antlered monarch of the king's deer in longwood. three leaps, and then the beautiful animal stood still; but as he turned, panting, and lowered his horns, it could be seen that he was wounded. the feather of an arrow in his flank told how deeply the shaft was driven. he was at bay now, and splendid was his courage as he stood to battle with his pursuers. again, and nearer, nearer, sounded the horn; for the hunters were coming. out through the leafy barrier of the bushes at the edge of the glade bounded three eager deerhounds, one after another. large dogs they were, brown-haired, lop-eared. their baying had chimed in with the music of the horn. better for them it were if one of the huntsmen had been there to hold them from their haste; for there is danger for any who rush rashly in upon a stag at bay. loud voices and the thud of galloping hoofs told that the hunters were close at hand; but they were too late in arriving. the foremost hound dashed fiercely on, his white teeth showing, and his eyes flashing with green light; but the ten-tined antlers passed under him and were lifted swiftly. away the hound was hurled, pierced fatally, and then a sudden side stroke disabled the second of the four-footed assailants. the third paused, lifting a forefoot doubtfully as he glanced from one to the other of his unlucky companions. a whizzing shaft passed over his head, and a cloth-yard arrow sped to its mark, inside the shoulder of the deer. the spreading antlers plowed the sod for a moment, and then all was over. a tall, powerful-looking man, who came riding up, sprang from his horse, and stood by the wounded dogs, exclaiming: "these short-legged galloways have cost us two hounds! we had better stalk a deer than run him, unless we have swifter steeds." "stalking must serve our turn, now the dogs are gone," growled a shorter man who had come up and now stood beside him. "i would the legs of our nags had been longer!" they were rough-looking men, and they spoke in the burred saxon-english of warwickshire five hundred years ago. it was another tongue from any now spoken in england. the galloways, of whose legs they had complained, were the undersized and shaggy-maned horses they had ridden in that hunt. such were plentiful then, but none other could be had save by those who could pay large prices. "fools are we," remarked another man. "and mayhap the horn blast has gone to the wrong ears with token of our doings. that was thy blowing, guy the bow." "and what care we?" responded the tall hunter. "'tis long since there hath been a royal keeper in any wood of arden forest. earl warwick himself never hunteth as far to the north as this. there's no harm in a horn, and i like well the sound, and the baying o' the dogs. we'll not again hear either very soon." others had now come up, but they said little. they lifted their game to the back of one of the galloways. the arrows were carefully extracted, cleaned, and restored to the quivers of their owners. the men were all stalwart fellows, and the bows they carried were tremendous weapons. when unstrung, such a bow would rest upon a man's foot and touch his nose, and only a strong and practiced arm could bend one. besides the bows, they carried short, two-edged swords hanging at their belts, in which were also stuck broad-bladed knives or daggers. they wore no armor except light headpieces of steel, and their garments appeared to be made of leather. the body coats were like leather blouses, soiled and worn. they wore leggings of deerskin, but several were barefooted. a brave-looking dozen were these hunters of longwood. their faces were not evil, and their talk was that of kindly men fond of adventure and of sport, but caring little whose deer they were taking. the carcass of the stag had been bound to one of the horses, and the hunters were mounting, when a loud shout came from under the nearest oaks: "ho, there! halt! what do ye, killing the king's deer?" "stand for your lives, men!" exclaimed guy the bow. "i'll not be taken!" "nor i!" roared a burly hunter at his side; "but--it's young neville of wartmont. i could not strike him." only five men came riding out from under the trees, but they were all well mounted, and were better armed than were the hunters. every man of them wore linked mail, with shield and lance and sword, while at every saddlebow hung a mace or battleaxe. their helmets were open in front, and the face of the foremost rider was that of a beardless boy. it was a very resolute face, however, and he raised his hand as he again demanded: "in the king's name, what do ye?" "we be free men," said guy sturdily. "little reason hath thy father's son to question our acts." "why not?" came back. "yonder stag is a death-warrant for every man of you!" "not so," exclaimed the burly hunter. "i am ben o' coventry, and we all stand by guy the bow. will thy mail shirt keep out a cloth-yard shaft, richard neville of wartmont?" an arrow was on every bowstring at that moment; but guy the bow spoke again. "thou art a boy, richard neville," he said. "i will tell thee somewhat thou shouldst know. thou hast only the ruins of thy tower to dwell in; but when earl mortimer claimed thy father's barony, and sent his men to put his seneschal in holding, the yeomen of wartmont and longwood, and more from further on in arden, stood by the neville. the mortimer raided our holdings, burning house and barn. he lost his head years on, and thy uncle is earl of warwick; but the bowmen of these parts had become used to taking earl mortimer's deer." "they are the king's deer now," said richard. "ye know that well." "they bear no mark," grumbled ben, lowering his bow. "we'll call that stag for mortimer, this day, in spite of the neville. take us not. go back to your tower." "my young lord," was spoken in a low voice from among the men in mail behind him, "let them alone. they are thine own men. it's only a deer more or less. there are foes enough. hark to ben once more." "i heard thee, sir," said ben gratefully. "he might do well to heed thy saying; but let him now hear what guy may tell him." "my young lord of wartmont," said gay, "i had verily thought to go and see thee this day. knowest thou not that clod of lee, the club of devon, hath been heard from this side the avon? he was one of mortimer's men, and he hateth thee and thine. he is a wolf's head, by all law. he and his outlaws would find at wartmont much that such as they would seek. go in haste and hold thy tower against them, if thou canst, and bother not thyself with a free hunt and a nag-load of venison." "thou art no king's forester," added ben of coventry. "these are times when a man may let well enough alone." "he speaketh truly," whispered richard's mailed adviser. "ride we to the castle as fast as we may. thy mother----" "not a dozen swordsmen are at the mount!" exclaimed richard. "my mother is unprotected! guy the bow, i thank thee for thy warning. what care i for a few deer? only, watch thou and thy men; for the earl sendeth soon to put this part of the shire under close forest law. none may escape if work like this go on then." "thou art right, my young lord," responded guy; "but the yeomen of longwood have no fellowship with the wolves of devon and cornwall. it is said, too, that there be savage welsh among these outlaws that spare neither woman nor child. ride thou with speed, and god be with thee! well for thee that they are not bowmen, like thy neighbors." "haste, my lord!" cried another of richard's men. "there are many women and there are children at the tower." "on! on!" shouted richard; but his face was white, as he wheeled his horse southward. very terrible was the name which had been won by some of the robber bands of england. they had been more numerous during the reign of edward the second. his son, edward the third, was only fourteen years of age when he was crowned, and it was several years more before he really became king. ever since then he had striven with only moderate success to restore order throughout his realm. several notable bodies of savage marauders were still to be heard from only too frequently, while in many districts the yeomen paid as little attention to the forest laws as if they had been robin hood's merry men of sherwood. this was not the case upon the lands of the great barons, but only where there was no armed force at hand to protect the game. the poachers were all the safer everywhere because of the strong popular feeling in their favor, and because any informer who should give the life of a man for that of a deer might thenceforth be careful how he ventured far into the woods. he was a mark for an arrow from a bush, and not many cared to risk the vengeance of the woodsmen. on rode the young neville and his four men-at-arms; but hardly had they disappeared among the forest glades before ben of coventry turned upon his galloway to ask: "guy the bow, what thinkest thou? the wartmont boy spoke not unkindly. there be kith and kin of the forest men at the tower. what if the club of lee should reach the moat and find the gate open? 'tis a careless time." "hang up the stag and follow!" at once commanded guy, captain of the hunt. "we have taken three the day. there will be venison at every hearth. if only for his father's sake----" "we are not robbers, guy the bow," interrupted another of his followers. "we are true men. 'twill be a wolf hunt instead of a deer hunt. i like it well." they strung up the stag to a bough of a tree, and then wheeled with a shout and galloped away as merrily as if they had started another hart royal. three long miles away, easterly from the glade where the stag had fallen, the forest ended; and beyond the scattered dignities of its mighty oaks lay a wide reach of farm land. the fields were small, except some that seemed set aside for pastures and meadows. there were well-grown but not very well-kept hedges. there were a few farmhouses, with barns and ricks. nearly in the center rose a craggy hill, and at the foot of this clustered a small hamlet. it was a sign of the troubles that edward the third had striven to quell that all along the outer border of the hamlet ran the tattered remnants of what once had been a strong line of palisades and a deep ditch. the hill was the wart mount, and on its crest were massive walls with a high, square tower at one corner. viewed from a distance, they seemed to be a baronial stronghold. on a nearer approach, however, it could be seen that the beauty and strength of wartmont had been marred by fire, and that much of it needed rebuilding. some repairs had been made on the tower itself. its gateway, with moat and bridge, was in fair condition for defense. more than one road led across the open country toward the castle; but the highway was from the east, and travelers thereon were hidden from sight by the hill. there was a great stir in the village, for a man came riding at full speed from one of the farmhouses, shouting loudly as he passed the old palisades: "to the hill! to the castle! the wolves of devon are nigh! they have wasted black tom's place, and have slain every soul!" the warning had already traveled fast and far, and from each of the farmhouses loaded wains, droves of cattle, horses, sheep, were hurrying toward the hill. women, with their children, came first, weeping and praying. far away, on the southerly horizon, arose a black cloud of smoke to tell of the end of black tom's wheatstacks and haystacks. "aye! aye!" mourned an old woman. "it's gone wi' fire! alas! and the good king is in flanders the day, and his people are harried as if they had no king." "it's like the old time," said another, "when all the land was wasted. i mind the telling o' what the scots did for the north counties till the king drave them across the border." well kept were the legends that were told from one generation to another in the days when there were no books or newspapers; and they were now rehearsed rapidly, while the affrighted farm people fled from their threatened homes, as their ancestors had many a time been compelled to do. still they all seemed to have great faith in the castle, and to believe that when once there they would be safe. the rider who brought the news did not pause in the village, but rode on, and dismounted at the bridge over the moat. not stopping to hitch his panting horse, he strode into the open portal, sending his loud message of evil omen through the corridor beyond. voice after voice took up the cry and carried it up through the tower and out into the castle yard, till it seemed to find weird echoes among the half-ruined walls. at no place were these altogether broken down. there was no breach in them. large parts of the old structures were still roofed over, and along the battlements there quickly appeared the forms of old and young, peering out eagerly to see whatever there might be to see upon the lowland. there were very few men, apparently; but in the lower rooms of the tower there were quickly clanking sounds, as shields and weapons and armor were taken down from their places. a large open area was included within the outer walls, and there was room for quadrupeds as well as for human beings. still there was a promise of close crowding, if all the fugitives on the roads were to be provided for. gathered now in the village street was a motley crowd of men. they were by no means badly armed, but they seemed to have no commander, and their hurried councils were of all sorts. most seemed to favor a general retreat to the castle, but against this course was urged the fact that the marauders had not yet arrived, nor had all the people from the farms. "men!" exclaimed a portly woman with a scythe in her strong hands, "could ye not meet them at the palisades? bar the gap with a wain. there are bows and crossbows among ye. fight them there!" "we could never hold them back," came doubtfully from one of the men. "they'd find gaps enough. it's only a stone wall can stop them." "they'll plunder the village," the woman said. "better that than the blood of us all," responded the man. "we are few. would the young lord were here with his men-at-arms!" "he rode to the north the morn," she was told. "only four were with him. the rest are far away with the earl. a summons came, telling that the scots were over the border." "could not the north counties care for themselves, without calling on the midlands?" grumbled the woman. at that moment there came a terrified shriek from the road-gap in the palisades. the last of several wains was passing in, and all the street was thronged with cattle. "they come! they come!" screamed the women by that wain. "oh, that they gat so nigh, and none to see! it's over with us the day! yon is the club, and his men are many!" partly mounted, but some of them on foot, a wild-looking throng of men came pouring across a stubble-field from the southward. it seemed as if they might be over a hundred strong. no marching order was observed. there was no uniformity in their arms. at the head of them strode a huge, black-haired, shaggy-bearded brute who bore a tremendous club of oak, bound at its heavier end with a thick ring of iron. he laughed and shouted as he came, as if with a savage pleasure over the wild deeds he had done and the prospect before him. "short work!" he roared to those behind him. "burn all ye can not take. and then for the hills o' wales! but we'll harry as we go!" other things he said that sounded as if he had an especial grudge against the king and against all who, like the nevilles, had been his strong personal adherents. the castle gateway was thronged, so that getting in was slow, but the yard was already filling fast. so were the rooms of the tower, and such as remained of the ruined buildings. everywhere were distress and terror, except upon one face just inside the portal. tall and stately was maud neville, the widowed lady of wartmont castle. her hair was white, but she was as erect as a pine, and all who looked into her resolute face might well have taken courage. some seemed to do so, and around her gathered a score of stalwart retainers, with shields, axes, and swords. some who had bows were bidden to man the loopholes on the second floor, and bide their time. here, at least, if not in the village, there was a captain, and she was obeyed. "men," she said, "you know well what wolves these are. if they force their way into the keep, not one of us will be left to tell the tale." a chorus of loyal voices answered her, and the men gripped their weapons. so was it on that side of the hill; but on the other, toward the east, the highway presented another picture. whether they were friends or foemen, there was none to tell; but they were a warlike band of horsemen. they were not mounted upon low-built galloways, but upon steeds of size and strength. the horsemen themselves wore mail and carried lances, and several of them had vizored helmets. they were ten in number, riding two abreast, and one of the foremost pair carried a kind of standard--a flag upon a long, slender staff. it was a broad, square piece of blue silk bunting, embroidered with heraldic devices that required a skilled reader to interpret them. strangely enough, according to the ideas and customs of the times, the rabble that followed clod the club had also a banner. it was a somewhat tattered affair; but it must once have been handsome. its field was broad and white, and any eyes could see that its dimmed, worn blazon had been intended for three dragons. perhaps the robber chief had reasons of his own for marching with a flag which must have been found in wales. it may have aided him in keeping at his command some men who retained the old fierce hatred of the welsh for the kings of england. he and his savages had now reached the palisades. the village men retreated slowly up the street, while the remainder of those who could not fight passed across the drawbridge and entered the castle gate. more than one sturdy woman, however, had picked up a pike or an axe or a fork, and stood among her kindred and her neighbors. not all the cattle nor all the wains could be cared for; and a shout from the portal summoned the villagers to make more haste, that the gate might be closed behind them. part of them had been too brave and part too irresolute, and there was no soldiership in their manner of obeying. they were, indeed, almost afraid to turn their backs, for arrows were flying now. well it was for them that there seemed to be so few good archers among the outlaws; for down went man after man, in spite of shields or of such armor as they had. better shooting was done by the men of wartmont themselves, and the archers in the tower were also plying their bows. it was this that made the club of devon shout to his wolves to charge, for the shafts were doing deadly work. with loud yells, on they rushed; and further retreat was impossible. the foremost fighters on each side closed in a desperate strife, and the wartmont farmers showed both skill and strength. half of them carried battle-axes or poleaxes, and they plied them for their lives. had it not been for clod himself, the rush might even have been checked; but nothing could stand before him. he fought like a wild beast, striking down foemen right and left, and making a pathway for his followers. victory for the outlaws would have been shortly gained but for the help that came to the villagers. "onward, my men!" shouted lady maud, as she sprang across the narrow bridge. "follow me! save your kith and kin!" "we will die with you!" cried out her retainers as they pushed forward, while the archers in the tower hurried down to join them. still they were too few; and the white head of the brave woman was quickly the center of a surging mass, her entire force being almost surrounded by the horde of robbers. no shout came up the road. there was no sound but the rapid thud of horses' feet; but suddenly five good lances charged furiously in among the wolves. the foremost horseman went clean through them, but his horse sank, groaning, as a welsh pike stabbed him, and his rider barely gained his feet as the horse went down. sword in hand, then, he turned to face his foes, but he spoke not to them. "mother!" he shouted, "i am here!" "thank god for thee, my son!" responded the brave woman. "thou art but just in time!" dire had been her peril, at that moment, but richard's presence gave courage to the defenders, while his charge had staggered the outlaws. he was more than a match, with three of his dismounted men-at-arms at his side, for the foes immediately in front of them. his fourth follower lay several yards away, with his steel cap beaten in by a blow of the terrible club. "hah! hah! hah!" yelled clod as he turned from that victim to press his way toward young neville. "down with him! out of my path! give the youngster to me!" "face him, my son!" said lady maud, "and heaven's aid be with thee! oh, for some o' the good king's men!" "i have thee!" roared clod, swinging high his club and preparing for a deadly blow. firm as a rock stood the young warrior, raising his shield to parry. down came the club, but forward flashed the sword with an under-thrust. "o my son!" burst from the lips of the lady of wartmont. "my son hath fallen! stand firm, men!" fallen, indeed, but so had clod the club, pierced through by the sword-thrust; and a fierce yell burst from his followers as they sprang forward to avenge him. they had been faring badly, but they were many and they were desperate. they might even yet have broken through the men of the tower who had stepped in front of richard while his mother knelt to lift him, but for another turn in the strange fortunes of the day. there was no warning, and all were too intent on the fray to note the arrival of newcomers; but now there came a sudden dropping of the outer men of the throng of robbers. shaft after shaft, unerring, strongly driven, pierced them from back to breast. "shoot close!" shouted a voice. "miss not. steady, men! o richard neville of wartmont, we are the killers of the king's deer!" "aye!" added ben of coventry. "we are with guy the bow, and 'tis a wolf-hunt!" they were not many, but their archery was terrible. fast twanged the bows, and fast the outlaws fell. "closer, men! spare not any!" commanded guy the bow, and the line of galloways wheeled nearer. it was too much. the remaining robbers would have fled if they could, but they were between two fires. "o richard!" murmured lady maud. "thou art not dead?" his fine dark eyes opened, just then, and a smile came faintly upon his lips as he replied: "only stunned, mother. the caitiff's club banged my shield down upon my head, but my steel cap bore it well, else my neck were broken. did he go down?" "he lieth among the ruck," she said. "but oh, thank god! the archers of longwood have come! the fight is won!" it was won, indeed; for neither the archers nor the wartmont men were showing any mercy to the staggering, bewildered remnants of the outlaw band which had been such a terror to the welsh border, and was to other counties almost as far inland as was warwick itself. never more would any peaceful hamlet or lonely tower be left in ruins to tell of the ruthless barbarity of the wolves of devon. why they were so called, none knew; but it might be because that fair county had at one time suffered most from their marauding, or because fierce clod the club and some of his wild followers came from lee on the devon shore. "bloody work, my young lord of wartmont! bloody work, my lady!" "thank god for thee, guy the bow!" she responded. "alas, my neighbors! but who cometh there? my son, yonder is the flag of cornwall, and none may carry it but the prince himself. all ye stand fast, but those who care for the hurt ones." these, indeed, were many, for the women and children were pouring down from the castle. with weeping and with wailing they were searching for their own among the dead and the wounded. but even the mourners stood almost still for a moment, as a knightly cavalcade came thundering up the street. the foremost horseman drew rein in front of lady maud and her son, and the taller of them demanded: "o lady neville of wartmont, what is this? the prince rideth toward warwick. i am walter de maunay." "his highness is most welcome," she said, with calm dignity. "so art thou, sir walter. around thee are the dead wolves of devon. some of our own people have fallen. would thou wert here an hour the sooner. god save the king!" rapid were the questions and the answers, but the black prince himself, as he was called, left all the talking to sir walter, while he dismounted to study the meaning of the fray. he had singularly keen, dark eyes, and they flashed swiftly hither and thither, as if they were seeking to know exactly how this small battle had been fought and won. "and this is the famous clod the club?" he said. "by whose hand was this thrust?" "'twas young lord richard," answered guy the bow. "both went down, but the neville was little hurt. 'twas bravely done!" "richard neville," exclaimed the prince, "thou hast won honor in this! i would that i had slain him. thou art a good sword. the king hath need of thee." "he shall go with me," added sir walter admiringly, as he gazed down upon the massive form of the slain robber. "madame, give the king thy son." "yea, and amen," she said. "he is the king's man. i would have him go. and i will bide at warwick castle until he cometh again. speak thou, richard!" "i am the king's man," replied richard, his face flushing. "o my mother, bid me go with the prince. i would be a knight, as was my father, and win my spurs before the king; but i fain would ask one favor of his grace." "ask on," said the prince. "'twere hard to refuse thee after this gallant deed of arms." "this work is less mine," said richard, "than of guy the bow and my good forestmen. but i trow that some of them have found unlawful marks for other of their arrows. i ask for them the grace and pardon of the king." "they have sinned against the king's deer," loudly laughed sir walter de maunay. "there needeth no promise. thou hast not heard of his royal proclamation. free pardon hath he proclaimed to all such men as thine, if they will march with him against the king of france. 'tis fair pay to every man, and the fortune of war beyond sea." no voice responded for a moment as the archers studied one another's faces. "richard," said his mother, "speak thou to them. they wait for thee." "o guy the bow," said richard, "wilt thou come with me--thou and thy men?" there was speech from man to man behind guy; but it was ben of coventry who said: "tell thy prince, guy the bow, that two score and more of bows like thine will follow richard neville to fight for our good king." to address the prince directly was more than guy could do; but he spoke out right sturdily: "my master of wartmont, thou hearest the speech of ben. 'tis mine also. we take the pardon, and we will take the pay; and we will go as one band, with thee for our captain." "aye," said another archer, "with the young neville and guy the bow." "ye shall be the neville's own company," responded the prince. "i like it well. so will they do best service." "aye, 'tis the king's way also," added sir walter de maunay; and then the lady of wartmont led the way into the castle. richard went not forthwith, but conferred with his archers. he had care also for the injured and the dead, and to learn the harm done in the village and among the farms. in a few minutes more, however, the banner of the prince was floating gayly from a corner of the tower, to tell to all who saw that the heir of the throne of england was under the wartmont roof. chapter ii. the men of the woods. lacking in many things, but not in stately hospitality or in honest loyalty, was the welcome given that night at wartmont castle to the heir of the english throne and to his company. truth to tell, the fortunes of this branch of the great house of neville were not at their best. the brave sir edward neville had fallen in flanders fighting for the king. his widow and her only son had found themselves possessed of much land, but of little else. too many acres of the domain were either forest or hill, that paid neither tithe nor rental. not even lady maud's near kinship to the earl of warwick was as yet of any avail, for these were troublous times. many a baron of high name was finding it more and more difficult to comply with the exactions of edward the third, and the king himself could hardly name a day when his very crown and jewels had not been in pawn with the money lenders. the less of discomfort, therefore, was felt by lady maud; but she was grateful that the prince and the famous captain, sir walter, so frankly laughed away her apologies at their parting the next morn. "i am but an esquire," said the prince. "my royal father biddeth me to wear plain armor and seek hard fare until i win my spurs. thou hast given me better service than he alloweth me." "most noble lady," added sir walter, "i am proud to have been the guest of the widow of my old companion in arms----" "be thou, then, a friend to his son," she broke in earnestly. "that will i," responded de maunay, "but we may not serve together speedily. i go to confer with the earl of warwick. then i am bidden to join derby's forces in guienne and gascony. hard goeth the war there. as for thy son, he, too, should come to warwick with his first levies. the king hath ordered the power of the realm to gather at portsmouth by the ninth day of next october." "i must be there, mother," said richard. "bring thy archers with thee, if thou canst," replied sir walter. "it is the king's thought that his next great field is to be won with the arrow, rather than the sword or the lance. but he will have only good bows, and them he will train under his own eye. it is time, now, for our going." the young prince, like the knight, gave the respectful ceremony of departure to the lady of wartmont, but much of youthful frankness mingled with his words and manner to richard. "i envy thee, indeed," he said to him, "thy close with the club of devon. i have never yet had such a fortune befall me. i have seen fights by sea and land, but ever some other hand than mine struck the best blow." "thou wilt strike blows enough before thou art done, thou lion's cub of england," said sir walter admiringly, for he loved the boy. that was good reason, too, why he was with him on this journey with so small a company. "few, are they?" had richard responded to a word from his mother concerning peril to the prince. "i have marked them, man by man. i think they have been picked from the best of the king's men-at-arms. a hundred thieves would go down before them like brambles before a scythe. and the prince told me he thought it scorn to need other guards than his own people----" "and his own sword," she said, "and the lances of de maunay and his men. but the roads are not safe." "thou wilt be securely conveyed to warwick, o my mother," he said lovingly. "i will not leave thee until thou art within the earl's own walls." this had been spoken early in the day after the conflict with the outlaws, and now the horsemen were in their saddles, beyond the bridge of the moat, waiting for the prince and the knight. their waiting ended, and it was fair to see how lightly the great captain and his young friend, in spite of their heavy armor, did spring to horseback. gracious and low was their last salute to the bare, white head of lady maud at the portal, and then away they rode right merrily. "o my son!" exclaimed she, turning to richard at her side, "i can wish no better fortune for thee than to be the companion of thy prince. i tell thee, thou hast won much by this thy defense of thy mother and thy people." "aye," said richard, laughing, "but thou wast the captain. i found thee leading thy array, and i did but help at my best. i would sir walter were to be with us, and not with the earl of derby." "there be men-at-arms as good as he," she said. "thou wilt have brave leaders to learn war under. and, above all, thou wilt be with thy king. men say there hath not been one like him to lead men since william the norman conquered this fair land. thou, too, art a neville and a norman, but forget thou not one thing." "and what may that be, my mother?" asked richard, wondering somewhat. "knowest thou not thy hold upon the people, nor why the bowmen of arden forest come to thee rather than to another? neville and beauchamp, thou art a saxon more than a norman. thy father could talk to the men of the woods in their old tongue. it dieth away slowly, but they keep many things in mind from father to son. every man of them is a saxon of unmixed blood, and to that degree that thou art saxon thou art their kinsman. so hated they earl mortimer and would have none of him, and so he harried them, as thou hast heard. they will stand by thee as their own." "so will i bide by them!" exclaimed richard stoutly. "and now there is one yonder that i must have speech with. i pray thee, go in, my mother." "that will i not," she said. "it behooveth me to pass through the hamlet, house by house, till i know how they fare the day. there are hurts among both men and women, and i am a leech. are they not my own?" "and well they love thee," said her son, and they walked on down the slope side by side. that they did so love her was well made manifest when men, women, and children crowded around her. every voice had its tale of things done, or seen, or heard, and there was wailing also, for the few who had escaped from near black tom's place were here, and others from farther on. dark and dire had been the deeds of the robber crew from the welsh border to the heart of warwickshire, and great was the praise that would everywhere be given to the young lord of wartmont manor and his brave men. the club of devon and his outlaws would be heard of or feared no more. 'twas a deed to be remembered and told of, in after time, among the fireside talks of the midland counties. the madame now had household visits to make not a few, and richard listened long to the talk of the farmers and the village men. he seemed to have grown older in a day, but his mother said, in her heart: "i can see that the folk are gladdened to find that he is so like to the brave knight, his father. god keep him, among the spears and the battle-axes of the french men-at-arms! i fear he is over young to ride with such as serve with the prince." she could not think to hold him back, but he was her only son, and she was a widow. patiently, all the while, a little apart from the rest, had waited the burly shape of guy the bow, and with him was no other forester, but beside him stood his shaggy-maned galloway. "thou art come?" said richard. "brave thanks to thee and thine. what errand hast thou, if so be thou hast any for me?" "i bided out of seeing till the prince and lord de maunay rode on," replied guy. "even now i would no other ears than thine were too near us." "this way, then," said richard, turning to walk toward the moat. "i have somewhat to say to thee as we go." none joined them, and as they walked the archer was informed concerning the mandates of the king and the mustering by land and sea at portsmouth. "i have been there," said guy, "in my youth. 'tis not so far to go. 'tis well in behind the isle of wight. i have been told by seafaring men that the french have never taken it, though they tried. a safe haven. but there are others as safe on the land. part of my coming to thee is to ask that thou wilt venture to look in on one." "i may not venture foolishly or without a cause," said richard. "thee i may trust, but all are not as thou art." "all thou wilt see are keepers of good faith when they give troth," laughed guy pleasantly, "or else more in wartmont would know what to this day they know not. my lord of wartmont, plain speech is best. the men who are to go with thee are under the king's ban, as thou knowest. they will not put themselves within the reach of the sheriff of warwickshire till they are sure of safety. they will hear the king's proclamation from thine own lips, for thou hast it from the prince himself. a man's neck is a thing he is prone to guard right well." "go and have speech with them? that will i!" exclaimed richard promptly. "nor is there time to lose. i will bid them bring my horse----" "not as thou now art," responded guy. "don thou thy mail. be thou well armed. but men of thine from the castle may not ride with us. i have that to show thee which they may not see. wilt thou trust me?" "that will i," said richard. "and thine own sword is a good one," added the archer, with soldierly admiration in his face. "i have seen thy father in tourney. thou wilt have good stature and strong thews, as had he in his day. they say 'twas a great battle when he fell among the press, and that many good spears went down." "aye. go!" said richard thoughtfully. "i will explain this thing to my mother. she needeth but to know that i go to meet a muster of the men." "nay," said guy. "fear thou not to tell my lady all. in her girlhood she was kept, a day and a night, where none could do her harm, for the welsh were over the border, under lewellyn the cruel, and the castle of her father was not safe. she was not a neville then, and the beauchamps fled for their lives." "what was the quarrel?" asked richard. "little know i," replied the archer. "what have plain woodsmen to do with the feuds of the great? some trouble, mayhap, between king edward the second and his earls. we aye heard of fights and ravages in those days, but there came none to harry us in arden." so they talked but little more, and richard passed on into the castle followed by guy the bow. their first errand was to the hall of arms in the lower story, and the eyes of the forester glittered with delight as they entered. "thou couldst arm a troop!" he exclaimed. "what goodly weapons are these!" "wartmont hath held a garrison more than once," said richard. "pray god that our good king may keep the land in peace. but it needeth that his hand be strong." "strong is it," said guy, "and the young prince biddeth fair. i like him well. but, my lord of wartmont, the noon draweth nigher and we have far to ride." "aye," said richard; but he was taking down from the wall piece after piece and weapon after weapon, eying them as if he loved them well but was in doubt. "no plate armor, my lord," said guy. "it were too heavy if thou went on foot. let it be good chain mail; but take thee a visored headpiece. with thy visor down strange eyes would not know thee too well. leg mail, not greaves, and a good, light target rather than a horseman's shield. this is a rare good lance." "that will i take," said richard, as he tested a sword blade by springing it on the stone pavement of the hall. "i will hang a mace at my pommel." "thou art a bowman," said guy. "thy bow and quiver also can hang at thy saddle. nay, not that heavy bit of yew. thy arms are too young to bend it well. choose thee a lighter bow." "i will string it, then, and show thee," replied richard, a little haughtily. "yon is a target at the head of the hall. wait, now." the bow was strung with an ease and celerity which seemed to surprise the brawny forester. he took it and tried its toughness and handed it back, for richard had taken an arrow from a sheaf beneath a window. "good arm, thine!" shouted guy, for the shaft was drawn to the head and landed in the very center of the bull's eye of the wooden tablet at the hall end. "thou art a saxon in thy elbows. canst thou swing an axe like this?" he held out a double-headed battle-axe that seemed not large. it was not too long in the handle, but its blades were thick as well as sharp edged. it was no weapon for one at all weak-handed. clogs of wood lay near, with many cuts already upon them, as if there had been chopping done. richard took the axe and went toward a clog of hard oak. click, click, click, in swift succession, rang his blows, and the chips flew merrily. "done!" shouted guy. "take that, then, instead of thy foolish mace. it will but bruise, while thine axe will cleave through mail or buff coat. ofttimes a cut is better than a bruise, if it be well given. i would i had a good axe." "take what thou wilt," said richard. "put thee on a better headpiece, and change thy sword. if thou seest spears to thy liking, they are thine; or daggers, or aught else. we owe thee good arming." "speak i also for ben o' coventry," responded guy. "he needeth a headpiece, for his own is but cracked across the crown, and his sword is not of the best." "choose as thou wilt for ben," said richard, "or for any other as good as he. needeth he mail?" "his buff coat is more to his liking," said guy, "and men say that the king will not have his bowmen overweighted for fast walking. the weary man draweth never a good bow, nor sendeth his arrow home." "right is the king," replied richard. "i am but a youth, but i can see that a foe might get away from heavy armor." guy was busy among the weapons and he made no answer. at that moment, however, there was a footfall behind him, and he sprang to his feet to make a low obeisance. "mother!" exclaimed richard, "i was coming to tell thee." but not to him was her speech, nor in norman french, nor in the english dialect of the warwickshire farmers. she questioned guy in old saxon, such as was not often heard since the edicts of the norman kings had discouraged its use. richard could speak it well, however, and he knew that guy was explaining somewhat the errand before him. "it is well," she said. "i will trust him with thee. the castle is safe. but hold him not too long, for i make myself ready to pass on to warwick, to abide with the earl for a season." "right soon will he return," said guy the bow, "and good bows with him. the king shall be pleased with the company from arden and wartmont." small wonder was it, after all, that while all welshmen retained their ancient tongue, and many cornishmen, and the manxmen all, and the gaels of scotland and the wild erse of ireland, so also many thousands--no one knew how many--in the rural districts of england, still preserved but little changed the language with which their fathers had answered to harold, the last of the saxon kings. hundreds of years later the traces of it lingered in warwickshire, lincolnshire, yorkshire, lancashire, and elsewhere, in a manner to confuse the ears of modernized men from the towns and from the coasts, as well as all outland men who might believe that they understood english. well did guy obey the commands of both richard and his mother; for when, after a hearty breaking of his fast, he stood by the side of his galloway, that good beast had cause to whinny as he did, as if to inquire of his master what need there might be that he should so be packed with weapons and with steel caps for the heads of men. the gallant animal that was to carry richard, on the other hand, was fitted out and laden as if at any moment his rider might be changed from a lance-bearing man-at-arms to a bowman on foot. other baggage there was none, and lady maud, from her crenelated peephole in the wartmont keep, saw her son and his companion ride slowly away through the village. "heaven guard him!" she murmured. "but he can not gain too well the hearts of the old race. they be hard-headed men and slow to choose a leader, but they are strong in a fray. i would the tallest of the forest deerslayers should go shoulder to shoulder with my son into the king's battles." so she gazed until the pair of horsemen disappeared along the road; then she descended a flight of stairs and walked to the end of a corridor. here was a door that opened into a high vaulted chamber, at the far end of which were candles burning before an altar and a crucifix. this was the chapel of the castle, and lady maud's feet bore her on, more and more slowly, until she sank upon her knees at the altar rail and sobbed aloud. well away now, up the valley, northward, rode richard neville and guy the bow, but they were no longer in any road marked by wheels of wains. they had left the highway for a narrow bridle path that was leading them into the forest. "my lord of wartmont," said the archer, "i pray thee mark well the way as thou goest. chance might be that thou shouldst one day travel it alone. put thou thine axe to the bark of a tree, now and then, and let it be a mark of thine own, not like that of another. i think no man of knightly race now liveth who could guide thee, going or coming." in an instant richard's battle-axe was in his hand, and a great oak had received a mark of a double cross. "there hangeth a shield in the gallery of the armory," he said, "that is blazoned in this wise. it is said that a good knight brought it home from spain, in the old wars. well is it dinted, too, in proof that it fended the blows of strong fighters. it is thrust through and it is cloven." "mayhap in frays with the heathen," said guy. "a sailor, once, at portsmouth, one of our own kin, told me rare tales of the moors that he had seen in the spanish seas. he told me of men that were black as a sloe; but it is hard to believe, for what should blacken any man? he had seen a whale, too, and a shark three fathoms long. there be wonders beyond seas." "and beyond them all is the end of the world," said richard, "but the ships do not venture that far to their ruin." so more and more companionlike and brotherly grew the young lord and the forester, as they rode on together, and it seemed to please guy well both to loosen his own tongue and to ask many questions concerning matters of which little telling had ever yet come in among the forests of arden. the day waned and the path wound much, and there was increasing gloom among the trees and thickets, when guy turned suddenly to richard. "put down thy visor," he said sharply, "and draw thy sword. we are beset! sling thy lance behind thee, and get thee down upon thy feet. this is no place to sit upon a horse and be made a mark of." the actions of both were suited to the word on the instant, but hardly was richard's helmet closed before an arrow struck him on the crest. but that he had been forewarned, it had smitten him through the face. "outlaws!" said guy. "robbers--not our own men. how they came here i know not. down, quickly!" even as he spoke, however, his bow twanged loudly, and a cry went up from a dense copse beyond them. "one!" he shouted, and he and richard sprang lightly to the earth. "well my sword was out!" said the latter as he gained his feet, for bounding toward him were half a dozen wild shapes carrying blade and buckler. "down with them!" roared the foremost of the assailants; but guy the bow was in front of him, and in his hand was a poleaxe from wartmont armory. it was a fearful weapon in the hands of such a man as he, to whom its weight was as a splinter. it flashed and fell, and the lifted buckler before it might as well have been an eggshell for all the protection it gave to the bare head of the robber. he should have worn a helmet, but he would never more need cap of any kind. useless, too, was the light blade that glinted next upon the shield of richard, for it made no mark, while its giver went down with a thigh wound, struck below his buckler. on swept the terrible blows of the poleaxe, and guy had no man to meet but was nearly a head shorter than himself. "they are all down!" he shouted. "mount, my lord of wartmont; they in the copse have fled, but there may be more at hand. we will ride hard now. these are thieves from lancashire, and they have not been heard of in these parts for many a day. i think they have been harried out of their own nests. they are but wolves." "what kin are they?" asked richard, as he regained his saddle. "that i know not, nor do i know their speech," replied guy. "but among them are no tall men nor many good bows. ben o' coventry hath been told by a monk from those parts that they are a kind of old welsh that were left when the first king edward smote their tribe to death. they will live in no town, nor will they obey any law, nor keep troth with any. but the monk told ben that they were not heathen, and among them were men who could talk latin like a priest. how that could be i know not." "nor i," said richard; "but i tell thee, guy the bow, i like this war of the king's with france. we shall cross the sea, and we shall look upon strange lands and towns. i would not bide aye at wartmont. i would see the world." "that would not i," laughed guy, "but if the king winneth battles and taketh towns there will be spoils to bring home. i will come back to own land and cattle, and thou canst build again thy castle walls and maintain thy state. i saw a piece of gold once." "there is little enough of gold in england," said richard; but the path was narrowing and they could no longer gallop abreast. not far had they pushed on, however, before guy drew his rein and turned upon his galloway to say, in a hushed voice: "my lord of wartmont, i dare not sound a horn. i pray thee dismount and come after me through the hazels. i know not of peril, but we need to go lightly." "aye," returned richard, as he dropped from the saddle nimbly enough considering his arms. "i am with thee." path there seemed to be none in that dim light, but ere long, as he followed his guide, the hazel bushes on either side opened widely and before him spread a grassy level. only that the grass was too luxuriant and that here and there were rushes, it might have seemed a pleasant glade. "'tis the southerly arm," said guy, "of the great moss of arden. there is little more of it till you get leagues north of this. oh, but it's deep and fateful. he who steppeth into it cometh not up." "what do we, then?" asked richard. "that which few may dare," replied guy with one of his brave laughs. "but a piece onward and i will show thee. here might be barred an army." "that might they," said richard, staring across the treacherous green level, below which, guy told him, there was no bottom. beyond were shadowy lines that told of forest growths, and these were nearer as they led their horses onward. "a bridge!" exclaimed richard, as he caught a glimpse of a mass of logs and planks. "is there crossing?" "none but what the men of the woods can take away before dawn," said guy. "it is a bridge that some have crossed who came not back again. i pray thee, speak not save in old saxon. 'tis the only tongue that may be heard inside o' the moss of arden." richard spoke not aloud, but he was saying much in his thoughts. "this, then, is the reason why the sheriff of warwickshire had missed finding many that were traced to the forest. the takers of the king's deer know where to hide their venison. but even on this bridge a few axemen could hold back a troop. yonder bushes could hide archery. he would be a bold captain, or crack-brained, who would lead men upon this narrow way." the woodwork trembled somewhat with the weight of the two horses and the men, but it bore them well enough. "hail, thou!" came hoarsely from among the shadows as they reached the farther bank. "come well. thou hast him with thee." "greet them in saxon," whispered guy, and he also responded loudly: "hail, men, all! is ben o' coventry with ye? this is richard of wartmont, with the king's word in his mouth. i gave him safe conduct, and his mother sendeth ye good greeting." something like a cheer arose from several voices, but the speakers were unseen until guy and richard had passed on many paces into the forest. even then only dark and silent forms walked with them, and there were gleams of bright spearheads before them and behind. "every man hath his bow and his buckler," thought richard, "and most of them are sturdy fellows. the king hath need of such. it is said that the outland men are smaller in the bones." it was the prevailing opinion among the english of that day that one of their own was equivalent to four frenchmen, and they counted as french nearly all of the dwellers beyond the channel, except the hollanders and the danes, or norsemen. the norway folk were also, by the greater part, counted as danes, and were believed to be hard fighters. so, among the country folk, still lingered the traditions of the ancient days, when knut and his vikings had swept the coast and conquered the island. it was a walk of a league, and there was some talking by the way, but the men all seemed in haste and they strode rapidly. then they were greeted by loud shouting, and richard saw a red light grow beyond the trees. "here is cleared land," was his next thought, "and yonder is a balefire. ho! in the king's name, what is this? are there strongholds hidden among the woods?" before him, as he went forward, was an open area which may have contained hundreds of acres. he could see broad reaches of it by the glaring light of a huge heap of burning wood, a few score yards from the edge of the forest. beyond the fire, as much farther, he could discern the outlines of a large building, and, even more distinctly, a long line of palisades in front of it. "my lord," said guy, "yonder is the hidden ward in arden. if any that are great of thy kinsmen ever heard of it, they told thee not. there was thy mother fended, and there thy father lay long days, when earl mortimer's men were seeking his head. thou art welcome, only let thy lips be as our own concerning our hold. it will be kept well should strangers come." richard glanced at the rugged forms around him, and at many more that were walking hither and thither in the firelight. all were armed, and he could well believe that they would make guy's word good for him. they crowded around as he drew near, and there was an increasing heartiness in their manner and words as he continually replied to them in the forgotten tongue. he knew not of gypsies, or the thought might have come to him that these half-outlaws, every man a deerslayer, under the ban of the stern forest laws, had need, as had the romany or "bohemians" as they were called, to possess a speech of their own. it was a protection, inasmuch as it aided them in detecting intruders and in secretly communicating with each other. there seemed to be no chief man, no captain, but all stood on a kind of rude equality, save that much deference was paid to guy the bow. "right on to the house, if it please thee, my lord," he said. "it is late, and there is roast venison waiting. thou mayest well be hungered. is all ready, ben o' coventry?" "all that's to be eaten," responded ben, "but the talking with the men must be done on the morrow. they from the upper woods are not in. it was well to slay the lancashire thieves. some have gone out after what thou and he did leave. they may not tell tales of aught they have seen in arden." a few words more of explanation informed richard that he was there sooner than had been expected, and he was quite willing to let his wild entertainers have their own way. "i would see all," he said, "and talk to all at once." "there might be jealousies," whispered guy. "thou doest wisely. here is the gate." a vast oaken portal heavily strengthened with iron swung open in the line of the bristling palisades while he was speaking. there was a moat, of course, with a bridge of planks to the gate, over which richard and those who were with him went in. the inclosure beyond was large, and in it was blazing more than one log heap, the better to light up the buildings. some would have called it a grange, if there had not been so much of it, for there were more houses than one, all grouped, attached or built on to a central structure. there was no masonry, but the woodwork was exceedingly heavy and strong. if there were more than one story to the grange, it must have been hidden under the high-pitched roofs, for there were no upper windows. such of these as could be seen below were all closed with heavy swing shutters, nor was there any chimney on any roof. this was the manner in which the west saxons of harold's time builded the palaces of their chiefs and earls. chapter iii. the earl and the esquire. when lady maud neville arose from her knees at the altar rail there was a beautiful light upon her noble face. her long, white hair had fallen around her shoulders, but for some reason she seemed to have grown younger. "i will give him to the king!" she loudly exclaimed. "i have prayed that my son may be as was his father, a knight without a stain. but here i may not tarry. it were better i made ready for a journey even ere i sleep, for when richard returneth there will be haste. there is much that i would not leave behind. i will load no wain with goods, but the pack beasts will bear full panniers." she walked out of the chapel and her serving men and maidens met her, eager to do her bidding. after that there were chambers and storerooms to visit and coffers to open and packs to bind, for she was not ill supplied with the garments that were suited to her rank, and above all there were small caskets of dark wood that were not opened. it was said that there were gems and jewels in wartmont, and the saying may have reached the ears of such as clod the club to bring him thither. if so, well was it that he and his would never come again. ever and anon, however, as the good lady passed a window, she would pause and look out toward the forest, as if in that direction there might be some one that she longed to see. day waned and the night came on, and all preparations appeared to be completed, for again she visited the chapel before retiring to her chamber. long since had the great gate been closed, and the portcullis lowered and the bridge over the moat drawn in. now, at last, the curfew bell sounded from the tower and the lights in castle and village went out, save one bronze lamp that still burned in that corner of the keep to which the lady herself had retreated. it was a large room and lofty, with twain of narrow windows that were as if for archers to ply their arrows through them rather than for lighting the space within. the floor was strewn with dry rushes for luxury, and the garnishing was such as became the mistress of wartmont. heavily carved, of oak, were the tables and the high-backed chairs and the settles. the mirror over the chest of drawers must have come from venice itself. there were curtains at the windows and around the high-post bedstead which might have been woven in flanders or normandy, for none such could be made in england. the walls were wainscoted to the height of a man's shoulder, but there were no tapestries to tell of great wealth. it was as if in this place of retirement had been preserved all that remained of the broken prosperity of this branch of the great house of neville. the lady slept not, nor even looked at the bed, but sank into a great cushioned chair and seemed to be lost in thought. no words escaped her lips although much time went by. there was no hand to turn the hourglass on the bureau near her, nor could she have known at what hour she was startled to her feet. loud rang the summoning sound of a clarion at the great gate, and louder was the sudden answer of the alarum bell in the tower. she was at a window ere she knew, and she heard a shouting: "open, o ye of wartmont! in the king's name! it is john beauchamp, earl of warwick. is our lord the prince within?" "open will we right gladly," sent back the warder at the gate. "but the prince and my lord of maunay rode on to warwick in the morn." "saints preserve them!" uttered another voice. "but we must needs come in. bid the lady maud rest. i will trouble her not until day." "my noble kinsman!" she exclaimed, turning quickly from her window. "i will make haste to greet him. well is it that i am robed. i will meet him speedily in the hall." even so she did, and the minutes were few before she stood face to face with a tall man of noble presence, in full armor save the helmet he had doffed on entering. he seemed in full vigor of life, but gray-headed, as became a statesman upon whom the king might lean. questions and answers followed fast, and all the while the wartmont retainers were busily providing for the hundred horsemen who had ridden in the train of the earl. of them were knights and nobles also, and some of these now stood near the lady and the earl. strong was their speech, as was his, concerning the rashness which the prince had shown in riding across england with so small a company. "knoweth he not," said one, "that there is treason in the land?" "silence on that head, geoffrey of harcourt," responded the earl. "but we may trust he is safe in warwick. had we taken another highway we might have met him. but, madame, this is fine news of my young kinsman. well for him that he hath won the favor of the prince and of that rare good lance, de maunay. more than well is it also that he hath sallied forth promptly to gather his archery. it will please the king. better bowmen are not than he will bring from arden. now, lady maud, hie thee to thy rest, and so will we all, for we are weary." the remaining words were few, and once more the castle grew still, save for the stamping of restless horses in the courtyard and the busy chatter of the warders of wartmont with the guard set by the earl. now there was another place in which all was quiet, only that on a heap of rushes and a spread garment lay a youth who slept not, but turned at times uneasily. "i fear no treachery," he muttered, but not in saxon. "i think these be true men. yet i will leave my sword bare and my axe by it lest peril come. who would have looked for a hold like this among these woods?" then his thoughts went back to that which he had seen on coming in. he had passed the moat and the portal with guy the bow, and through a short passage. then he had entered a vast hall, in the middle of which blazed a fire, the smoke whereof escaped at a hole in the peak of the roof. at one end of this hall was a broad dais, two steps higher than the floor of beaten earth, and here had been spread a table for his refection. kindly, indeed, and full of reverence for his rank and name, had been the words and manners of all who served, for none presumed to eat with him. no other man was there of gentle blood, and even guy the bow would have been angered had any trespassed upon his young captain. that was richard, now, by the command of the prince himself, and the forestmen all honored the king, saxons though they were. none were permitted to question, overmuch, although guy himself went out to dispense whatever news was in his own keeping. refreshed, even with a tankard of ale that was brought him, richard arose at last, and followed ben of coventry to the sleeping place allotted him. none better was in the grange. if at any past day there had been more costly furniture, some hand had taken it away, and naught was left now but safe quarters for such men as richard had seen. it was but day dawning when a hunter's horn sounded a clear note at the door of the rude chamber. "hail, my lord of wartmont!" spoke guy the bow. "i pray thee hasten. thy men will be ready for thee within the hour. they all have come, and they are eager to hear thee." "on the moment!" shouted richard. "i am ready. tell them i come." "god speed thee this day," said guy. "full many a good fellow is ready to free himself from peril of the sheriff of warwickshire. aye, and to draw the king's good pay and have chance for pillaging french towns. they like it well." great indeed was the astonishment of richard when, after hurriedly breaking his fast in the great hall, he walked out with guy and others like him to view the gathering in the open space beyond the palisades. women and children, score on score, kept at a little distance, but not beyond hearing. in the middle, however, were clustered fully a hundred brawny men, eager to hear the king's proclamation of free pardon and enlistment for the war in france. they all knew what it was to be from other tongues, but to them the young lord of wartmont was the king's messenger, and there was no certainty in their minds until he had spoken. without too many words, but plainly and well, did he announce his message, and they answered him with loud shouting. to some of them it was as a promise of life from certain death, for the law was in search of them, and the judges of that day were pitiless concerning forestry and the protection of the king's deer and the earl's. short ceremony was needed, for man after man came forward to kneel and put his hands between those of richard, in the old saxon custom of swearing to be his men in camp and field, in fight and foray, in the inland and the outland, until the king's will should give them grace to come home again. born warriors were they all, and they laughed with glee in the hope of fighting the french under so good a leader as was edward of england. good captain, good success, they knew; and as for richard, had they not known the knight, his father, and had not he himself slain the club of devon in single-handed combat? they were proud to serve under a neville, and a man of their saxon blood, who could order them in their own tongue. "one hundred and one!" shouted guy at last. "may i not bid them to horse, lord richard? every man can have his own galloway, or another, that the road to the camp at warwick may be shortened." "mount!" shouted richard. his own gallant steed had been led to his side and in a moment more he was in the saddle. john, earl of warwick, was also early upon his feet, for he was a man whose life had been spent much in camps, and he was wont to be out and using his eyes as a captain before breaking his fast. from the men of wartmont he speedily learned all relating to the raid of the club of devon and the brave fight made in front of the castle. of this also he noted the defects, and he roundly declared that he would soon give command and provide means for its repair. "we may need it again some day," he said to himself. "there may be stormy times to come. may god prevent strife at home, but there be overproud hearts and over-cunning heads in this good land of ours. i will see to it that wartmont shall be made stronger than ever. glad am i that sir edward neville hath left so brave a son to stand for our house." many and bitter were the jealousies of the high-hearted barons of england, and none could tell the days to come. who should prophesy how long the reigning house might keep the throne, or between what claimants of the crown might be the next struggle, if, for example, king edward or his son, or both of them, and their next of kin, should go down in battle or should die suddenly in their beds, as others of royal blood had died? the head of a great baronial house might well bethink himself of every advantage or possible peril. "but for the poverty the war bringeth," he said, "i would have builders here within the week. as it is, i will have a garrison, and the good dame herself must bide at warwick while her son is with the army in france. 'twere shame to leave her here alone." so said he to lady maud when they met in the castle, and she told him then how well prepared she was for a departure. already was she aware of his reason for coming so far to meet the prince; but his anxiety was at an end, and he was willing to linger and make full his soldierly inspection of the castle. "good fort," he said, "and well was it held against earl mortimer. glad am i that thy son hath so good control of the forest men. they are as clannish as are the scotch, and they will come to their own chief when they will bide no other." he understood them, but he was yet taken by surprise before the noon. "horsemen!" he exclaimed, standing in the gateway. "rightly did i say there was imprudence in the small company of the prince. yonder is a troop--yea, twain of them." no lances were visible, but at the head of the foremost troop rode one who carried on a high staff a blue banneret, and the earl knew not as yet what its blazonry might be. truth to tell, it was nothing but an old flag of sir edward neville's which had been stowed away in the crypts of the grange. not all of these had been inspected by richard, but he had seen a good smithy wherein galloways were shod, and spearheads and arrowheads and knife blades were hammered and tempered. not only arrowsmiths were there among the forest men, but good bowyers, that they might not depend for their weapons upon any but themselves. weaving, too, was done among the women and by skilled websters of the men; but shoemakers or cordwainers they had none, and but rough potters and smelters. so dwelt they as best they might, with cattle and sheep and swine, and the black cattle of the woods and the king's deer for their maintenance. they were not at any time in peril of starvation, for excellent also were the fishes in the pools and streams, and there was no end of skilled brewing of ale. four and four abreast rode on the mounted archers who had sworn to come to the king with richard of wartmont, and they came on right orderly. well looked he also, in full armor, at their head. "'tis richard, my lord the earl!" called out to him lady maud as they rode nearer. "'tis my brave son and his men! believest thou now that he can call the men of the woods? my boy! god bless him!" "that say i!" loudly responded the earl, striding across the moat-bridge. "ho, all! get ready for the way. my lady, i pray thee to go in and lade thy pack beasts. we will even march for warwick ere the day is an hour older." loud and hearty was his cousinly greeting to his young kinsman. strong was his approval of the force he had enlisted, but he added: "what shall we do with all these beasts? the king will have his archers on their own feet." "that is provided for," replied richard. "i pray thee trust me that the whole drove can go back to arden, under good driving, as soon as there is no more need for them. i deemed it well to come quickly. such was the word given me by sir walter de maunay." "thou didst well to heed him," said the earl; but then he talked little more with richard. he bade the men dismount and get their noonday meal in the village and in the castle; but he had speech with many of them, for he was well pleased that such a company should come to the royal standard from among his own retaining. lady maud had waited, but not all patiently, for her own greeting to her son. it was a joy to both of them that they were to go on to warwick together, but most of all that a better day seemed to be dawning for them, and that the ruin wrought by the bad earl mortimer might be amended. not many men had been left behind in the hidden hold amid the forest, and such as had not marched with richard had long since dispersed. some had ridden gayly away on their stout ponies; others had gone to the fields. some were in the smithy, the tannery, and the other workshops, and a few had restlessly snatched bows and arrows to hurry out into the woods as hunters. no guards were set, except that a pair of bowmen lingered on the farther side of the causeway over the morass. there was little peril of intrusion now that the lancashire welsh thieves had been sorely smitten. whatever might remain of them would not return to be shot down. as for the secret character of the grange itself, there was small wonder that a few hundred acres, if so much there might be, of patches of farm land should be sheltered among those woods from any but such men as had been sir edward neville. it might all be within the somewhat doubtful borders of his own manorial grant, given to his ancestors by the earlier kings and confirmed by edward the first, to be lost under his son, the second edward, and earl mortimer, and to be regained under edward the third and the house of beauchamp. it was said, indeed, that there were regions tenfold as wide, in some of the remoter baronies, whereof men knew but little, especially among the scottish border counties and among the hills. besides these were the unsearched fen districts on the coasts, the wild mountain parts of wales, and worst of all were the highlands of scotland and the seagirt isles of the scottish coasts. as for ireland, even the greater part of it was almost an unknown land to englishmen, for nothing less than an army might venture inland too far with any hope of ever coming back again. in the several parts of the grange itself, as in the cottages scattered beyond it, the women plied their tasks. some of them spun with distaffs, and two or three looms were busy; more might have been but for the lack of wool. there was much raising of sheep in the more thickly settled parts of england in those days, but there was small room for them in arden. moreover, they, more than cattle or horses or swine, were sorely thinned by the wolves. it was a hundred and fifty years later that these fierce beasts disappeared from england, and the last of them in scotland was slain yet a century later. so was it that so little cloth, even of homespun, was worn by the bowmen who rode behind richard of wartmont, in the gloom of that evening when he followed the earl and his men-at-arms through the gate of warwick town. long had been the journey, hard pushed and weary were beasts and men. there was small ceremony of arrival or reception for the greater part of the cavalcade, but the lady maud was conducted at once to the care of the countess eleanor of warwick, her younger sister, the wife of the earl. as for richard, his men were cared for well, under direction of sir geoffrey de harcourt, while their young captain was bidden to hasten with his great kinsman to meet once more the prince of wales and sir walter de maunay. this greeting, too, was brief, for the hour was late; but the prince said graciously: "o thou of wartmont, i will make thee my comrade in arms! in the morn i would fain see thy men. my father himself bade me gather as many deer stealers as i might, for, quoth he, the hand that can send a gray goose shaft to strike a stag at a hundred yards may fairly bring down a frenchman at half that distance. give me bowmen enough of the right sort, and i will train them to face anything that philip of france can muster." "o my lord the prince," replied richard, "i have a hundred with me, of whom any man can send an arrow through a coat of mail at fifty yards. i like the king's notion right well." "go, now," said the prince; "go with thy kinsman, the earl. on the morrow i will tell thee what to do with _thy_ men." but these, for their part, were all of a merry heart that night. not often had any of them visited warwick, at least in later years, for therein was a jail, and they liked not so much as to look thereon, being in danger of being put within it. they had good quarters and good fare, with much ale, and they knew they were to see brave sights next day, and to have a word from even the black prince himself. was not that enough of cheer for men of the woods who had seldom been out beyond the shadows of the oaks of arden? the stout earl and his nephew walked together from the presence of the prince toward the chamber allotted to richard. "thou shalt be to me as a son!" exclaimed the earl, in the dim corridor through which they were pacing. "thou hast won the prince. now, if thou wilt go and win thy spurs with him, thy fortune is made. thou wilt have broader lands than wartmont, but wert thou even to win much gold, i bid thee bide by thine own keep and hold to thee thy saxon men. if thou wilt do so, i can foresee the day when thou canst bring five hundred bowmen to the standard of thy house." "i can bring but four more men-at-arms now," said richard ruefully. "and thy archers?" laughed the earl. "didst thou not hear geoffrey harcourt say to northampton, that if all the great barons of england would do as well as thou hast done, the array of the king would be gathered right speedily? too many are afraid to leave their own domains lightly guarded, and, truth to tell, not a few are carrying slender purses. the drainings of these long wars have made us poor. i am myself in the hands of the jews and the london lombards for more debts than i can see how to pay. so is the king, and he is troubled in mind as to how he shall feed and pay his armies. go to thy couch and arise right early. beware that thou never keep the prince waiting. he is like his royal father, and he who would fail of meeting the king hath gone near to making him a sworn enemy. his temper is dangerous. see that thou arouse him not at any time. his hand is hard upon men, and so will any troops of his be disciplined as were never english troops since william won the island." if that were to prove true, it might be one of the reasons why the king so firmly believed that he could bring the men so disciplined face to face with greater numbers of the disorderly levies of his rival, the king of france. the stern counsel of the wise earl was hardly needed, so far as richard's early rising was concerned, but he was up not any too soon in the morn. nor was he any too mindful of his duty as a soldier of the king. he arose and put on his armor and walked out of his chamber, and before him stood an archer. "the commands of the earl," he said bluntly. "eat not, but hasten to thy men. they break their fast even now. have thou them in line right speedily. i will be thy guide to their quarters." "i obey the earl," said richard, following. it was not far to go, beyond the castle gate, and richard turned for a moment to gaze back upon towers and battlemented walls which had resisted so many a stout assailing. "they are held for the king now," he thought, "but they once were held against him, and oft against other kings. in yonder dungeon keep hath more than one proud earl been brought to the block, and men say that in it, even now, are prisoners of note that may never again see the day." dark and high and threatening was the aspect of the great keep of warwick castle, and there might be terrible secrets of state in its underground chambers. he turned again to follow the archer, but when he came to the quarters of his troop, he found that the commands of the earl were there before him. the forest men were used to be up with the dawn, and it had been no surprise to them to find their tables ready spread. also, they liked the fare, and they were in good heart when they came out to greet their young captain. they cheered him loudly; but a new thought flashed into his mind. "soldiers? drilled?" he said to himself. "i see what the earl means. they all can shoot well, but they can neither form line nor move together, nor do they know the words of command. the prince--is he here thus early?" here he came, the heir of the crown of england and of the english claim to the crown of france. he was in his plain black armor, with his visor raised, but on his face was no smile of youthful familiarity--rather, something of the hard look that distinguished his father and that made men fear him; and the hardness was in his voice as well, when he shouted swift orders to richard. low had been his obeisance, but he had a bitter feeling in his heart, for he knew not how to form his men. all he could do was to turn to them and shout: "follow!" "by fours! spears in line!" added guy the bow, and more words in saxon bade them hold their shields in front and step together. less shame felt richard when he saw how well they came on, and the lips of the prince relaxed somewhat. "not a rabble," he muttered. "they will train well. i never saw new men move thus. the neville doeth better than i thought. i will speak to the earl." other knights were with him, gallantly mounted all, and behind him they rode out to the broad common of warwick, for there was to be a morning review of the earl's retainers and of levies which had arrived. never before had richard seen together three thousand armed men, horse and foot, and greatly delighted by so rare a show were his woodsmen. in large part these forces had already been well trained by the officers of earl warwick, and the prince himself ordered them through many movements, such as might be needed upon a field of battle. a rare man was guy the bow, for he and ben of coventry had been trained in their time, and they had instructed their comrades at the grange in days gone by, and the rest on the way as they came. so was it that when richard of wartmont led his two fifties hither and thither, he and they were a further surprise to the prince and to his captains and noble knights. they fell not into any confusion at any point, and again it was said of them, "no rabble," and "the wartmont doeth well for a beginner." after that, archery butts were set up and squads from several companies were picked, by lot only, and ordered to show their skill. right good was the shooting, as might have been expected, for there were prizes as well as praises to be won; but at the noon, when all was over, it was found that every best shot, save one, on all the butts had been made by the slayers of the king's deer in arden. "o thou of wartmont," laughed sir walter de maunay, "i think thou wert wise in asking so many pardons! thy merry men are in good practice." so laughed the prince, but there had been counseling that day and he now summoned richard to himself. with him were the earl of warwick and four other earls, and richard felt sorely abashed before he was spoken to. "what sayest thou, john beauchamp of warwick?" he heard the prince demand. "what wouldst thou with the levies?" "my lord the prince," responded the earl, "even as seems to me to have been said by the king. we must hear from scotland. the king crosseth not the channel before winter. neither will he keep too many thousands, at great cost and loss, in the portsmouth camp." "what then?" asked the prince. "as for my nephew's men," said the earl, "they are too few--gathered in a day. instead of one hundred, he will bring twain or more. keep these for a week, and send them to recruit their fellows. thou knowest the power of the neville name among them. send richard to york." "good counsel!" exclaimed the prince. "richard of wartmont, select thee a dozen of thy trustiest men on thy best galloways. be thou with them two hours hence, at the castle gate. thou shalt be the king's post bearer to his grace the archbishop of york, and to the barons of the north counties." richard bowed low, flushing with pride and joy, for the spirit of travel and of adventure swelled high within him. "thanks to thee, o my prince!" was all that he could say, and he went back among his men. chapter iv. the king's messenger. the prince was but a youth, although of good stature and strongly made. from his cradle up he had been trained under the care of the stout king, his father, and of knights who were chosen from the best swords and bravest hearts in england. assured was he that only a hardy soldier and a good general might safely keep the crown. the barons of the realm--half kings in their own domains--had proved the ruin of the second edward, and only by deep cunning and ruthless force had the third of the name broken loose from a like thraldom. much blood had been shed before the scepter was firmly in his grasp; and a fiercely royal self-will had been instilled into the prince of wales as one of the safeguards of his kingship. therefore, when sent to warwick to confer concerning the mustering of the forces, he had come there to command as well as to take counsel. "my lord of harcourt," he said with much dignity to that noble warrior, "i have listened well to all that hath been said. plain is it that the earl is right. there will be no crossing to france with king david of scotland threatening the border counties. we must hear from the archbishop of york. i will send the wartmont. he will go and come right speedily." there was he now in front of the castle gate, with guy the bow and ten more of the archers of arden. to richard himself had been given a fresh horse and good, with two pack beasts well laden, for the king's especial post might make a good show at any castle or town he should come to on his way. so was it with his merry men all, for their buff coats were new and they covered each a doublet of green cloth. all their galloways were saddled and bridled, with fair housings, and one of them carried a lance and a pennon, whereon were blazoned a white star and cross, and over them a gilded crown, in token of their errand. woe to any who should dare to hinder a messenger of the king, or fail to speed him on the king's errand! not that richard himself knew the meaning of the letters that were in his pouch, nor that matters of state were in his head. but a proud band and merry were the bowmen who rode behind him out of the town gate and up the highway to the northward. "o my lord of wartmont!" said guy the bow. "this is better than i had hoped. i had not so much cared to see the outland folk, but i had hungered for a look at more of england." "thou art out of the woods now," replied richard, "and so am i, but there is little more for us than riding from sleep to sleep, and caring well for our beasts. we may not pause under any roof longer than to break our fast and let the galloways rest." "we can see as we go," said ben of coventry. "a man learneth much by what he seeth. but half the archers of arden would come at the king's call, if they knew how well they would be taken in hand." that truly was the wisdom of the prudent earl of warwick, and it suited the humor of the prince, for from all the land the levies had been slow in gathering. as for himself, his stay in warwick was to be of the briefest, for he had learned many things to carry to the ears of his royal sire at london. well went it with the lady maud after she had spoken a short farewell to her son that day, for she was now housed with kindred and with many noble ladies, and was hearing tidings of the world that could not have reached her at wartmont. moreover, there were new fashions of dress and equipage that all women love to learn, and the stately dame herself had brought with her goodly fabrics ready for shaping by the skilled needlewomen of her sister, the countess. it was better than being cooped almost alone in the gloomy old keep at wartmont. a day and a night, and a day and then another night, lingered the prince. his main business seemed to be with the levies, and he said to himself: "i will know them man by man, and so will the king, my father. i will measure with care the force wherewith we are to meet philip of france. the king is most of all wary concerning his bowmen. i like well the wartmont's tall deer stealers. they are worth a pardon. we must have more of them. i, too, must be seen in wales. would that i could drain out of it the most unruly spirits and the fiercest outlaws. so is the king's command concerning ireland. if any rogue there is worse than another, let him be brought in and put in training." deep was the craft of the king, therefore, and of the prince, for if any wild man came at their call, and they liked not the promise of his thews and sinews, him they took not, after testing him, for he might be no better than one of the peasants of the king of france, fitter to dig than to carry sword and buckler. the summer days went by, even as richard had told his men. steadily, even hastily, they pressed their northward way, and tower and town gave them hearty welcome. there were those who unduly asked what their errand might be, but to noble or simple there was but one reply: "ask thou the king, if thou wilt meddle with his business." there were earls and barons, of course, to whom was due great courtesy of speech, and, indeed, to all ears there was much free news to tell. ever, as they went farther on, they heard more rumors of the doubtful state of things upon the scottish border. "there was never peace there," said the earl of arundel, at the gate of a castle where richard met with him and other noble lords. "king david will be in england within a week from the sailing of the english fleet. young sir, tell thou this from me to the good archbishop. bid him send few levies to the king from the north counties, but hold a force in waiting that shall be as good as any the king may convey to france. else we shall see the thistles of scotland halfway to london town before he can meet the lilies of france in any field beyond the sea." richard bowed low, for he was abashed before so grand a company; but he had not ridden far before he heard ben of coventry assuring guy the bow, with his usual freedom: "right wise was yonder earl, thou fat-head. but doth he deem that the king hath forgotten scotland? trust thou him for that. ah me, that we must go and come and never kill a scot!" "or be killed by them," said guy. "keep thy head for the french to hack at. thou wilt get knocks enough." "mayhap," said ben; "but i say one thing: never did twelve men from arden fare so well for no harder work than riding. it payeth me to serve the king. we have been feasted all the way." "wert thou in scotland," laughed guy, "it were otherwise. they eat but oatmeal cakes, and they know not of ale. i wonder much if they have deer in such a land where all is fog and mist, and where the days are short at both ends. but the scotch fight hard, and sorely would they harry england were a chance given them." they seemed to be at peace at that time, but king edward and his advisers had rightly read the state of affairs in the kingdom over which david the bruce was but half a king. no check had as yet been given to the power of the great scottish baronial houses. they were beyond the control of any man, and david had inherited his father's valor without either the generalship or the prudence of the great robert the bruce. it was at last in the morning of a fair, warm day that richard and his archers rode out from under a dense wood to shout together as one man for what they saw. "aye, here we are!" said richard, "and yonder is the spire of york cathedral. one hour more and we are at our journey's end." never before had any man among them journeyed so far, but they showed small signs of wear or weariness. nevertheless, at richard's command they gave goodly attention to their apparel and their weapons, and to the coats of their beasts, before presenting themselves at the gate of the ancient cathedral city. "i have heard tell," said richard to guy, "that here was a town in the old days of the romans. there hath been many a battle and leaguer before these walls." "the romans?" replied guy. "i was told of them by a cornish man. there were giants in cornwall in those days. god grant they are all gone their way; but the cornish men say they at times find the long bones and the big, hollow skulls." "the gates are well guarded," was the next thought of richard. "can there be bad news from the north?" guards there were, and none went out or in without notice to discern well whom they might be, as if, perchance, there were spies in the land. "in the king's name!" shouted richard, at the gate, "richard of wartmont. from earl warwick and the king's duty to his grace the archbishop." "in the king's name, enter!" as loudly responded a crested knight who had advanced before the sentries. "follow thou me to the archbishop. the warders will care for thy men. i am robert johnstone of the hill. art thou not a neville, and my kinsman?" "that am i," said richard. "my father was sir edward neville." "good knight and true," responded sir robert. "i have fought at his side. there must needs be a rare message when thy uncle the earl chose thee for his postboy." "words must be few," said richard, "but now i know who thou art, i will tell----" "tell not!" interrupted the knight. "do i not discern thy pennon? name not any who were with the earl until thou hast emptied thy postbag. thou art but young, and these be treacherous times. a brave band are thy men----" "archers of my own company," said richard, a little proudly. "every man from the forests of arden." "and every man a born retainer of sir edward neville's house," laughed johnstone. "do i not know thee and thine? we will have speech together soon, where there may be no other ears. the johnstones are as thou art, the chiefs of old clans that the new men can do naught with." great then was the surprise of the young messenger when his sudden acquaintance talked to him in saxon, bidding him also not to use that speech except among his own, and telling him that the north counties contained more than did the midlands of such men as had preserved jealously the memories of the days of harold the saxon. "'tis a tough race," said the knight. "it is a good foundation for thy house to rest upon. aye, or for the king's throne. now, if thou wilt dismount, yonder esquire will care for thy horse." sir robert appeared to be acting as captain of warders, and none questioned or hindered him as he and richard walked on, side by side, toward the castlelike palace which served as the residence of the archbishop. the town was the largest, and its buildings were the best that richard yet had seen. he knew, moreover, that the learned prince of the church before whom he was about to stand was also accounted second to none among the statesmen of england, with rare capacity for affairs of war as well as of peace. he was a man, therefore, to whom might be intrusted the safety of a realm in the absence of its king, and in him had edward the third unshaken confidence as being loyal and true. word of their coming had gone on before them swift-footed, and they were ushered with all haste into the great hall where his grace was already present, for the reception of they knew not what or whom. at the upper end of the hall, upon a raised dais of three steps, was a throne chair, carved richly with emblems of the church, and surmounted by a high cross that seemed of silver. in front of this, clad gorgeously in flowing robes, stood the archbishop, and before him knelt a knight in splendid armor, but bareheaded, just on the point of rising. the quick eyes of the prelate flashed keenly, and he turned to an attendant monk. "anselmus," he said in latin, "bring hither yonder messenger. i must read his letters before i have further speech with douglas." "he hath summoned thee," whispered sir robert to richard. "speak not at all to him, lest thou err greatly. yon is the knight of liddesdale, the prowest spear of scotland. his presence bodeth no good to england, i fear." the monk came and touched richard's arm and led him forward. glad was he of his injunction not to speak, for he was greatly awed to be in that presence. he walked onward with bowed head, and on the dais he knelt before the archbishop. "thy letters, my son," said the prelate. not a word spoke richard, but he silently presented three sealed missives. one he knew was from the prince, one from the earl of warwick, and the third was to him a secret. nevertheless he heard the archbishop mutter: "the king's own hand?" then he said aloud: "wait thou here, my son. rise; i will return presently. my lord douglas, come thou with me into my cabinet." richard arose and stood in his place, but it seemed not long before the archbishop strode back again, and with him came the knight of liddesdale. "your grace," said the latter, "i ride within the hour." "peace go with thee," responded the archbishop. "peace be with thee and thine; with thy king and my king; with scotland and with england! amen!" then from all who were present came a responsive amen, as the knight knelt for a parting blessing and rose to depart. "come thou, my son richard," said the archbishop. "i would hear thee." it was strange fortune for a youth so inexperienced to find himself mingling in affairs so tremendous, and richard hardly breathed until he was alone with the great man in a kind of oratory wherein was an altar. "speak!" said the archbishop. "tell all." first, then, richard told of the prince and de maunay at wartmont, and the archbishop answered not save to mutter: "so! thou hast slain that wolf, the club of devon. thou art like thy father." then told richard not of the grange in the woods, but of his going to warwick with his archers, and again he heard the prelate mutter, but in saxon: "saxons, all! how we of the old blood do cling together! he doeth well." all the words of the prince and of those with him were repeated, but no comment was made. after that told richard the saying of the earl of arundel, and he had finished. "well for thee, my son," said the archbishop. "thou hast seen lord douglas. he is for peace. mark me, i will write letters. thou wilt bear them. wait in york till they are given thee. come not to me unless i summon thee. i note that thou rememberest clearly, and canst carry that which may not be written. this, then, say to the king or to the prince, but not to another save john beauchamp the earl, lest thou die. bid the king from me that douglas and his friends will fail in their counsels for peace. david of scotland is for war, and waiteth but opportunity. he must now have one. edward the king will not but seem to drain of force these northern counties, that the scottish lords may deem them unguarded. he will gather an army for his war in france. such another will we prepare to meet the scottish invasion. let the king be sure that when he saileth for france the scottish host will march for the english border. edward will prove too much for so rash a man, with all his cunning, as is philip of france. in like manner we will prove too much for david of scotland, who despiseth the warnings of men like douglas of liddesdale. we will crush the scottish invasion, taking the unwise in a snare. go!" deep was the reverence with which richard turned to depart. more words were given him, however, and much was his wonder at a man who seemed to know the thoughts of the hearts of other men, and to read the forces of the kingdoms as if he were counting pennies. a good monk led the young messenger out of the hall and gave him into the care of sir robert johnstone. "say not too much to me," said the knight. "i talked with liddesdale, and heavy of heart is he. a wise man as well as a good captain; but the scots must learn a lesson. how long tarriest thou in york?" "for letters only," said richard. "then bide with me, and let thy men rest and their beasts. i will show thee the town and the castle and the cathedral. 'tis a grand old town. i like it well." "i shall like well to see," said richard. "but how great is the archbishop! never before have i looked into the face of such a man." "wait, then, until thou hast seen the king," replied sir robert. "try if thou canst read him. thou wilt be with the prince." out they went, and richard's eyes were so busy that he found small use for his tongue. nor was there great need, save for a question here and there, for the knight had taken a liking to him and was willing to instruct him. "some day," he said, "thou mayest lead thy archery hitherward. spare not to learn aught that might serve thee if thou wert a captain, in whatever land thou shalt at any time visit." at the close of the day, when the vespers were ringing sweetly in the cathedral tower, richard was with his men, and they gathered around him gladly, telling how well they had fared. "guy the bow," laughed richard, "tell me truly, now, of those who have been with thee. hast thou broken thy jaws with french or north english, or hast thou chattered in saxon?" the laugh was echoed from man to man, and guy the bow responded: "now, my lord, knowest thou this already? there be more of the old sort here than in warwickshire. they tell that there be many nevilles hereaway, and it seemed right to them that one of thy house should be our captain. but i hear that the bowmen of these parts are to be kept at home." "say not too much of that to any man," said richard, for at once he remembered the words of the archbishop. "the king," he thought, "will deal with the scots as with the french. they must get their teaching from the longbow and the cloth-yard arrow." rest came well that night after so long a journey. the next day, and the next, were but spent in seeing sights and in waiting for orders. on the third day, however, before the sun was a half hour high, came sir robert johnstone to greet his young friend. "up, richard of wartmont!" he gayly shouted. "take thou this pouch and keep it with thy life until thou shalt deliver it to the king's hand. thine uncle the earl, or the prince, shall be to thee as the king, but on thy life and on thy head give it to no other." the parcel was small and it was tightly bound in dressed deerskin. it could be hidden under a coat of mail, and there did richard at once conceal it. "i will but break my fast," he said. "then we will mount and ride." "beware of overhaste," said the knight. "safety is more than speed in such a case as this. a day more or less will not matter. thou wilt know enough not to talk loosely by the way, but it is from his grace himself that thou shalt speak only of peace with scotland. baron or earl or common, all must rest assured that the scots are weary of war. well they might be, were there wisdom in them. i would their king were older. we shall beat them the more easily because he putteth aside such captains as the knight of liddesdale, and listeneth to hot-headed young chiefs that never yet saw a thousand spears in line." "thou wilt be here?" said richard. "that will i," replied the johnstone. "the king will hear a good report of his north country bowmen. if thou speakest of it to the prince, say this from me, that in his own camp there shall be no better discipline nor closer archery." rapid was their talking, but when they summoned richard's men there was a shout. they had seen enough of york already, and they were eager for the road. to them all it was more like a long junketing than aught else. "all arden would list," said ben of coventry, "for this sort of war service. but i had hoped somewhat for a brush with the scots. not an arrow hath sped since we set forth from warwick." "thou wilt have archery enough before thou art done with the king's war," replied richard. "mind thou thy galloway, ben," interrupted guy the bow. "what knowest thou of the scots? they are many a league away." "aye, man," said ben, "and all the yorkshire men know that douglas of liddesdale was here. all scotland may march behind him some day." "then i may say to thee," said richard, "and to every man of this company, speak not upon the way one word of the knight of liddesdale. closed lips, safe head. we are on the king's errand." "even so!" exclaimed ben. "i was right. i deemed the scottish captain a bird of ill omen. thou mayest trust thy men, lord richard of wartmont. we of the greenwood are well used to keeping a silent tongue. else were our necks worth but little." richard said no more; but it was well that he had with him none but trusty companions, for all their journey homeward would be beset by shrewd questioners eager to get the latest tidings from the north. "i will take another road," he thought, "than that by which i came. there are roads plenty. the earl of arundel will be at warwick when i get there, or at london." hearty was the farewell of sir robert johnstone at the city gate, and gay was the setting forth of richard and his men. but it was even according to the saying of wise ben of coventry, that an esquire and eleven archers were riding a holiday with nothing to do but to ride and to be hailed at every gateside to tell what news. even the second day passed in like manner, and it was far on in the third when the first happening came. not in any town or by any castle, but in the broad highway, there rode to meet them a glittering array of men-at-arms. "halt!" shouted richard. "form line at the roadside, till we know what this may mean. yonder is a banner with the arms of surrey. why should such a flag be here? i know not the earl, nor is he a friend of the warwick, beauchamp or neville." so many, in those troubled days, were the feuds and heartburnings among the stout barons of england! on came the lances, fully a score, with mounted esquires and serving men as many, and richard sat alone upon his horse in the roadway, with guy the bow at his side bearing the prince's pennon. sharply the men-at-arms drew rein, and only one knight spurred forward. "richard of wartmont!" he exclaimed. "glad am i thou camest this way. they who wait thee on the other road must not know thy errand. surrey is not here, but the earl of northampton." "my lord of harcourt," responded richard firmly, "i may not answer even thee, nor give my errand save to our liege the king, or to the prince." "thou wouldst deserve to lose thy head if thou didst," replied sir geoffrey of harcourt. "do thou, however, as if the prince bade thee. go not to warwick, but send thy archery there. turn thou with me and ride for thy life until thou art out of reach of the king's enemies." "guy the bow," said richard, turning to him, "hast thou heard?" "if it be also thy command," said guy, "fear not for us. little do we need of highways or of any man's permission. let me have speech with the men." "bid them to reach warwick town as best they may," said richard. to the roadside and to his company went guy, and in a few moments more he raised a hand, and the few words he spoke were in saxon. up again went the hand of richard, with a loud "ha! ride!" now at that place was a great forest, with a deep ditch along the roadside. as richard lowered his hand, over the ditch went the line of galloways, and it was but a twinkling before all had vanished among the trees. "wartmont," exclaimed the knight, "thou hast thy men well in hand! i will tell the prince of this. thou canst call them and thou canst send them." "how is this?" loudly demanded a not unkindly voice, as another rider in splendid armor rode near them. "my lord of northampton," said sir geoffrey, smiling, "richard hath sent home his galloways, and they took their riders with them. he must not pause----" "a few words only," said the earl; "i shall not hinder the king's service. arundel gave thee a message. was it delivered?" "it was, my lord the earl," said richard. "i may say to thee it was timely." "knowing from him what it was," said the earl, "i need ask no more on that head"; but he went on with what seemed to be only general inquiries as to the health of the archbishop and the gatherings of levies at york and elsewhere. "haste!" muttered harcourt. "on, then!" almost shouted the earl. "ride well, thou of wartmont, lest the foes of the neville as well as the traitors to the king shall bar thy way. but i am glad that they lied who said that the good archbishop is failing. on!" silent and motionless upon their horses sat the men-at-arms as harcourt and richard galloped by. miles away, upon another road, a somewhat like band of warlike men were halted as if waiting, and to him who seemed their leader it was said, by a small, gray-headed man at his side: "could we but know the mind of the archbishop we might be able to tell the king why we pay not his contributions, and why thy retainers are not on the march for portsmouth." "we shall have his grace's letters before the sun is down," hoarsely responded the knight addressed. "i would there might be somewhat in wartmont's doublet to imperil the proud head of his uncle warwick." "aye, my lord of surrey," said the gray-headed man, "it were overcunning of john beauchamp to have the young neville so near the prince. that house towereth too high. we will tumble it somewhat." small was the knowledge of richard concerning the plots and perils through which he and his had ridden, but in a small, elegantly furnished room, at many a long mile's distance, there sat at that hour twain who spoke of him. "my son," remarked one of them, "i will not say that thou and warwick were overconfident to send a boy. the time for his return draweth near." "'tis far to ride," replied the younger of the pair, and he was very much the younger. "i sent sir geoffrey harcourt to watch for him, else he might not come. my royal sire, richard neville and his archers might come and go where a knight and a score of men-at-arms would fail." "or turn traitor, as some have done," slowly responded the king. "the land reeks with treason, but half of it would have us go to france and be beaten, while the other half would have us stay at home and lose all to philip of valois." so communed king edward and the black prince, telling of the dangers which may beset a crown. much had they to say concerning the power of the barons, but more of the building up of their strength among the people. "mark thou this, my son," said the king at last, "make thou the commons to be strong, and the crown is safe against the barons. when i can show thee bowmen defeating knights and men-at-arms, thou wilt see a new day for england. after that it shall not be long until a successful merchant shall be greater than an earl. am not i also a merchant? learn thou the art of the trader, for it is part of the wisdom of kings in the time that is coming." all through his reign had commerce grown, and manufactures been encouraged by the king, while more and more with a strong hand he strove to restrain the barons. not till a later day, however, were they to be broken; but, even as he now said, they were to go down partly by their own jealousies and feuds, but more by the power of the commons. it was therefore a lesson in kingcraft that the prince was receiving from his father, but at the end of it the youth walked out along a corridor, murmuring: "the king is sore disturbed. he hath great need to hear from york and of scotland. well for richard neville if he arrive speedily, for my royal father is not always safe in his mood. but he was pleased concerning the neville and his archers." it was sunset when richard and sir geoffrey drew rein before a hostelry in a large hamlet. "dismount!" said the knight sharply. "i will give thee here a fresh horse, and thine shall follow. ten leagues farther on, as i will give thee instruction, thou wilt get thee another. ride till thou drop from thy saddle, but i trust thy toughness will bear thee through. if thou must sleep one night, camp thee in a wood, not in a house, lest thou awake and find thy pouch missing, or lest thou wake not at all." the fresh horse was a good one, but now richard, with full directions for the way, rode on alone, bearing still the banneret of the prince. 'twas a fair night, and the full moon gave light as of the day. mile after mile went by and all was well, but he came to an open level of broad highway whereon much could be seen afar. "a man-at-arms?" said richard. "he faceth this way. i may not let him stop me. i will close my visor and be ready for what may come." he shut his helmet tightly and lowered his lance, loosening also the battle-axe at his saddle bow. he had need, for the strange man-at-arms uttered no warning, but dashed suddenly forward with lance in rest. 'twas but the fortune of tourney, for the foeman rode well and he was large. his lance point glanced from the helmet of the young messenger, while richard smote him full upon the breast. splintered to the hand was the lance, but the stranger reeled in the saddle, and before he could recover himself richard had wheeled, axe in hand. "in the king's name!" he shouted, "what doest thou with the king's messenger?" down came the battle-axe, striking the bridle arm of the stranger, so that while he drew his sword with his right hand he could not manage his horse. "for the king!" shouted richard. "down with thee, thou cub of wartmont!" roared the stranger angrily. "i will take thy messages. ha!" 'twas a good blow, but it stopped upon the shield of the neville, while once more the axe fell heavily with the curvet of richard's horse. sore wounded upon one thigh was now the man-at-arms, and his steed plunged viciously to one side. "i will have thee!" he shouted, but his sword swept vainly through the air, while richard charged again. "thy helm this time!" he muttered as his axe came down. cloven through was the steel headpiece, and the man-at-arms let fall his sword. "neville, i yield me!" he cried out. "smite not again." "who art thou?" demanded richard. "that ask thou not, if thou art wise," responded the stranger. "for thee to know my name were thy death-warrant. thou hast perils enough. ride on, and tell the king that an old man-at-arms who could grind thee to powder hath been beaten by a lad. i have fought in twenty pitched fields, and now i must even ride home to save my broken head." "i will harm thee not," said richard, "but i fear thee not. thy head were worth but little----" "trust me, it is safe," said the stranger. "the king will leave it where it is. i shall see thee again some day. thou wilt be a good lance, but carry thou not too many king's errands. fare thee well!" he had regained control of his horse, and now he suddenly spurred away in the very direction by which richard had come. down sprang the latter to pick up the fallen lance and to fasten upon it the pennon his own had carried before it was broken. then, as he mounted once more, he exclaimed aloud: "ride i now for my life! i shall be followed fast and far. i know not friend from foe, save that the nearer i get to the king the safer i shall be." his good horse neighed cheerily, as if he knew that his rider had conquered, and a proud youth was richard neville. "i have won my first passage at arms," he said. "i shall have somewhat whereof to tell the prince." chapter v. the ending of the peace. "seven leagues from london, if that wagoner gave me the distance aright," said richard to himself, "and this horse is sore wearied. twain have tired under me since my lance was splintered on the shield of that felon knight." much and often had he wondered who might be the stranger man-at-arms, but of one thing he felt assured: only some baron of high name had used such speech and worn such armor. now, at last, even his tough sinews were giving out, for he had ridden hard and slept little. food had been easy to buy at wayside hostelries. he had ridden through towns and villages with no longer pauses than had been needful that he might ask the way or answer courteously the questions of persons of condition. his fresh mounts had been freely furnished him on showing of the royal order, for none might lightly disobey the king. "surely i now am safe," he thought, "but the night is falling. i will even rest at an inn and go onward in the morning. i must sleep, lest i fall from my horse." it was a huge, rambling tavern at the right of the highway, and as he drew rein before it a portly host came forth to welcome him. "in the king's name," said richard. "and whence art thou?" asked the landlord. "on the king's business," said richard. "see thou to it that i have a fresh steed ready to bear me to london town with the dawn, lest harm come." "we are all the king's men here," said the landlord heartily. "canst thou not give us the news of the day? what of the scots? for thou art from the north." richard was slowly, painfully dismounting, but at the same moment another man, not in armor, was springing upon horseback to haste away. "yea," said richard, "i will tell thee the news. i am richard neville of wartmont----" "ha! hold thou thy tongue, then, and come in!" sharply returned the host of the inn, but he spoke in pure saxon. "do i not know that thou art watched for? i am of arden, and i knew thy father. by thy hand fell the club of devon." "aye," said richard, "but what peril is so near the gates of london?" "peril to thee that thou reach them not," replied his new friend. "there be those who would know the king's secret counsel. small would be their care for thy throat. eat well. sleep well. then ride thou on before the light cometh." in walked richard, hardly able to stand, but a room was given him, and here he took off his armor that he might bathe while a repast was preparing. it refreshed him much, but when the landlord came in and found him clad only in his doublet, he loudly exclaimed: "on with thy mail, my lord of wartmont! let thy bare sword lie by thee. i think thy nag may die, but i have thee a better one ready. 'tis my own best mare, and she will stand saddled in the stall until thou comest for her." "i am overworn for fighting," said richard. "i will even trust my bow rather than my sword or axe." "as thou wilt," replied his host, but a serving man placed food upon the table, and richard began to do it full justice. none other was admitted to the room, and richard dealt fairly, telling all news that he might tell. "one thing know i," said the landlord. "the king's levies come in but slowly, and he is sore displeased. not this year will he cross to france. if i hear truly, some of the great lords would rather march against him than against philip, and they look for side help from the scots." so many true tales creep in at a hostel from the lips of those who tarry there, and the young messenger felt not only weary but half dispirited. the landlord had now gone forth, and for a few moments richard was alone. the door was not fastened, however, and it opened without a sound to let in a man whose footsteps were unheard until he had passed to the table side. "my son, peace be with thee! thou art on the message of the king?" richard was startled, but he turned to look, and before him stood a black friar in his long serge robe, with sandals only on his feet. a thought came like a flash: "i have heard that these holy men are with philip of france rather than with edward of england. i must beware of him, for they are cunning men." nevertheless he reverently greeted the friar and bade him be seated. "tell me, my son, what tidings bringest thou from the north, and from the saintly archbishop of york?" with all seeming freedom did richard respond, but he mentioned not the knight of liddesdale, nor the temper of the scottish king. cunning indeed was the questioning, but of the letters, either way, naught was said. rather was there much loose chat of the things by the way, and richard declared: "little know i. i am but a youth." "and well worn?" said the monk. "now i will counsel thee, for thou well mayest trust such as i am. rest thou here in peace, and i will convey to the king any matters from my old and dear friend and father in god, the archbishop. high, indeed, is my reverence for that holy man. deep is my fealty to our good lord the king. even give me thy message and i will depart." "thanks to thee, reverend father," said richard. "but there is no haste. it were not well for thee to travel by night. come thou in the morning, for now i can talk no more. thou mayest ride my own horse, if thou shalt find him rested." so the friar smiled, and gave richard his blessing and departed, not having given any name. that was what came to richard's mind quickly, but he said to himself: "who knoweth what name he would have given--his own, or another? i like him not, but if the host be right, he will not ride far upon that nag. nor will he be overweighted with the king's errand. but i told him no untruth. never before was i cunning, but i must care for my head." so said the landlord, shortly, when he came and heard, but he added: "not in the house shalt thou sleep. come thou with me, my lord. i will show thee a safer resting." the darkness had fallen, and not even a lanthorn did they take with them as they made their way out of the inn to the barns. none met them, and they paused not until they were among hayricks in the rear. "yonder," said the landlord, pointing at a stable, "in the first stall on the right is thy good steed. ride hard, but kill her not, and send her back to me. i would serve the king and beat his enemies. if thou sleepest too long, i will arouse thee." down sank richard upon a heap of hay, but his bow and arrows were with him as well as his pennoned lance. how long he slumbered he knew not, but he was feverish, restive, and his ears were not so dull in sleep that they did not catch a faint clang of steel. he woke, but he stirred not, and he lay listening. "put thou thy dagger deeply in below the lad's ear!" he heard one say. "he must die without speech. curse on that hostel keeper! i fear me he hath betrayed us. we found not the king's messenger in the house. i think he is somewhere here away. search well, but be silent." only dim was the lanthorn they carried, but richard could see three men, and one of them wore mail, without a headpiece. he it was that spoke, and his sword was in his hand. the other twain were in buff coats, and of one of these his long, two-edged, dagger knife was already drawn. they saw not yet the young bowman in the hay, but he was fitting an arrow to the string. "ten yards! i must not miss. i will even smite him through the face," thought richard. loudly twanged the bow, and out of the belt came a second arrow to the string. [illustration: loudly twanged the bow.] "through his buff coat," said richard aloud, and he sent the shaft strongly, but he at the moment turned toward the stable, looking not behind him. he heard a cry and a gasp, however, and hoarse groaning, and a voice that exclaimed: "god 'a' mercy, my lord bellamont is slain! so is the seneschal! woe is me! i will summon the two warders." uncertainly he lingered a brief space to examine well the fallen men, and richard made what haste he could. "i can not run," he thought. "i hardly may climb to the saddle." nevertheless he did so, after leading out the goodly beast he was to ride. nothing was lacking in her appointments, and she knew the way to the road-gate. out spurred richard, as loud shouts began to arise behind him. he gained the highway, and he could discern beyond him only one man on foot, in full armor. "halt, thou!" he shouted. "stand, on thy life! i would have speech with thee!" "in the king's name," shouted back richard, "out of my way!" "that will i not!" roared the knight. "thou cub of wartmont, draw rein!" "take that!" said richard, spurring hard and striking with his lance. 'twas a knight of skill in fence, however, and his target was over his visor to receive the thrust, so that he did but measure his length upon the road. "traitor!" shouted richard. "thou shalt answer for this to the king!" "st. andrew!" gasped the fallen man. "has the boy escaped? john beauchamp knew whom to send. but i will pay him bitterly for this." "my lord duke," exclaimed one who came running to him, "de bellamont is slain by the messenger!" "woe worth the day!" groaned the knight, arising slowly. "back to the castle! i must get me to flanders in haste. all is lost! we will but say that bellamont was murdered by thieves at the inn." on galloped richard, glad to find how buoyant and free was the stride of the landlord's favorite; but his perils were not ended. a full half mile he rode, and he was thinking, "i will race no more lest i tire her needlessly, and the road to london town is yet long," when far beyond he dimly discerned the forms of mounted men and men on foot. "'tis but a lane here to the right," he said. "i care not whither it may lead me, so i fall not in with yonder troop. they are too many." then came to him something of his woodcraft, and he did but go out of the road before he turned to see what they might do. and he did wisely, for with one accord the horsemen and the footmen vanished. "they were at a crossroad," thought richard. "they deem i have taken the lane, and they have gone to cut me off at its ending. now i will ride past them." 'twas a shrewd planning, for when he reached the crossroads only one man could he discern, a man in the serge gown of a black friar, who stood and waited. "halt, thou, my son!" commanded the friar. "greater men than thou art bid thee stand." "in the king's name, i will not," said richard, "but if thou needest a nag, thou wilt find one at the inn, as i promised thee. a good beast, truly, save that he is dead. so are some of the traitors who were there, enemies of the king, as thou art. fare thee not well!" he struck spurs as he finished, and the friar was left to wait for whom he might. the gray dawn was showing in the east, and now it would seem that all danger had been left behind. "little know i," thought richard. "had i not been forewarned, i had trusted any great baron that he would forward the king's business. now i will trust not one, till i reach london gate." the noon sun of that day was shining through high, stained windows into the audience chamber of the king, in the tower of london. it was not a day for him to linger in any palace, and his brows were but black with gloom as he listened to his counselors and to the affairs that were brought before him. these were many and weighty, and few were they who might dare to interrupt him; but he suddenly raised his head, and the dark frown vanished from his face. back among the lords and gentlemen in waiting stood the black prince himself, and a sign had passed from him to his royal sire. still for a few moments longer king edward sat and listened and responded to those around him, nor could they have gathered whether he were ill at ease or not. iron was he to all circumstances, and naught could seem to move him much, save his ire, if that should be stirred. and now he arose, and his dismissal of the assembly was but as if he sent them to their noontide refections, but he himself refused other attendance, and passed out by a private door with his son. "neville of wartmont, from the archbishop?" sternly replied the king to the first words of the prince. "why tarried he on the road?" "that he did not," said the prince. "he hath ridden four horses. one wearied out, twain were ridden to death, and the last bore him to our gate. he hath been sore beset on the way. he hath slain de bellamont and another, and he hath much to tell concerning treason. i bade him wait in the southerly corridor and to have speech with none." "it shall be well with him!" exclaimed the king. "glad am i of the nevilles and the beauchamps in a day when so few may be trusted. bring him to me in my retiring room." unhelmeted, but otherwise clad as he had ridden, richard neville was quietly conducted to the apartment which so few were ever allowed to enter, and he was brought face to face with the king. "nay, richard, sit thee down," commanded edward, for the wornout messenger hardly could rise from his bended knees. "i would hear thee slowly and long. begin with thy going, and see that thou miss no place nor any man, gentle or simple." richard began his tale, and there was no interruption until he came to the message sent by the earl of arundel. "i will remember him for that," he said. "a wise man and true. speak on." there was no other stopping until the story reached the york gate. "sir robert," said the king, "then i may trust the johnstones. it is well. come now to the archbishop. nay, hold thy letters until thy words are done." there were questions concerning his grace and some others, but most careful were the king's inquiries relating to the knight of liddesdale. "now, thy ride hitherward," said the king, and richard told it all. he saw the eyes of the prince flash admiringly at the passage of arms, but the king chafed sorely that he could not guess by whom richard had been assailed. "thou didst well not to slay him," he decided, after a moment's thinking. "if thou ever meetest him again, to know him by his voice or otherwise, tell me." when all the rest was said, to the london gate, the letters were delivered, but the king as yet opened them not. "richard of wartmont," he said, rising, "the earl of warwick waiteth for thee without. go thou to him. god send me alway as good a messenger! thou wilt win thy spurs in good season. when thou returnest from warwick, thou art of the king's household. i promise thee that thou shalt be captain of thine own bowmen when we sail for france." a proud youth was richard, but so lame he walked not easily when the prince led him to the door. "i envy thee, i envy thee!" exclaimed the latter. "a joust of arms by moonlight! a fray i' the night! and thou hast seen the liddesdale! i would give much to meet him." something of romance and of knight errantry, therefore, was in the hot young head of the heir of the throne of england, and they twain parted right friendly, as became such youths, who were to be companions in arms. in one moment more, upon richard's shoulders were the strong hands of the earl of warwick. "thou art as my son!" he exclaimed. "thou art strengthening thy house. these be times when a man should stand by his own." few were the words of their further greeting till they were by themselves in the warwick palace at london. nor then was much converse, until richard had slept long and well. afterward he was talked with by his uncle as if he had been a grown man and a belted knight, but that was on the morrow. "moreover," said the earl, at the end of all, "i have thy freedom from the king. thou mayest pause in warwick to see thy mother. then go thou to wartmont. spend what time thou mayest among thy men, but be sure that thy levy shall be full. so shalt thou keep the favor of the king. then thou wilt return to london town." one day only was required, and beyond that was the homeward road. oh, but it was a bright even, full of happiness, when the young warrior--for such he now was--once more was folded in the arms of the lady maud! her long, white hair fell over his shoulders like a veil, and she sobbed most peacefully. "alas, my son," she said, "that i can not keep thee with me! thou art mine all! but obey thou the mandates of the king and of the earl." "i must speed me to wartmont, mother," said richard. "i will return to thee, but it will please me much to see the old tower again, and my merry men." there were two sunsets after that before he left the castle, and proud was she at the manner of his treatment by the great men who were coming and going. any were ready to speak graciously to a youth who was known to have won royal favor. only the third sun was going down thereafter, when richard, in full armor but alone, save a serving man with a pack beast heavily laden, drew rein before the portal of his own castle. but all behind him the village had risen as he rode through. farmer men were also coming in, while every cottage poured forth old and young. the warders raised the portcullis and swung open the gate, while in the tower the bell swung heels over head. so in the village church the ringers were busy, to show their young lord their gladness at his safe return. for there had been rumors of his going to the north, even unto scotland. he had slain men. he had served the king. he had done wondrous well, and all his own were joyful. hardly could he dismount from his good steed, so close was the press around him, but he bade the castle keepers make ready a goodly feast for all comers. "guy the bow!" he shouted suddenly, "art thou here?" not quite had he arrived, but up the street a galloway was coming at his swiftest, and on his bare back rode the best archer of arden. down sprang richard now, and so did guy, but there was no handshaking, for richard's arms were around the forester. "come thou within!" he shouted. "i have much to tell thee. much to tell the men. how goeth it with them all?" "right well, my lord richard," said guy, greatly delighted. "i tell thee, they came back loyal men. a fortnight's gay drilling with the king's troops. good fare. wages as if in war. a new suit each. then marched they home, avowing they would bring each his man to double the levy." "i trust they may," said richard. "i will have speech with them." "but seest thou not," said guy, "what the earl's masons are doing for thy castle? i wonder at it, for the time hath been but brief. they work fast, and the walls are nobly mended." "i will see to that," said richard eagerly, and they pushed on into the keep, but not till he had spoken many good words to the villagers. truly the workmen had plied their tools with industry, but they had done more than mend. some well-skilled engineer of the earl had planned enlargements and outer walls on the farther side. there were to be bastions and stronger battlements and better storage within for the provenders that might withstand a siege. it was a good fort, had said the engineer, and in some dark day it might be worth the holding. that evening was a feast of welcome and of news-telling, but with the dawn both guy and richard rode away. nor did any at the castle know whither they had gone nor what they did while they were away. all the while the masons and their helpers toiled on, and the stonework grew apace. it was four days before the young lord of wartmont returned to see what they had done. a score of men on galloways came with him to the edge of the forest, but there they drew rein, and it was ben of coventry who spoke for them. "fare thee well, lord richard of wartmont!" he said merrily. "we will come at the king's summons, hear it when we may. only this, that thou do not get thyself slain too soon, for many of us will follow the neville, and not another." if he had won them, so had they won him, and well did he love his bowmen, as one loveth kith and kin. not long might be his further lingering at the castle nor on the road to warwick. there, indeed, he found not only his mother, but a message from the earl, bidding him to london speedily. it was a grief, and yet she was willing to have him go, for in it was his future good fortune, and she kissed him farewell after a long talk about wartmont, and the grange in the forest, and the troop he was to command, although so young. two mounted spearmen went with him on the road to london, but none who met him questioned him for harm. it was as if the roads were as safe and peaceful as was their seeming; but richard knew better than that. even at the london gate he found himself turning quickly in his saddle to gaze after one who passed him. "'twas a scowling face," he thought. "where have i met that knight? he carrieth his bridle arm in a sling, as if he were wounded there. did i not smite a left arm with mine axe on the road? i will watch for that man." so he told the prince when they came together, but there was wisdom of kingcraft in the answer given. "o true and loyal heart, good comrade," spoke the prince, "if thou thinkest thou knowest him, be sure that thou know him not. if he meet thee, greet him well, as if he were thy kinsman. 'tis ever well for a man to know his foemen. 'tis ever ill to let his foemen know that he knoweth them. safety is in secrecy until the sword is out of the sheath." "i will obey," said richard, "but my blade will be out quickly if any seem to threaten thee or my royal master." the prince inquired with care concerning the archery levy, and he seemed well pleased, but he had somewhat more of counsel for his companion in arms. "wert thou ever on shipboard?" he asked. "hast thou been ever at sea?" "never saw i the salt water," responded richard. "i have but looked upon the masts in the thames, but i can row a boat." "a wherry?" said the prince. "there will be no wherry fighting. even now we are sweeping the french pirate craft from the channel. do thou this: at every hour of thy liberties haunt thou the riverside. read thou each craft thou seest, great and small. i will get thee an order to board any in the king's errand. talk with seafaring men, and learn the points of shipping and of the manner of all fights at sea. go not out of the harbor, however, for thou mayest not at any day be beyond recall if thou art needed as a messenger. thou art of the king's pages. the earl will see to thy equipment, for thou mayest often serve at court and at royal banquets." gladly did he hear of that appointment. none of lower rank than his own might carry a dish or hand a napkin at the royal table, or stand behind any of the king's guests in the banquet hall. but hardly less than an earl might deliver the king's own cup or carve or hand for him. much teaching of these matters did richard receive thereafter from the earl of warwick, and likewise one of his near friends and tutors was the good earl of arundel, brave knight and skillful captain, fitted to lead an army. noble ladies also smiled upon him, for he was well favored and of goodly stature, and he knew somewhat of music. even the queen herself spoke graciously to him before long. nevertheless did he walk always cautiously, knowing more and more of the bitter jealousies and heartburnings which ever beset a court, and of the feuds of houses, and of the plots and cunnings, and of the endless rivalries for place and power and the favor of the king. long hours were to be spent each day in the hall of arms of the warwick palace. there were duties of drill and exercise among the soldiery, that he might know how to work maneuverings on a field or placings on a march, or the choosing and the putting in order of a camp. he learned also of forts and of defenses, and of attacks and of artful dealings with foemen by night or day. "i will make thee fitted to command thy men," said earl warwick. "thou shalt not go into battle untrained. we learn that philip of france is taking no such pains with his musterings. he will trust to his counts and barons and to his allies. he will bring against us a multitude, and then he will see what edward of england will do with his motley array." greater and greater grew richard's confidence, like that of other men, in the war wisdom of his king, but he marveled much from time to time at the words and the deep thinking of his friend the prince. he could speak several tongues, and prudently, and he was notable for his feats of skill and strength in the royal hall of arms. it was not at first that richard had leisure to learn much of the sea, save in listening to the talk of knights and captains who had served on shipboard. but he forgot not the counsel of the prince, and in due season he was busy with his new learning. "hard work," he said at the beginning. "even the ropes have names, and every rope hath a place of its own. so have the spars and the sails. 'tis another tongue to win, and the sailors are not like our inland men. they believe, too, that a man who liveth not on the sea is of small account. they have more respect for a good sailor than for a lord, if so be his lordship knoweth not how to win a sea fight. but they believe that our king is an admiral. what pirates they are in their talk! i have met no sailor yet who thinketh it ill to capture and plunder any foreign craft that he may encounter out of sight of land." that was the fashion of those times, for all the open seas were as disputed territory, and the best sailors of those waters adjacent to the coasts of the british isles were but as the grandsons of the vikings. not at all as yet had they abandoned the wild traditions of their roving ancestors. ever and anon came tidings from the north counties, but such as came to the public ear were favorable to a continued peace with scotland; only that all men knew that a scottish peace was only a war asleep, and was to be kept with the english sword halfway out of the scabbard. from the continent of europe came no peace at all, but from every quarter was heard the clash of arms or the sound of military preparation. embassies came and went continually, and richard saw many men whose names were of note in the lands beyond the sea. he studied them well, and he inquired as he might of their deeds in camp and field and council, but none did he see who seemed to him the equals of his own great captains. slowly wore on the winter, and the spring went by. his mother came to court with the countess of warwick, and richard was proud to see her in the throne room, unsurpassed by any dame therein for her stately beauty of form and face, and for the sweet graciousness with which she greeted all. 'twas a fine, fair morn in june when richard at last was summoned in haste by the earl of warwick. "grand news, my young kinsman!" shouted the stout earl. "the die is cast! the war with france hath come! be thou ready!" "ready am i," said richard gladly. "but i must bring my bowmen with me." "go thou not, then," said the earl. "send but thy token by thy own messengers. bid all the archers of arden to speed them to portsmouth in the king's name. the ships are even now gathering rapidly. thousands of men are in perfect training, and the new levies are in hand to learn the way and the will of the king. thither wilt thou go thyself. bid thy mother a long farewell, and haste thee. i trust that when thou seest her again thou wilt wear golden spurs." "please god," said richard, "i will strive to earn the good will of the king. i would not be knighted by any lesser hand than his. canst thou tell me where is my noble friend sir walter de maunay?" "somewhere in guienne," said the earl, "and the king's enemies there may roundly will that he were somewhere else. now up and out, richard neville! thou wilt get thy orders further from geoffrey harcourt, at the port. i go to warwick first, and then i come. the days of this mock peace are ended, and may god give his blessing to the armies of england and to our good lord the king! amen." chapter vi. the sea fight. "thou art no seaman!" laughed the prince. "i think thou wouldst learn to love the sea, as do all true english hearts. go thou on board forthwith. the admiral hath given thee one piers fleming for thy shipmaster." profoundly respectful was the answer of richard neville, for his friend was also his prince and his commander; he said, "'tis but a brief passage, and there will be no fighting." "count not on that," replied the prince. "we are warned of many french rovers, from calais and elsewhere, on the watch for stragglers. word cometh that the king is safely at la hogue, in normandy, and not, as some think, in guienne. there will soon be enough of fighting on land, but watch thou for a chance to gain honor on the sea. we must win our spurs before we return to merry england." the two young men, neither of them yet eighteen, were standing on the height above portsmouth, gazing down upon the harbor and out upon the sea. in all directions there were swarms of vessels of all sizes, sailing or at anchor; for it was said that king edward the third had gathered over a thousand ships to convey his army across the channel for his quarrel with philip of france. it was the largest english fleet yet assembled, and the army going on board was also the best with which any english king had ever put to sea. it consisted of picked men only. of these, four thousand were men-at-arms, six thousand were irish, twelve thousand were welsh; but the most carefully trained and disciplined part of the force consisted of ten thousand bowmen. during a whole year had edward and his son and his generals toiled to select and prepare the men and the weapons with which they were to meet the highly famed chivalry of the continent. an army selected from a nation of perhaps four millions of people was to contend with an army collected from france with her twenty millions, and from such allies of hers as germany and bohemia, re-enforced by large numbers of paid mercenaries. among these latter were the crossbowmen of genoa sold to philip by the masters of that italian oligarchy. edward's adventure had a seeming of great rashness, for already it was reported that the french king had mustered a hundred thousand men. full many a gallant cavalier in armor of proof may well have wondered to hear, moreover, that edward the third, accounted the foremost general of his time, proposed to meet superior numbers of the best lances of europe with lightly armored men on foot. they knew not yet of the new era that was dawning upon the science of war. edward and his bowmen were to teach the world more than one new lesson before that memorable campaign was over. before this, he had shown what deeds might be wrought upon the sea by ships prepared and manned and led by himself. he had so crippled the naval power of his enemies that there was now no hostile fleet strong enough to prevent his present undertaking, although philip had managed to send out some scores of cruisers to do whatever harm they could. the prince was clad in a full suit of the plain black armor from which his popular name had been given him. his visor was up, and his resolute, intelligent face wore a dignity beyond his years. the stature of the young hero of england was nearly that of full-grown manhood; and if richard was not quite so tall, he was both older and stronger than when he had faced the club of devon in the village street of wartmont. a brilliant company of men-at-arms stood around them, many of whom were famous knights and mighty barons. richard was now receiving his final instructions, and in a few minutes more he bowed low and departed. halfway down the hill he was awaited by a party of stalwart-looking men, and to one of these he said: "haste thee now, guy the bow! let us have the sails up and get out of the harbor. almost the entire army is already on board." "aye, my lord," responded the bowman; "i have been all over our ship. the sailors are good men and true; but i like not the captain, and we shall be crowded like sheep in a pen." "'tis but for a day," said richard, "and the weather is good. we are warned of foes by the way." "we shall be ready for them," said guy; then he added, "a page from my lord the earl of warwick brought this." it was a letter, and quickly it came open. "it is from my mother! the saints be with her!" exclaimed richard. "she is well. i will read it fully after we are on board. thanks to the good earl." down the hill they went together, and on to a long pier, at the outer end of which was moored a two-masted vessel apparently of about four hundred tons' burden--a large vessel for those days--very high at bow and stern, but low amidships, as if she were planned to carry a kind of wooden fort at each end. she was ready to cast off as soon as the young commander came on board; and he was greeted by loud cheers from her crowded decks. "she is thronged to the full," said richard. the sailing-master stood before him. he was a square-built man, of middle age, with a red face and small, greenish-gray eyes. his beard and hair were closely cropped and stiff; he wore a steel body-coat and headpiece, but his feet were bare. an unpleasant man to look upon was piers fleming; and behind him stood one not more than half as old, but of the same pattern, so like he needed not to say that he was the master's son, as well as mate of the golden horn. "the wind is fair, sir," said fleming. "we go out with the tide, but a fog is coming up the channel." "cast off," said richard. "yonder on the height is the prince with his lords and gentlemen, watching the going." "aye, aye!" responded fleming. "he shall see the golden horn go out." she cleared the harbor in gallant style, with her sails full spread, while richard busied himself among his men. the crew was thirty strong, mostly englishmen. "i have but twenty men-at-arms," said richard to himself at the end of his inspection, "but there are two hundred and more of bowmen, and over a hundred irish pikemen, besides the welshmen. what bones those irish are made with! i will serve out axes among them without delay. fine chopping should be done by such brawny axemen as they." "richard neville," whispered an eager voice at his elbow, "i pray thee hearken. one of the sailors, a londoner, understandeth flemish. he hath heard the captain and his son have speech with one on the pier. there is treason afoot, my lord. watch thou, and i will pass the word among the men." "tell all," said richard, with a hot flush on his face; but there was little enough to tell. it could be but a warning, a cause for suspicion and for care. "guy the bow," said richard, at the end of their brief talk, "seek among the sailors for a true englishman fit to take the helm if i smite off the head of this piers fleming. let thy man keep near me if a foe appeareth." yet stronger blew the south wind, and, as piers had said, with it came a thick, bluish mist that hid the ships from one another and made it impossible for any landsman on board of them to more than guess in what direction he might be going. it was therefore not thought of by richard as of any importance that the golden horn was speeding full before the wind. she was going northerly, instead of taking a tack toward la hogue. right with her blew the mist, and hour after hour went by. several times hoarse hails were heard and answered, but all were in the hearty voices of loyal englishmen, and richard said to one of his men-at-arms: "we are with the fleet, and all is well." most of them had put aside their armor, as being too heavy to wear needlessly during so sultry a day; for it was the 2d of july, 1346, and the summer was a warm one; the bowmen and pikemen also had taken off their heavy buff coats and laid aside their arms. but among the groups passed some of richard's longwood archers, talking low; and all the while, without attracting attention, sheaves of arrows, extra spears, with poleaxes and battle-axes and shields, were being handed up from the store of weapons in the hold. piers fleming was at the helm, and near him stood his son. there were grim smiles on their faces while they glanced up at the rigging and out into the mist, and noted the compass and the direction of the wind. "son hans," at last muttered the old man, "it can not be long now. some of the calais craft are sure to be hereabout. we will lay this tubful of english pirates alongside right speedily, if so be it is a large ship of good strength." "they will be caught napping," growled hans. "'twill be a fine prize, for the hold is packed to tightness." "well bloweth the wind," said piers, "and the golden horn hath now no company." at the forward end of the low waist of the ship stood richard among his men. "ye do know well," he said, "and all must know, that they would show no quarter. every man fighteth for his life, for who is taken goeth overboard, dead or alive." "aye," responded ben o' coventry; "'tis a cutthroat business. i think there would be small room for any frenchman on the golden horn, if one should come aboard." "room enough in the sea," said the red-haired o'rourke, who was captain of the irish; and he turned then to talk to his gigantic kerns in their own tongue. so did a man named david griffith talk to a throng of broad-shouldered welshmen who were also on board, armed with short swords, daggers, and spears or darts. of the latter several bundles now lay amidships. back toward the stern strode richard slowly, and after him, as if they were drifting about without special intention, strolled three rugged-looking seamen from the old port of london. the waves ran not too high for a gay summer cruise, and the golden horn rode them steadily. she was a fast sailer, for all her breadth of beam. suddenly her course was changed, and her sails swung in a little; for a command from captain fleming sent men to haul on the sheets. just then a long-drawn vibrating whistle had been heard, and it sounded thrice, from the very direction the ship was taking. richard stood now on the high after-deck, and a wave of his hand could be seen by his men below. there was little apparent stir among them, but buff coats were quickly donned, bows were strung, sheaves of arrows were cut open and distributed, while the men-at-arms made ready, and the irish made sure of their grip upon pikes and axes. "we will speak that ship, my lord neville," said fleming, very respectfully. "i have orders to report all craft we meet at sea." "aye, speak to her," said richard; but he loosened his sword in its sheath, and he knew that guy the bow had an arrow on the string. loudly came a hail from out of the fog; the speaker was a frenchman, and hardly had his utterance ceased before it was followed by a tumult of fierce, triumphant cheering on board the strange vessel. piers fleming sent back a hoarse reply, speaking french; and then he turned to richard. "she cometh, my lord!" he exclaimed, as if much affrighted. "'tis one of king philip's great cruisers. i have bidden them that we surrender." he was steering straight for the huge vessel which now swept toward them, looking larger through the cloud of vapor; but ere he made reply richard's sword was drawn. "thou art a traitor!" he shouted. "jack of london, take thou the helm!" "never!" cried fleming. "resistance were madness! we are almost alongside of her. ho, monsieur de gaines! we surrender!" richard's sword flashed like lightning, but even before it fell had sped the arrow of guy the bow. the strong hands of the ready english mariner caught the tiller as the traitorous sailing-master fell gasping to the deck. his son hans had been standing hard by him, pike in hand. he was taken by surprise for a moment, but he made a quick thrust at richard. there had been deadly peril in that thrust, but that a poleaxe in the hand of an irishman came down and cleft the traitor to the eyes. the great french ship came on majestically, but richard had given careful orders beforehand, and the golden horn did not avoid closing with her. "let them board us," he had said, and ben o' coventry had replied to him: "aye, my lord 'o wartmont, and we will slay as many as we may upon our own decks before we finish upon theirs." so little thought had the english but that they should win, no matter who came. louder and louder now arose the exulting yells and shouts from the swarms of armed men surging to and fro upon the fore and after forts and in the waist of la belle calaise, as her grapnels were thrown out to fasten upon the golden horn. she was much the taller and larger vessel, and even her tops and rigging were full of men. alas for these! had they been so many squirrels in the trees of longwood, they could not have dropped faster as the english archers plied their deadly bows. of the latter, too, some were in the cuplike tops of the golden horn, and their shafts were seeking marks among the french knights and men-at-arms. it was a fearful moment, for the boarders were ready as the two ships crashed against each other. "steady, men! stand fast!" shouted richard. "let them come on, but slay them as they come! take the knights first; aim at the armholes. waste no shaft. st. george for merry england! for the king and for the prince!" "for the king and for richard of wartmont!" shouted ben o' coventry. twang went his bow as he spoke, and a tall knight in full armor pitched heavily forward upon the deck of the golden horn, shouting "st. denis!" as he fell. his sword had been lifted, and the gray goose shaft had taken him in the armpit. he would strike no more. the frenchmen were brave enough, and they did not seem to be dismayed even by the dire carnage which was thinning them out so rapidly. the worst thing against them was that all this was so entirely unexpected. they had counted upon taking the english ship by surprise, aided by the treachery of piers fleming and his son. the golden horn had been steered by them many a long mile out of her proper course, and the same trick may have been played upon others of king edward's transports; for he had been compelled to employ sailors of all the nationalities along the channel and the north sea, excepting a few that favored the frenchmen. the fighting force on la belle calaise was not only double the number of that on the golden horn, but it contained five times as many men-at-arms. there the advantage ended, however; for the rest of it consisted of a motley mob of all sorts, woefully inferior in arms, discipline, and even in bodily strength to the chosen fighters who were commanded by richard of wartmont. for a few minutes he had kept his post on the high deck at the stern, that he might better see how the fight was going. then, however, with his score of men in full armor, he went down in the waist, stepping forward to meet the onset of the french knights who dashed in to avenge their fallen leader. he had not been their only commander, evidently, for now in their front there stood a knight whose splendid arms and jeweled crest marked him as a noble of high rank. "god and st. denis!" he shouted. "down with the dogs of england!" "st. george and king edward! i am richard neville of wartmont. who art thou?" their swords were crossing as the frenchman responded, "antoine, count de renly! down with thee, thou of wartmont! i will give an account of thee to thy boy black prince." "i am another boy, as he is," was the reply from the young lord; for his antagonist was certainly not taller than himself, and they were not badly matched. all around them the fierce _mêlée_ went on. arrows whizzed; the spears of the welshmen flew; there was hard hammering of sword and axe on helm and shield. one fact came out which men of knightly degree might otherwise have doubted. it was seen that a strong irishman, with only his buff coat for armor or for weight, could swing a weapon more freely and with better effect than could a brave knight a head shorter, of lighter bones, weighed down by armor of proof and a steel-faced shield. fierce was the wild irish war-cry with which these brawny men of ulster and connaught rushed forward, and their swinging blows were as the stroke of death. shields were dashed aside, helmets and mail were cloven through. slain they were, a number of them; but they had not fallen uselessly--there were not now so many frenchmen in full armor. richard and de renly were skilled swordsmen, and for a time neither of them seemed able to gain any advantage. the frenchman was a knight of renown, however, and it angered him to be checked by a mere youngster, a boy, a squire only, from the household of the black prince. he lost his temper, and pushed forward rashly, forgetting that he was not now upon firm land. the wind still blew, and the waves were lifting the ships, grinding them one against the other with shocks that were staggering. there was blood upon the deck at the spot where the mailed foot of the count was pressed. he slipped as he struck, and the sword of the english boy smote hard upon his crest. a rush, another slip, another blow, and de renly lay upon the deck, with the point of richard's blade at the bars of his helmet. "yield thee, de renly!" he shouted, "rescue or no rescue. yield, or thou diest!" [illustration: "yield thee, de renly!" he shouted.] "i yield!" came hoarsely back; "but myself only, not my ship." "yield thee!" said richard, taking away his sword. "we will care for thy boat." loudly laughed the o'rourke at neville's triumph; and he smote down a man-at-arms right across the fallen de renly. "hout, my lord of wartmont!" he shouted. "thou art a good sword! on, ulster and connaught! ireland forever! hew them down, ye men of the fens! we have a doughty captain!" even in that boast it was shown that some of richard's men--not those of longwood--had doubted him on account of his youth, in spite of the tale of his victory over clod the club. the rush of the french boarders was checked, but not repelled, so many they were and so desperate; but they met now another force. a cunning man was ben o' coventry, and fit to be a captain; for he had drawn away a number of welsh and irish and some bowmen, for whom there was no room in the waist of the ship. he led them to the prow, which was almost bare of men, save a few archers. it had swung away at first, but now it was hugging closely the high forecastle of la belle calaise. "forward, my men!" he shouted. "it is our turn to board! slay as ye go!" they rushed against a cluster of mere sailor-men, half armed, who had been posted there to keep them out of the way. they were hardly soldiers, although they were fierce enough; and they were mere cattle before the rush of ben o' coventry and his mighty followers. the welshmen spared none of them; and soon the french in the deep waist of la belle calaise, pressing forward to reinforce their half-defeated boarders, were suddenly startled by a deadly shower of darts and arrows that fell upon them from their own forecastle. then, as they turned in dismay, they shouted to their comrades upon the golden horn: "back! back! lest our own ship be lost. the english have boarded us!" there was a moment of hesitation; and so at that critical moment no help came to the remaining frenchmen in the waist of the golden horn. they were even outnumbered, since all the archers in the wooden forts fore and aft, twanging their deadly bows almost in safety, counted against the bewildered boarders. no more knights came down from la belle calaise. the common men were falling like corn before the reaper. "on!" shouted richard. "it is our fight now! short work is good work!" the o'rourke yelled something in the old erse tongue, and his giants followed him as he fought his way to the side of richard neville; but david griffith summoned his remaining welshmen, and was followed also by two score of kentish bowmen, as he hastened forward to join ben o' coventry and his daring fellows on the forecastle of la belle calaise. it was time, for there were good french knights yet left to lead in a desperate attempt to dislodge them. it was, however, as if the deck or roof of that wooden fort, made with bulwarks and barricades to protect it against all enemies of france, had been just as well prepared to be held by an english garrison. moreover, all manner of weapons had been put there, ready for use; and among these were pikes and lances with which the welshmen could thrust at the men who tried to climb the ladders from the waist, while the archers shot for dear life, unerringly. "my lord beaumont," shouted one of the french men-at-arms, "all of our boarders on the english ship are down or taken. not one is left. here come the neville and his tigers. god and st. denis! we are lost!" "courage!" returned beaumont. "fight on; we shall overcome them yet!" but a heavy mace, hurled by a big cornishman on the forecastle, at that moment smote him on the helm. he fell stunned, while his dismayed comrades shrank back from the storm of english arrows and from the mad rush of richard and his men-at-arms and the o'rourke and his irish axemen. the french were actually beaten in detail, their greater numbers at no time doing them any good. in each part of the fight they had had fewer men at the front, and the few that now remained fit to fight seemed to be in a manner surrounded. "quarter, if thou wilt surrender!" cried richard to a knight with closed visor, with whom he was crossing swords. "quarter!" came faintly back, "surrender!" and then he sank upon one knee, for he was wounded by an arrow in the thigh. "all good knights yield themselves to me!" again shouted richard in french. "they who hold out are lost!" more than one of them still fought on in a kind of despair, but others laid down their swords at the feet of richard. as for any other of the defenders of la belle calaise, it was sad to seek them; for the golden horn had no man left on board of her save jack of london at the helm, and the english pikes were everywhere plying mercilessly. "leave not one!" shouted the o'rourke hoarsely to his kerns. "not one of us had they spared if we had been taken. let lord wartmont care for his gentlemen. they will all pay ransom." so quickly all was over; and all that was left of the force which that morning had crowded the deck under the brave monsieur de gaines was less than half of his brave gentlemen, hardly one of them without a wound. the sieur de beaumont had now recovered his senses; but as he arose and looked around him, he exclaimed: "lord richard of wartmont, i would thou wouldst show me the mercy to throw me into the sea. how shall i face my king after such a disgrace as this!" "'twas not thy fault, brave sir," said richard courteously. "it is the fortune of war. say to thy king from me, that thy ship was lost when the comte de gaines tumbled so many of his force into the golden horn. thou mayest say that he knew not how ready were we to meet him." "the traitorous fleming----" began the count, but richard interrupted him. "not traitor to thee," he said. "he is dead indeed; and his trap caught not us, but thee and thy commander. how art thou now, sieur de renly? i thank thee for slipping well, else thy good sword had done thee better service." like a true gentleman, the brave youth spoke kindly to them all, and their hurts were cared for. the several ransoms for each knight were agreed upon; but they had now no further need for armor, and they were soon appareled only in clothing of wool and linen, or silk and leather, as the case might be. as for the ships, they had sustained small injury in the fight. now that it was over, the grapplings were cast off, and each rode the waves on its own account. it was hard to provide skilled crews for both, but a shift was made by dividing the seamen, and by such selections as could be had from among the soldiery. jack of london was made the sailing master of the golden horn, and a seafaring man from hull was in like manner put in charge of la belle calaise. there was now no crowding of men upon either ship; but there was much care to be given to so many scores of wounded. the fog had cleared away, and the golden horn, with her prize, could make a pretty straight course for la hogue, thanks to a change in the wind. "art thou hurt at all?" asked guy the bow, when he next met his young commander. "nay," said richard, "unless bruises and a sore head may count for hurts. but we have lost a third part of our force, killed or wounded." "well that we lost not all, and our own lives," said guy. "'twas close work for a while. glad am i that our lady of wartmont is to hear no bad news." "aye," said richard; "and now i will tell thee, thou true man, when i write to her i will bear thee witness that to thee and ben o' coventry is it due that she hath not lost her son." "i would like her to think well of me," said guy, smiling with pleasure; "but i pray thee speak well to the prince of the o'rourke and his long-legged kerns, and of david griffith. they deserve well of the king." "trust me for that," said richard. "and now, ere the dark hour, i must read my mother's letter. truth to tell, i could not so much as look at it while i was watching that traitor fleming, and preparing for what i thought might come. i have already thanked all the men and visited my prisoners. brave ransom will some of them pay." "and the prize money for us all," added guy, with a chuckle. "we may be rich when we return from france." so he went forward, and richard sat down to his letter, to read the good words his mother sent him, and to dream of wartmont and of longwood, and of the old days before the war. then there was sleeping, save for those who could not sleep for their hurts or their misfortunes. it was well on in the forenoon of the following day before the golden horn and her captive companion sailed gayly in among the forest of masts that had gathered at la hogue. only a short hour later the young lord of wartmont, with some of his chosen followers and those of his prisoners that were highest in rank, stood in an open space among the camps of king edward's army. the king himself was there, and with him were earls and knights and captains not a few. by his side stood the brave black prince; but it was to the king that richard and those who were with him bent the knee, while the young man made his report of the taking of la belle calaise. he was modest enough; but the bright eyes of the prince kindled finely as he heard it, and he said in a low voice to his father: "did i not tell thee i was right to intrust a ship to him?" "the boy did well," said the king dryly, for he was a man hard to please. "thou richard of wartmont, honor to thee and thy merry men all! thou and the prince are to win spurs of knighthood, side by side, ere we sail again for england. sir geoffrey of harcourt will bid thee where to go." richard bent low, and rose to his feet. sir geoffrey stepped forward to speak to the sieur de renly and the other captured knights. the archers and men-at-arms of richard's command stood still where they were, waiting for orders; but the black prince beckoned richard aside to get from him the full particulars of a fray so gallantly fought and won. "i envy thee," he said, "thy hand-to-hand close with de renly. thou hast fine war fortune with thee; and the king is ever better pleased than he will tell." it must have been so, for at that moment king edward was turning to a noble-looking knight who stood near him: "cousin john beauchamp of warwick," he said, "thou mayest be proud of thy young kinsman. those of thy blood are apt to make good captains." "thanks, sire," responded the earl of warwick, flushing with pride. "i trust there may never fail thee plenty of stout beauchamps and nevilles to stand in the front rank of the gallant men of england. but i pray thee, mark how the boy handled his archers and his irishmen----" "and how he watched the traitors and trapped the treason," laughed a gray-bearded warrior at his side. "he hath his wits about him." "yea, norfolk," said the king with a gloom upon his face; "the men who are to defend england and defeat her enemies must watch against treason by night and by day. 'twas a fleming that set the trap for the golden horn; and the men who are to march with us against philip of valois are all from our own islands. not a man below a man-at-arms can even speak french." so the king's wisdom spoke for itself, while sir geoffrey of harcourt and the prince sent richard neville and his brave men to the camp where they were to pass the night; for the whole army was to march away next morning. chapter vii. the great plan of the king. the exact place of the landing of king edward had been at a harbor called st. vast, northerly from cape la hogue, and the king of france believed him still at sea, on his way to gascony or guienne, that there he might strike a blow for the sadly beset forces of the earl of derby. there was no need for camping long on the shore that the english forces might be put into good marching order. even as they landed their proper divisions were assigned them. when the next morning sun arose, it was known to all that the king had named the earl of arundel his constable, to abide with himself; also that he had named the earl of warwick and sir geoffrey of harcourt marshals of the army. the left wing was to be commanded on the march by sir geoffrey, and the right wing by the earl. all who were to be with the earl, however, were moving along the coast, southerly, in the morn. in like manner went the fleet, taking many prizes of armed ships and merchantmen. it was the earl's first errand to take or to disable a place called barfleur, where was a very strong castle, that from it might come forth no harm to any english force to be left at the st. vast landing. side by side rode richard and his uncle, and the earl questioned him much of his doings on the golden horn. "thou hast done well," he said, "but i like it not that thou art with me. it were better thou shouldst ride with harcourt. seest thou not that, as we are ordered now, he will lead the van and i the rear guard? i shall take these towns and many another, but he will be first at caen, and that is the prize of normandy." "i hear 'tis a great place," said richard, "but i like it that to us it is given to strike the first blow in france." even as he spoke a mounted scout came galloping back to report that barfleur was in sight, and that english war ships were sailing into the harbor. the earl drew rein and raised his baton, uttering no word; but a hundred or so of men-at-arms who were behind him shouted loudly and dashed by, spurring toward the front. "thy bowmen next!" shouted the earl to richard. "follow the knights closely. the pikemen are already far ahead. if it be god's will, we will sweep the town in an hour." hotly rushed richard's blood as he pressed on, followed by three hundred of the archers of arden. hardly he knew what time had passed after that until he found himself halted to watch while axemen battered at a town gate and pikemen placed ladders to mount a wall. his archers meantime were making targets of whoever might show himself among the wall battlements. "is this the way a town is taken?" he exclaimed. "i deemed there were more delay. there go the good knights, up the ladders and through the gate! 'twas but badly made, to be broken in so soon. on, men of arden! follow me!" follow they did, and some good archery work befell them after they entered the town, but the english were even too many for the capture and pillage of so small a place. "it was no battle, my lord," richard said to the earl two hours later, as they met in the great square in the center of the town. "but we have taken barfleur." "that have we," said the earl, "and that is all. look yonder!" across long rows of intervening houses gazed the young captain as the earl pointed. there was a rocky height, and upon it arose the towers and the turreted walls of a great castle. "i see," said richard. "it hath a strong look. how shall we take it?" "not at all," replied the earl marshal, laughing. "he who holdeth it for the king of france refused to yield it, and well he may. we could hammer at it in vain all summer. all the need is to hem in the garrison somewhat by the taking of the town. the english army will march on and waste no time. take thou therefore a lesson in good war craft. thy king will make no blunder of throwing away strength upon mere stone work on a hill calling itself a castle." "i will bear it in mind," said richard. "i would have thought it must needs be taken." loud laughed the earl marshal, but already his officers were recalling the troops from the sacking of the town, that all his force might turn again to rejoin the army of the king, that had been marching northward. stretched out along the roads and levels, but moving steadily, were all the divisions of the forces of king edward. the last of them, with much munition of war, was even now disembarking from the shipping at st. vast, for it taketh care and time to transfer horses and matters of weight from a deck to a beach. when the night fell all camps were made with care, as became good generalship, although there was fair certainty that no considerable armed force of foemen could be near at hand. morn came, and in its first hours richard was galloping on to the center with a writing from the earl of warwick to the king, but to the prince was it delivered, and he read. "this to my father," said he heartily; "but i am glad that the earl should please to have thee with me and with harcourt. and thou hast seen a town taken? never the same saw i, and i know not how i am to win spurs tramping these roads without a french man-at-arms in sight!" nevertheless he went to the king and came again, and they twain rode on together talking of the war. "the earl sendeth word," said the prince, "that he will waste no time nor men in vainly besieging the castle of cherbourg. we need it not, but we shall sack carenton before to-morrow night." "knoweth the king," asked richard, "at what place mustereth the host of france?" "our last news," replied the prince, "putteth philip in aquitaine, full far away from paris. were the king so minded he could get there first." "and take the capital city of france?" exclaimed richard. "that were grand! we shall press onward, then?" "that will we," said the prince, "but not to take a city we can not hold. small good were it to be shut up there by half the hosts of europe. but we can draw away the french from derby's front, and we can win calais." "win calais by a march through normandy?" sprang from the lips of richard. "i see not well how that can be. what were calais, compared with paris?" "it is the sorest thorn in the side of england, saith my father," replied the prince. "even the channel and the british seas are but half our own while that harbor is a refuge for the fleets of france and a nesting place for all manner of pirates. we must take and hold it, as we hold dover. it hath but one strong defense." "i have heard that its walls are strong," said richard, "and that it can stand a long siege by sea and land." "long and hard it well may be," laughed the prince, "but sieges have an end, and towns are taken if the besiegers themselves be not routed in their camps. the defense of calais against us is this army of the king of france. until that shall be utterly beaten the town is safe. thou wilt yet see clearly the wisdom of the king." there was another night's camping and the carenton town surrendered, but the castle thereof detained earl warwick and his power during two more days, while the main host marched on. town after town that lay along its broad road of desolation either opened its gates without resistance or was shortly stormed and plundered. long lines of wains were all the while traveling back to st. vast and other seaports, that the ships might convey the captured goods and treasures to safe keeping in england. this was the manner of all warring in those days, and sore was the distress of the people of normandy. they were brave enough, but they had neither great captains nor any central body of an army whereunto they might rally. for their mere numbers they could have eaten up the english army, but what are numbers that are scattered vainly over a great province? daily did the prince and richard draw nearer to each other, as they found occasion for meeting; but the duties of the young heir of wartmont were now with the advance, under sir geoffrey of harcourt. small fighting had he seen, but many a deed of pillage that was sad to look upon, and he was learning how terrible a thing is war. "god keep it from merry england!" he often thought, and yet he knew that all the messengers from home brought rumors that a scottish host was gathering fast to take advantage of king edward's absence. "evil to them!" he said angrily. "if the good archbishop be also training the men of the north counties and the middle, i trust sir robert johnstone will face them with bowmen as good as are those of longwood and arden. we can give him no aid, but to-morrow we shall get to caen." the prince was with the king that night and richard saw him not. nor was there message for him to carry in the morn, but there came to him a summons from marshal de harcourt. "richard of wartmont," said his captain when they met, "sir thomas holland and sir peter legh, with knights and men-at-arms, form the advance on caen. with them go thou and double thy number of the archers of arden. with thee will also be the irish and the welsh, for i learn that the people of this town have gone mad with conceit. they will face us outside of their walls. if we may break their front, we may enter caen in their foolish company." like word went back to the king, praying him to hasten, that he might see his standard lifted over the capital of normandy. good was the planning of de harcourt, for, as the english van emerged early that day, behold a numerous but motley and ill-ordered array of armed citizens and country folk, drawn out to meet them. with them were many knights and men-at-arms, but the marshal spoke truly when he said of them: "an army that is not an army. we will scatter them like chaff!" "seest thou yonder town?" asked sir thomas holland of richard, as they paused on the brow of a low hill to let the bowmen come up. richard looked earnestly, for the walls were wide-reaching, and they seemed to be high and strong. on one side of the great town arose a castle of surpassing splendor, and he had heard that the governor of caen, sir john de blargny, held it with three hundred genoese crossbowmen and other forces. there were church spires also, and of these arose one higher than the rest, at which sir thomas pointed with his lance. "in a crypt of that church," he said, "rest the bones of william the conqueror. from this town did he and his host march to the overthrow of king harold at hastings." richard gazed in silence, but he heard strange words among the bowmen behind him, speaking the ancient tongue. "'tis good hearing," said guy the bow. "as he and his normans did to england, so have the saxons under king edward done to normandy. the conquest is ours this time!" "the tables are turned," said ben of coventry, "and rare hath been the plundering. but we have yet fought no fight like that of hastings. until then we shall not be even with the french. i shall shoot closely that day when it shall come." deep, therefore, was the bitterness that grew from the old time. alas, that it did not cease, and that during centuries more the old feud rankled murderously in the hearts of englishmen, so that even their norman kings made use of it as a power whereby to rally armies to fight the outland men beyond the sea! forward now dashed the english van, all shouting loudly, but no battle did await them. mayhap they were in greater force than the men of caen expected, or that the latter bethought them suddenly how good were stone walls to fight behind. at all events, there were few volleys of arrows sent before the french muster broke and ran back in confusion toward the open gates. "forward!" shouted sir thomas. "the middle gateway! there be good knights there, all tangled in the press. they can neither fight nor flee. brave ransom to be won! press on!" even he and his own knights could make little better speed than might the bowmen on foot, but the french men-at-arms were already jammed one against another in the narrow passage by which they had hoped to retreat into the city. there could be no closing of the gate, but over it was a small fortalice, with a broad stairway leading up to it. down sprang the good knights, for here seemed a refuge, as if it were a place wherein they might defend themselves. much rather was it a trap in which they were to be taken helplessly. in vain they manned the battlements, for up the stairway after them poured richard neville's bowmen and axemen, with sir thomas holland, sir peter legh, and a dozen other knights. "down with them, richard of wartmont!" shouted guy the bow, and the shafts began to fly. but in front of the frenchmen in that tower stepped forth a knight in gorgeous armor, who shouted boldly: "sir thomas holland, dost thou not know thine old-time comrade against the prussian heathen and the saracens of grenada? i am the count of eu and guignes, constable of france, and with me is the count of tancarville. these all be knights of note. but we are betrayed to thine hand by these cowardly townspeople." so they surrendered all, while through the gateway below dashed sir geoffrey of harcourt, his men-at-arms, and a great tide of spearmen and bowmen. at no great distance behind them rode the king and the prince, and it was but little before the earl of northampton raised the royal standard over that very gateway fort in token that caen had fallen. the walls were won, indeed, but not the whole town or the castle. on to the center and to the townhall pressed harcourt, and with him now was richard. every house was a small fort, however, and all doors were closed and barred. not for their goods only, but for their very lives, did the inhabitants of caen believe themselves to be contending. in the upper stories and garrets of the buildings had they prepared munitions of heavy stones, beams, and the like, and these did they now rain down upon the ranks of the english soldiery. many were slain or wounded thereby. brave knights were stricken from their horses to lie helpless upon the pavement. all these things were witnessed by the king himself when he and the prince and those who were with them rode through the gate of the city. an angry man was he to be stoned and to narrowly escape destruction in a street of a place which he had already taken. sir geoffrey and his men were at the townhall now, and one of their first works had been to search for and to seize the official records and archives. it had been better for normandy if all these things had perished, but none had looked for so sudden an entry of the english, so that the writings remained. these were delivered to the king on his arrival. he read from page to page, and his hot wrath burned yet more hotly. among the captured manuscripts was one under the seal royal of france, and it was a covenant between the king and the people of caen and of normandy for their service against the english king. already had there been good proof that the normans had greatly favored an invasion of england like that of william the conqueror. here was fresh proof thereof, with more that was as poison. fierce and hasty was the next speech of the angry king, for he commanded that the city should be given up to sack and pillage, without mercy to man or woman. it had been a terrible deed to do, for the soldiery were greatly enraged already, and some of their deeds had been cruel. well was it then for all that sir geoffrey of harcourt was a wise man and humane as well as a good war captain, for he spoke plainly to king edward. "dear sire," he said, "restrain thy courage a little, i pray thee, and be satisfied with what thou hast done. thou hast a long journey before thou shalt get to calais, where thou intendest to go." much more he said and argued, and all the while the king grew calmer. "sir geoffrey," he replied at last, "thou art our marshal; therefore order as thou shalt please, for this time we wish not to interfere." nevertheless, in the speech of the marshal had been published the secret counsel of the king and the real purpose of the campaign from before the army left england. there were those even in later days who maintained that edward had sailed at a venture, and had marched at random, without set plan or purpose, but they knew him not very well, nor did they hear his chief captain answer him at caen thus early in the campaign. out rode then sir geoffrey from street to street, with banners displayed, declaring full mercy to the townsfolk if they would cease fighting, and commanding, on pain of death, that no english soldier should harm or insult either man or woman. so the massacre was stayed, but for all that there was vast plunder taken. richard was with the prince once more for a little while, and to him he spoke of the purpose of the normans to invade england. "they thought to do as in harold's time," he said. "there had been great mischief, truly, if they could have landed." "not so," replied the prince. "i heard sir geoffrey and the king on that head. no other battle of hastings could have come, for the archbishop of york hath force enough to face the scots. king harold had to fight and beat the welsh first, and then the northmen under hardrada, before he turned, with what army he had left, to meet william of normandy. an invasion now would meet the whole array of england at one field, with welsh and irish many thousands. moreover, in england there were neither forts nor castles in harold's day, while now there are too many for the peace of the realm. so said my royal father, for the castles can be well held even against the power of the king." "the saxons fought well," said richard. "aye, that did they," replied the prince, "and well do we know that thou and thine are of them. wilt thou tell me, richard of wartmont, why thou and thy saxons all are so strong for the crown? are we not of norman blood?" "yea, that ye are," said richard, "but of saxon royalty of descent as well. we all do know that truth. but above all do the people of every kindred look to see the king stand between them and the barons. so are we his lithsmen, nor can any take us out of his hand. he is our king!" "stay where thou art!" exclaimed the prince; "i will bear that word to the king ere it is cold in my thought." away he rode, and he had to dismount and enter the townhall before he could have speech with his father. that which he said was heard by no other ears, but the face of the king grew red with pleasure. "truly," he said low-voiced, "the youth and his people are wiser than i knew! herein is a point of statecraft fit to be an heirloom of the british kings. i will wear it. the king of the people hath no need to fear the power of his barons. i have seen it long. there shall be more and larger parliaments henceforth, and the commons may speak their will freely. i am less at the bidding of my proud earls. i have henceforth no fear of philip of france, but i must win calais, if only for the good of my merchantmen. we will march thither speedily, as soon as i shall have smitten hard this huge mustering of philip the unwise." the prince came not back, nor did he afterward give to richard the words of the king; but the writers who in due season recorded the history of those times had many things to write concerning the kindly relations that grew up between edward and the commons, especially all merchants and artisans and seafaring men. there were days of seeming rest for the army, but these were largely spent in good training, lest discipline should have been injured on the march. on one of these days came a summons from sir geoffrey of harcourt to richard neville, and when he obeyed it he found the two marshals together. earl warwick was the first to speak. "good news for thee, richard," he said. "thy gateway fort was a fine trap for thy fortune. the king hath purchased of sir thomas holland, sir peter legh, and the knights and thee, the ransom of the constable of france and lord tancarville. he payeth twenty thousand rose nobles of gold, and thy share will be made good. all thy other prizes will be sure to thee in my own hand, for i send all to thy mother at warwick. thou wilt be richer than was ever thy father, if thou shalt hold on as thou hast begun." great was the joy of richard, and earnest were his thanks to the kindly earl; but he had now to hear from his commander. "hearken thou well," he said. "take thou thine own companies and such as shall be named to thee by sir peter legh. march out at the northern gate and follow the road he will name to thee. speak not to any concerning thy errand, and thou thyself hast need to know no more. but if any stranger shall attempt to march with thee, slay thou him on the spot." "see that thou obey in silence," added the earl. "i trust in god that i shall see thee again, but do thou thy duty utterly caring not for thy blood or thy life." richard bowed low, for his heart was dancing within him at the prospect of new adventure, and he did but say: "god save the king! and i pray thee, tell my mother i did my duty utterly." "go thou," said the earl. "haste thee also," came from sir geoffrey, "for thine is the vanguard." o what pride for one so young--to be ordered to the front of a secret foray! nevertheless, in the very street, as richard rode to the camp of his bowmen, he was met and halted by the prince. "richard of wartmont," he said, but not loudly, "thou hast thy orders?" richard bowed low. "so have i mine!" exclaimed the prince. "not all the fortune of this campaign is to be thine alone. thou shalt see me with my sword out before thou art older. there are blows to strike, and i am to be in the _mêlée_, as becomes me. haste thee now, and fare thee well until i see thee again." it had been ill to answer in words, but richard bowed again and rode onward. it was at the gate that he met sir peter legh with further instructions. a good knight was sir peter and broad in the shoulders, but he stood a fathom and half a handbreadth in his stature--a sore antagonist for any man to face in field or tourney, and having experience of many a hard-fought field. "thou of wartmont," he said dryly, "since i am to have company of thee and thine, well. it is de harcourt's word to me. he is my commander. thou mayest lead older and better men fairly enough. i will tell thee what to do." "i was ahead of all but thee in the gate of caen," responded richard a little freely, for he was but young in temper. "thou wilt not find me a pace behind thee if so be there is fighting or climbing to be done." "that there will be," growled sir peter. "thou art nimble enough, but other men are bigger in the bones. but it is said of thee that thou hast good fortune, and that is a grand thing in a fray. i will go to thy men with thee and learn what timber i am to build with." so strong in the minds of all men was the belief that even more than lance or sword or counsel was the thing they called fortune. but better for the army and for the taking of calais were the long preparation and the subtle wisdom of edward the third. few were the words of sir peter as they twain rode onward, save to give his youthful comrade full and clear directions as to the road by which he was to march. he knew, however, that the burly knight eyed him keenly from time to time, as if he were trying to read what value he might have as a soldier. then came they to the camp, and sir peter turned his eyes in like manner upon guy the bow and the men of longwood. "i ask the marshal's pardon," he grumbled testily. "if their chief be only a boy, his clansmen are long in the legs. every man a pardoned outlaw, i am told, and half of kin to the neville. look you!" he spoke loudly to guy the bow, "ye all are to march with richard of wartmont." "aye, sir peter," said guy. "he is our captain. we have fought for him ere this, shoulder to shoulder." "thou art malapert!" exclaimed sir peter. "guard thou thy tongue, lest i teach thee a lesson thou needest. the lash is near thee!" hot as fire glowed the brown cheeks of guy the bow, and he strode one pace nearer. "i know thee, sir peter legh," he said. "thou art a good lance enough, but who gave thee the ill wisdom to speak of the lash to the free archers of arden?" right well astonished was sir peter, for at every side, as he looked beyond guy, did the tall foresters spring to their feet, and full a score of them had arrows on the string. he heard rough speaking in a tongue which he did not fully understand, but one voice that was louder than the rest was of ordinary english. "we are not dogs, nor serfs, nor villains," it declared, "that we should be whipped for free speech. we are free men. if yonder man-at-arms layeth but a finger upon guy the bow or upon my lord of wartmont, i will send this shaft through his midriff." "richard neville, what meaneth this?" exclaimed sir peter legh. "whose men are these?" "we belong to the wartmont, under the earl of warwick," spoke out ben of coventry, "and through the earl we are the king's men. look thou well to that." "sir peter," said richard sturdily, "there was no cause of offense to thee." "these, then, are yeomen?" asked sir peter, with a grim smile that meant much. "never was collar of serf upon the neck of an archer of arden," replied richard. "free they were born, and free they will die. and i swear to thee that my father's son will die here with them ere they are harmed." the knight was wiser than he had seemed, for he did but laugh loudly. "i have no quarrel to pick with earl warwick or with thee, or with thy deerstealers," he said. "bring them along. these were with thee when thou didst take la belle calaise? pirates every man. but they are what thou wilt need to have with thee if thou art to follow sir thomas holland and me. the old one-eyed saracen fighter will lead where none but brave hearts may go." all the men heard him, and bows were promptly lowered. said guy the bow: "my speech was not malapert for such as i am, sir knight. thou didst ill to threaten freemen. but it may be, if thou art in a press, thou wilt be pleased to hear at thy side the twanging of the good bows of longwood and wartmont." "that will i, merry men all," said sir peter heartily. "well do i know now why ye were chosen by harcourt. ye are of the old midland breed of wolves that die silent but biting. 'tis your proverb." more did he say as he walked among them; but he inspected their weapons, as became a captain, and there came also pack beasts laden with sheaves of arrows, that every quiver might be full. "richard of wartmont," he said at parting, "there is naught but good will between me and thee. english am i, and greatly do i like thy men. we were but a lost people if our yeomanry were no higher spirited than are the slavish rabble that will swarm behind the nobles of france and their unwise, cunning king. as for him, he will find that the double tongue fitted to cheat by an embassage is of small value in the right handling of an army. he may learn something yet from our edward of england. unless geoffrey of harcourt is a false witness, and unless the king's plan goeth too far astray, calais will ere long be but an english port. meet thou me as i bade thee, for i must go." even so he did, but richard remained to complete the right ordering of his command. anxious indeed was he, and he brought to mind every lesson of war that he had learned in england or on the march. who could tell, he thought darkly, what desperate venture might be at hand? careless captains do but throw away what heedful men might win. above all was it heavy upon his mind that on this occasion he and his had been chosen to guard the prince himself, as being such as the king could rely upon to the very death. "so, if he dieth," said he, "i and mine will not return to face the king. where lieth his body, there will mine be found, and all the men of arden and longwood with me." also in like manner responded the archers themselves when he arrayed them and told them, passing the word from man to man: "we are the black prince's comrades, this day and night. it is the king's trust." "we will keep trust," they said. chapter viii. the castle of bruyerre. splendid to look upon was the advance of king edward's army from caen, with its banners, its mailclad horsemen, its winding rivers of shields, and the flashing of the sunlight on the helmets and on the points of polished steel. the roads were dusty, but their dryness gave good footing, and all wagon wheels rolled well. there was a hindrance in the narrowness of all the normandy highways and byways, for it compelled edward to divide his forces and send them forward by several lines of march. his being there could now be known to philip of france at once, but the great french army was still in gascony, beleaguering the stout earl of derby and his forces. there was therefore no power to block the progress of the english invaders, although each of their divisions had somewhat to contend with. there were walled towns and there were fortresses. in some of these were not only garrisons, but much plunder, and their taking would be required by the military plans of the king. his generalship was greatly exhibited in this, that by landing so unexpectedly in normandy, and by then marching straight across country, as if his aim were to take paris, he compelled philip to loosen his grip upon the army of the earl of derby, and to march his mighty host with all speed to the saving of his own capital. town after town had surrendered to edward, and many castles had opened their gates without a fight, yet not all. the country people had suffered sorely, for the army required much in the way of provisions, but the scourge of war fell most heavily upon the rich, and on such as made resistance. richard neville was now honored with the command of a goodly detachment. with him, as before on the golden horn, were men-at-arms and footmen of every kind, for so had the king ordered for all parts of his advance. the heir of wartmont was this day so far separated from the main body of the king's army that it was almost as if he were invading that part of normandy by himself, in command of a small army of his own. "my lord," said a man-at-arms who rode at his side, "if thou wilt permit the question, art thou sure of thy direction? were we to stray too far, we might meet with reproof, or worse." "this is the road that sir geoffrey harcourt bade me take," replied richard. "but i would we had a guide." they were well in advance of their little column, and they rode out over the brow of a low hill and from under the shadow of overarching trees. "my lord of wartmont," loudly exclaimed the man-at-arms, "look yonder! shall we not push forward?" before them lay a deep, narrow valley, with many cots and vineyards scattered up and down the stream which wandered through it. directly across the hollow, however, there was a sight worth seeing. high and rock-bordered was that northward hillside, but on its crown was a fortress that was half a church, with a walled town beyond the foot of the castle. high and precipitous were the granite cliffs, high were the towers of the castle, but into the sunset light above them all arose the cross-tipped steeple of the church. on this side of the outer wall of the town on the hill was a great gate, and over it floated, as also on the donjon keep of the castle, near the town gate, the golden lilies of the royal standard of france, streaming out against the sky. "we will not go forward," said richard. "we will halt, rather. no force like ours can do aught with a fort like that. nor shall we now surprise them. some captain of high rank is in command, for there is the _fleur-de-lis_ flag." "my lord, there was the blast of a horn!" said ben o' coventry, from the archer ranks. "thou hast keen hearing," richard replied, as again the mellow music came faintly up the road; "that horn calleth us to wait for the force that followeth." at the word of command, the horsemen drew rein and the footmen stood at rest. they had not long to wait. a splendid black horse, and on him a rider in black armor, came spurring along the narrow highway accompanied only by a page. "it is the prince!" exclaimed richard. "what doeth he here alone?" so loudly was it spoken, and so near was the young royal hero of england, that the answer came from his own lips. "not alone am i, richard neville, but i have outridden wakeham to speed on and warn thee not to show thyself beyond the ridge, lest thou warn the warders of bruyerre that we are at hand. halt, thou and thine!" "my lord prince edward, we are halted, with that very thought in mind," respectfully answered richard. "but is yonder place bruyerre?" "it is, indeed," said the prince. "'tis a stronghold since the days of norman rollo. duke robert also was besieged there once." "how, then, shall we take it?" came regretfully from richard's lips. "it were not well to leave it untaken." "that will we not," said the prince, "and glad am i have to thee with me. for that end we sent thee ahead. sir henry and i had few enough of men, and they are mostly men-at-arms. we need thy irish kerns,[a] and thy welsh, and thy bowmen." "here they come, my lord!" guy the bow announced from among the archers. "they all are riding hard as if for a charge." a brave array of knights and gentlemen in full armor came fast through the dust clouds of their own raising. beside the foremost horseman rode one who carried no arms at all. on his head was the plain cap of a tradesman, and from under it long white hair came down to his shoulders. he rode firmly despite his years, however, and there was a kind of eager light upon his deeply wrinkled face. "all is well!" he exclaimed. "my lord of wakeham, the prince reached them in time, and they are halted." "aye, and i would there were more of them," replied sir henry. "our own footmen are long miles behind, and the day is waning." "we need night, not day, for the taking of bruyerre," said the old man gloomily. "even now we were wise to get into some safe hiding. there is a forest glen to the right of where the prince is waiting." in a few minutes more sir henry rode to the side of the prince and held out a hand to richard. "thy men are in good condition," he said; "and that is as it should be, for they have sharp work before them." "ready are we," said richard, but his eyes were upon the face of the white-haired man. he sat in silence, gazing across the valley at the towers and walls of the fortress, and he seemed moved by strong emotions. "what sayest thou, giles monson?" asked the prince. "are there changes?" "in me, my prince," responded giles, "but not in yonder town. a christian man am i this day, and it is not given me to judge, but i am a true englishman. with an honest heart and in good faith did i bring steel wares from sheffield to the wicked lord of bruyerre. false and cruel was he, a robber and a villain. he laughed at me when once i was in his power. fourteen years was i a prisoner in yonder keep, and i grew old before my time. behold the scars of fetters on my wrists. then was i a beggar and a starveling in the town for three years more, watched always and beaten oft. but i learned every inch of yonder hill, and at last i made my escape. by the path along which i left bruyerre can i guide this army in. but there must be ladders stronger than the cord i came down upon." "a dozen are with our own foot soldiers," said sir henry. "but haste now, lest we be discovered from the castle." all riders were dismounting, and richard went into the woods with his forest men to seek the glen spoken of by giles. it was not far to find, and it led on down into the valley. the forest growth was old and dense, and, once the soldiery marched well in, they were completely hidden. only a strong guard waited at the wayside to intercept all passengers, and here at last came richard, just as the sun went down. "the prince's foot soldiers will arrive soon," said the young leader to guy the bow. ben o' coventry was peering over the ridge of the hill, and he came back hastily. "men from the castle, my captain!" he exclaimed. "a knight, i should say by his crest, and four esquires, with, mounted serving men a half dozen. the knight, i noted, rideth with visor up." "thinking not of any foe," richard answered. "we will hide under the trees and let them go by. then will we close behind them." "we could smite them as they come," said guy. "nay," replied richard, "lest even so much as one on horseback escape to warn the town." word was sent to the prince, and soon he was there, having posted his troops in the glen, and with him came sir henry of wakeham. it was no moment for speech, for the french cavalcade came gayly over the hill. silent and motionless, the english in their ambush almost held their breath until the party from bruyerre was a bowshot past them. then out into the road they poured as silently, and the trap was set. "they will meet our foot right soon," said sir henry, "but they will not risk a charge upon five hundred men. they will come back." "sir thomas gifford will render a good account of them, if they do not," replied the prince. not more than half a mile down the road and around a bend of it, at that hour, pressed on the english foot. at their head rode one knight only, with a few men-at-arms, and not far behind him strode a brawny, red-haired man, who shouted back to those behind him, in irish: "forward now, ye men of the fens, of connaught and of ulster! yet a little, and we shall be with our brave boy of the golden horn and of la belle calaise, and with the prince and sir henry." it was the o'rourke himself, promoted to a better command, with full leave to arm his giants with axes, in honor of his feats in the sea fight. in like manner the rear guard was led by david griffith, and the weapons of the welshmen were such as those with which their ancestors had fought the roman legions of cæsar and the saxons of harold the king. "who cometh?" exclaimed sir thomas, for at that moment the party of french from bruyerre had seen his banner and his ranks, and they had promptly turned round to speed back to the castle. "the english!" they shouted. "the pirates of albion! back to the town!" they had no dreams of aught but a swift, unhindered escape; and the greater was their astonishment to find their way blocked below the hill ridge by a dense mass of pikemen and bowmen, in front of whom stood a dozen armored knights. there was no use in either flight or fighting; and their leader reversed his lance and rode forward. "yield thee!" rang out in english. "i am sir henry of wakeham." "needs must!" responded the knight in norman french. "i am guilbert, sieur de cluse. i had visited with raoul de bruyerre, my kinsman, and i was but riding homeward. alas, the day!" he and his party dismounted and were disarmed. they were doubly astonished at meeting the prince himself with what seemed so small a force, and the sieur de cluse remarked with something of bitterness: "little ye know of the nut ye think to crack. de bruyerre hath gathered three thousand men, and he is provisioned for a siege." "not more than that?" exclaimed the prince. "glad am i of thy news. i had feared he had greater force. we have almost half that number of our own. the castle and the town are ours!" the prisoners were led under the trees, and now the night came on, and it was fairly sure that there would be no more wayfarers. little more could be learned, except that all the townspeople were as well armed and ready as the garrison. every plan had been well laid beforehand. only an hour after sunset dense clouds covered the sky, insuring perfect darkness. out, down the glen, swept david griffith and his welshmen, to seize all roads leading to the castle gate. along the highway itself rode the prince and his mounted force--a hundred and thirty steel-clad horsemen. behind them marched the greater part of the english foot; but by another path went sir henry of wakeham, richard neville, and sir thomas gifford. with them were the o'rourke and two hundred irish, and two hundred bowmen of warwick and kent. the scaling ladders were with these. away to the right, across fields and through vineyards, giles monson led the way. he was still unarmed, save for a stout "sheffield whittle," a foot long, sheathed, in his belt. hardly a word he spoke until his companions found themselves at the foot of a perpendicular crag. "there is a break twenty feet up," he said, "and a flat place. from that point our peril beginneth. silence, all!" a ladder was placed, and up he went like a squirrel. a low whistle was heard as he reached the top of the ladder; the signal came from richard, just behind him. next came a clang of steel, for the heir of wartmont had smitten down a half-slumbering sentinel. up poured the english, headed by sir henry; they brought a second ladder with them and others were placing it at the foot of the crag. [illustration: up went the ladder, and on it the english climbed fast.] "a shorter ladder will do for this next mounting," whispered giles monson. "then there is a wall, but sentries are seldom posted there." hardly had he spoken before a voice above them hailed in french: "who cometh there?" a flight of arrows answered him, and no second question came down. up went the ladder and on it the english climbed fast. the wall, when they reached it, was but a dozen feet high, and was hardly an obstacle. beyond it sir henry halted until many men stood beside him. then he spoke in a low tone. "pass the word," he said. "pause not for aught, but follow me to the castle and the town gate. we must win that and let in the prince, though all die who are here." he strode forward then, and ever in front of him went giles monson, his cap in his hand and his white hair flying. few lights were burning in any of the buildings, for it was long after curfew. there were no wayfarers along the narrow, winding streets through which, avoiding the middle of the town, giles monson guided the english. hardly a weapon clanged, and no word was spoken, for every man knew that if an alarm were given too soon so small a force would be overwhelmed and all must die. "yon is the gate," whispered giles at last. "'tis a fort of itself, and it needs must have a strong guard." "they are on the watch for foes from without," said sir henry. "richard neville, show thyself a good man-at-arms! charge in at yonder portal with thy irish, and we will form behind thee and press on to open the town gates and hold them." the o'rourke heard the command and he whistled shrilly to his men; still in front of richard, through the deep gloom, flitted the white-haired guide, for the portal at which sir henry pointed; to the left was the open gate of the great tower, the donjon keep, the citadel of bruyerre. a moat there was, but the bridge was in place, and the guards in armor were lolling lazily. "charge! for the king!" shouted richard, as he sprang swiftly along the bridge; he dashed past the guards and was within the portal before they could draw their swords. down they went under the irish axes, and so the entrance to the keep was won. then the fighting began, for there were many brave men in the citadel of bruyerre and they were awaking. but they came out of their quarters in sudden bewilderment, singly or in squads, and in the dim light they at first hardly knew friend from foe. scores were smitten in utter darkness by unseen hands, and everywhere were panic and confusion among the defenders. "on!" shouted giles monson. "my lord of wartmont, i lead thee to the chamber of de bruyerre!" they were at the head of a flight of stairs, and before them was a long passage lighted by hanging lamps. into the passage had rushed out--from the sleeping rooms on either side--a dozen swordsmen, and some of them had bucklers. well was it for richard then that guy the bow and the longwood foresters had believed it their duty to follow their own young captain, for otherwise he had been almost alone. from the archers whizzed shaft after shaft, and hardly did he cross swords with any knight before the frenchman's blade fell from his hand. one towering form in a long blue robe was behind the others. "who are ye, in heaven's name?" he had shouted. "st. denis, they are fiends!" "my lord raoul de bruyerre," fiercely responded giles monson, "'tis the vengeance of heaven upon thy false heart and thy cruelty. i am thy sheffield man, thou robber!" "yield thee, my lord of bruyerre!" shouted richard; but along the passage darted giles monson, bent on revenge. "thou art the traitor!" cried de bruyerre, and drawing his sword he sprang to strike down the advancing englishman. too eager to heed his own safety, giles monson leaped upon the french knight and struck fiercely with his long dagger. both weapons reached their marks. "thou villain, thou hast slain the knight!" cried richard. "he might have surrendered." but giles monson had fallen beneath the sword of his victim, and would never speak more. "stay not here!" richard commanded. "follow me! the keep is not half taken." it was but the truth, and yet the remaining fight was only to make all sure. one strong party of french soldiers was beaten because they rallied in the great hall and were helplessly penned in as soon as the massive doors were shut and braced on the outside. "rats in a trap!" said ben o' coventry, as he forced down a thick plank to hold a door. "we need not slay one of them." "i would i knew how it fareth with the prince," said richard. "light every lamp and beacon. i will go to the portal." prince edward and they who were with him were men certain to give a good account of themselves, but they had been none too many. the warders at the town-wall gate had been small hindrance. the moment the huge oaken wings swung back upon their hinges, up went the portcullis, out shot the bridge across the deep, black moat, and the blast of sir henry's horn was answered by the rapid thud of hoofs as the prince led on his men-at-arms. "straight for the middle square!" he shouted. "onward to the keep!" "it is ours if richard neville be still living," calmly returned the knight. "hark! the shouts--the uproar!" "sir thomas gifford," commanded the prince, "go to him. take ten men-at-arms. we must win the keep!" on then he led his gallant men along the street, but when they reached the central square the french also were pouring into it from all sides. save for their utter surprise they would have made a better fight, but at the first onset the english lances scattered their hasty array like chaff. horsemen they had almost none, and their knights who fought on foot were but half-armored. now also david griffith and his welshmen had arrived within the walls, and it seemed to the defenders of bruyerre that their foemen were a multitude. a band of mercenaries from alsace, three hundred strong, penned in a side street, surrendered without a blow at the first whizzing of the english arrows. sir thomas gifford was standing at the portal of the castle, and he saw a man in armor come hastily out into a light that shone beyond. "richard neville," he asked, "how is it with thee? art thou beaten?" "the keep is ours," called back richard; "but i have too many prisoners. there were six hundred men." "st. george for england!" cried the astonished knight. "thou hast done a noble deed of arms!" "but raoul de bruyerre is dead, and so is giles monson, he who guided us," continued richard. "how fareth the prince?" "go thou to him with thy good news," replied sir thomas. "i will take command here and finish thy work." "let us not remain with sir thomas," exclaimed the o'rourke, behind richard, "if there is to be more fighting." "nay, thou and thy kerns are garrison of the keep," said sir thomas. so the hot-headed irish chieftain had to bide behind stone walls to his great chagrin, while richard went out gladly, with but a small party, to hunt for the prince through the shadowy, tumultuous streets of the half-mad town of bruyerre. there were faces at window crevices, and there were men and women in half-opened doorways. richard continually announced to them, as had been the general order of the prince: "in! in! quarter to all who keep their houses, and death to all who come out!" brave as might be the burghers of bruyerre, not many of those who heard cared to rush out alone, to be speared or cut down. before this, nevertheless, enough had gathered at one point to feel some courage; and into this band richard was compelled to charge. with him were barely a dozen axemen and bowmen, yet he shouted in norman french, as if to some larger force behind: "onward, men of kent! forward quickly! bid the irish hasten! st. george for england! for the king!" the burghers had no captain, and they hardly knew their own number in the gloom. 'twas a hot rush of desperate men against those who were irresolute. the burghers broke and fled to their houses, and on went richard, having lost only a few of his small force. the garrison had rallied faster and faster, and now almost surrounded in the square were the prince and his knights. little they cared. indeed, sir henry of wakeham had said: "what do you advise, my lord prince? we might even cut our way back to the castle, if we were sure of it. if we have that, we have command of the town." "hold your own here," replied the prince; "i think they give way somewhat." just then a band of bowmen, who had cleared out a side street, came forth as richard went by. "with me!" he called to them. "let us join the prince. beware how ye send your shafts into yonder _mêlée_, lest ye harm a friend!" "hark!" exclaimed sir henry. "it is richard neville! they have beaten him. where can sir thomas be? i fear there is black tidings!" "fight on!" replied the prince. "at all events he bringeth us some help." closely aimed arrows, well-thrown spears, cleaving of sword and axe were help indeed; but better than all was the clear, ringing voice of richard, in english first, and then in norman french: "my lord the prince, we have the keep and castle! sir thomas gifford holdeth it. de bruyerre is killed. his men are dead or taken. bid these fools here surrender. they have naught for which to fight." "god and st. george for england!" roared sir henry of wakeham. "hail to thee, richard neville!" sang out the prince. "victory! the town is ours! bruyerre is taken!" all the frenchmen heard, as well as all the english. what was joy to one party was utter discouragement to the other. "surrender!" commanded the prince. "the fool who fighteth now hath his blood upon his own head!" spears were lowered, swords were sheathed, crossbows were dropped, brave men-at-arms gave their names to sir henry and his knights, and the peril in the great square was over. "well for us," coolly remarked sir henry. "the guards from the ramparts were arriving. my lord of cluse did not rightly number the garrison." nor had the english believed that so many townsmen could turn out so speedily. nevertheless, when arms were given up the frenchmen were no longer soldiers, and their numbers were of no more value. "richard neville, i will well commend thee to my father! i think he will give thee thy spurs." so spake the prince, with his hands on the shoulders of his friend, and looking into his face admiringly. "prince edward," broke out the heir of wartmont warmly, "i have done little. the taking of bruyerre is thine. it was all thy plan." "mine? nay," said the prince. "the best of it was prepared by raoul de bruyerre, when he held giles monson wickedly, that now an englishman might be ready to let us in. so did his evil deed come back to his ruin." "aye," said sir henry; "but the dawn is in the sky, and the troops must be stationed fast. we will not stay to sack the town; but there are stores to gather, and there are knights of high degree to put to ransom. we have work to do." so, quickly and wisely, went out the commands of the english captains, and the prize was made secure before the sun was an hour high. bitter enough was then the shame and wrath of knights and nobles of the garrison, as they learned by how small a force their great stronghold had been surprised and taken. it should have been held for a year, they said, against all the army of king edward. all that bright summer day the business of sending away the garrison and of securing the best plunder of bruyerre went industriously forward; but it was not in the hands of the black prince. hardly had he finished eating a good repast in the castle, after having had courteous speech with madame of bruyerre and her household, before he gave command: "sir robert clifton, i appoint thee to the care of this place until i send thee orders from the king. he is now twelve miles away, and i must give him a report of this affair. sir henry and gifford and neville will go with me." it was to horse and mount, then, while robert clifton cared for bruyerre. the sun was looking down upon the midday halting of king edward's own division of his army, when his son and his companions stood before him to tell him what they had done, and how. close and searching, as became a good general, were the questions of the king; but when all was done sir henry of wakeham spoke boldly: "sire, is it not to be said that thy son and richard neville have in this feat of arms well earned their spurs and chain of knighthood?" "truly!" came low but earnestly from richard's uncle, the earl of warwick. there was no smile upon the firm lips of the king, whatever his proud eyes might seem to say, and he replied: "not so, my good companion in arms. think of thine own battles, many and hard fought. it were not well to forward them too fast. neither my edward nor richard of wartmont shall wear spurs until they have stood the brunt of one great passage of arms. leave but a fair garrison in bruyerre, for none will trouble them. we will march on to seek the field where we may meet the host of philip of valois. word hath arrived that he is coming with all haste." forward, therefore, moved the forces of the king, and with them rode the two young companions in arms as simple squires; but the mighty field whereon they were to win their spurs was only a few days in the future. footnote: [a] the kern was a light-armed foot soldier, who usually carried a spear and knife. chapter ix. king edward at paris. great had been the turmoil, the separation of comrades and of detachments, at the taking of bruyerre. hardly had richard spoken twice to sir thomas holland or sir peter legh. now, however, that the army of the king was once more moving forward, there was chance for them to ride together. not until then, indeed, did it come clearly to richard's mind how highly men thought of him for the taking and holding of the keep. also, sir henry wakeham had praised him much for his conduct in the perilous scaling of the walls by giles monson's secret pathway. "i am well pleased," said sir peter, "that the order of march putteth thee and thy outlaws with sir thomas and me. so they take not us for deer and make targets of us, we are likely to render a good report to the king." "aye," added sir thomas dryly, "i knew not why even thy wild irish kerns and thy welsh savages took thee, more than another, for their chieftain, but i learned that they were like thy bowmen. every man of them hath had a price set upon his head, for his good deeds before he was pardoned into the army." "the king's deer will be safer after this campaign," said sir peter, "if, indeed, he is marching this army to meet the host of france. but that i trust him well, i would deem him safer on the other side of the seine." now any who knew the province of normandy and the parts that they were in, could see that the river seine ran at the left of their march. it was between them and any seeming road to the taking of calais. well up the stream, in the direction they were taking, was the good city of paris, with many strong forts, although it had no encircling wall. it lay open, with castles and fortified posts outside of its streets and palaces. at paris, even now, there was a strong force of french, said to be equal in numbers to the english army. more forces were fast marching thitherward, but still king edward was pushing on, as if he expected to capture the french capital by a swift dash and a surprise. this was therefore the meaning of sir peter legh, and it had been in the thoughts of many other men. "word hath come by many of the king's scouts," replied richard, "that every bridge over the seine hath been broken down by the french themselves, so that our army can by no means reach the other bank." "sir thomas holland," asked sir peter, "knowest thou what saith the king to that?" "nay," said sir thomas bluntly, "but i heard one geoffrey of harcourt, when a spy rode to him to tell that the last seine bridge was down." "what answered he?" asked sir peter. "'now all the saints be praised!' he said," responded sir peter. "'philip of valois doeth our business well. their bridges are gone, and they can throw no force across the river to annoy our flank or rear. we have but a holiday march, unmolested.'" richard listened, that he might gather a lesson of war; but he said to the knights: "i do but bethink me of what was said by one of my own men when he heard concerning the bridges. he is a carpenter from coventry." "what said he?" asked a deep voice behind them, as it were eagerly. then turned they all in their saddles, for there rode sir geoffrey of harcourt, and with him was the prince. "my lord marshal," said richard, "he did but laugh, and he laughed loudly. then he told his mates: 'ye are but fools, and the king is wise. give me our forest men and the two companies of kent and the london pikemen that are from the shipbuilding wards of london town. then, if so be the king wanteth a bridge he can have one. we will even shape it in the woods in the morn, and have it over the stream at sunset.'" "richard neville," said the marshal, "keep thou that saying to thyself, but search out thy man. bid him and his to pick their wood workers, man by man. we shall have tools in plenty. the men do know each other. i was even now troubled in mind concerning handicraftsmen." "no need, my lord marshal," reverently responded richard. "i did hear more, and i can bring thee men that have built bridges over bigger streams than these." "richard of wartmont," now broke in the prince, "ride thou with me a space. i would know more of thy men." then rode they silently until well apart from the others, and the prince said to his friend: "this concerning the bridges will please the king. he hath said to me, of the commons and of thy saxon kin, that now he hath a power that will grow fast, as he will help it grow. it hath not heretofore come to the hand of any king of england, and so some of them have been even too hardly dealt with by the great earls." "i and mine are the king's men," said richard, "and the king's only. but i learn many new things of war. it is more than hard fighting. but the king of france will have a great host." "oh that it were twice as great!" exclaimed the prince. "if my father can but gather it all, and as many more, at paris, he will surely take calais." richard could but laugh, and he replied: "far be it from me to read beforehand the counsel of so great a captain. i think that even when all is done, and he hath won his will, there will be those who will say that he never thought to do so." "it is so ever," said the prince, "and therefore all the more surely doth he win. but i think any man might read beforehand the plan of this campaign. only that none expected so much aid from philip in this matter of the bridges." there is both pleasure and profit to be had in discerning well the doings of the great, whereby battles are won or lost, and whereby thrones are builded or are overturned. richard thought within himself that day and other days: "i do grow older as we march, and men have often said that war is a great school for such as will be taught. there be those who learn not anything. i will not be one of them." on pressed the army, plundering as it went, and great spoil went back to england, but in its division the king cared for the lowly as well as for the great, and there was no murmuring or dissatisfaction among the men in the rants. again and again was the river seine approached by the detachments of the left wing. truly, every bridge had been broken with care, to prevent a crossing of the english. richard had also many talks with ben of coventry and with men who were brought by him. these also were presented, a dozen at a time, to sir geoffrey and the earl of warwick, for the two marshals were of one accord in this matter. no tools were dealt out, however, nor was any work set the workmen, until a day when the vanguard halted at a place called poissy. there was no french army here to meet them, and yet the city of paris itself was but a few miles farther on. it was a gay sight, the lances and the pennons that rode out with the van. next came the royal standard, and under it, in full armor and with his crowned helmet on, full knightly rode the king. "poissy!" he said. "their last bridge, and it shall be for me, although they have broken it down. where is that london shipwright? ha, man, look yonder! what sayest thou?" a short man, sturdy of build, was the shipwright, for he had already been brought. "my lord the king," he responded, "i did go on with the young neville and that man of his from coventry. the bridge is good enough. the french took off the planks and some timbers, but they forgot to burn." "where are the timbers?" asked the king. "little on this side the river, but much on the other," said the shipwright. "all that is lacking we can make from these trees." "time!" exclaimed the king. "i must have the bridge forthwith! to your axes!" "boats first," said the shipwright. "there be many on the far bank." "sire," interposed the earl of warwick, "i pray thee have patience. richard of wartmont hath sent word to me concerning boats. i shall hear again shortly." "see that he fail not," said the king hardly, for ever did his temper grow stern and unmerciful in such an hour as was this. the army had now been led to the very place where all the plan of the king was to be tested, for winning or for losing, and here, mayhap, might his life or his crown be cast away. barely an hour earlier, however, lower down the river side, richard neville and a party of his men had been scouting, by command of sir thomas holland. with him was the o'rourke, and it was the irish chief whose keen eyes were the first to discern an important prize. "richard of wartmont," he shouted, "seest thou? boats on the other shore! they are not even guarded." "i could not swim this water," replied richard. "can any of them?" "aye, were it thrice--ten times as wide," said the o'rourke. "i myself." "off with thy armor and axe!" cried richard. "call thy best swimmers. bring me those boats. guy the bow, send a good runner to sir thomas holland or sir peter legh. bid them, from me, to tell the earl or sir geoffrey i want a force to hold with on the other shore." before he had finished speaking, the irish chief and a dozen of his kerns were in the flood, swimming as if they had been so many water fowl; but each man's long skein dagger knife was in his belt, and in his left hand was a short spear, like those of the welsh. they would not land unarmed. "god speed them!" shouted richard. "at no place heretofore have we seen a boat that we might hope to obtain." 'twas a swiftly running river, and too wide for any but such swimmers as were these; but they made light of it. ere they could cross, their coming was seen by men on the other shore, but none who were armed met them as they came out of the water. surely it had been grave negligence of king philip's officers to leave there so many as four fishing boats, even if these were small. wild and shrill rang out the slogan of the irish, as they seized upon oars and paddles and prepared to launch their prizes. "they are out of arrow shot," said richard to those who were with him; "we could give them no aid." even as he spoke, the glint of spears might be seen above bushes at no great distance down the opposite bank. no doubt there were horsemen coming. the irish had been unwise to shout, but boat after boat was slipping into the stream. "haste! haste!" groaned richard, "they will be lost, and the boats with them!" a score of lances in rest--a score of galloping horses--loud shouts of angry men-at-arms--one moment of deadly peril--but then the brave kerns with the last of the boats were springing into it, and the french riders drew rein at the water's edge under a shower of javelins, only to know that they were too late. it was just then, moreover, that sir thomas holland, having listened eagerly to a longwood archer, was shouting loudly, "to horse, brave knights all! the neville hath found boats!" and orders followed to all foot soldiery within call. "they come," said richard, waiting his gallant kerns, "but yonder boats will hold only eight men each, well crowded. we can gain no landing against men-at-arms. yonder, above, is a steeper bank, where horsemen can not reach the brink--o'rourke, on! up stream!" it was not far to go, and the french lancers could do no more than follow as best they might, over rough ground and through dense undergrowth. they were even out of sight, by reason of the clifflike bank, when richard neville and some of his bowmen made the boats full almost to sinking, and were swiftly ferried over. "haste now, indeed!" he ordered, but not loudly, as he stepped ashore. "a few boat loads more and we can hold our own." whoever commanded the frenchmen believed his enemies to be going on up the river, for he and his appeared on the bank again a full half mile above. again and again had the wherries borne their english passengers, and now they were going back for sir thomas holland and the knights who dismounted with him. "is the neville mad?" he exclaimed. "he is forming his archery on the hill. look! 'tis not ill done. there come king philip's men-at-arms! heaven help him! we are too late!" "but the boy is not mad at all," replied sir peter legh. "the french horses go down. there are not enough of them." on the height, truly, had richard formed his threescore or more of kerns and bowmen, with others fast arriving, but it was behind a thick, low hedge of old thorn bushes, fit to break a rush of cavalry. here, therefore, was shattered the line of the french men-at-arms; and while they strove to force their horses through the thorns, they were good marks for the arrows of arden. their horses were but lost animals, and the good knights who rolled upon the ground surrendered rather than have irish spears driven between the bars of their helmets. so rapid, so deadly was this killing of horses that not one did get away. "i told thee!" said sir peter to sir thomas, in the boat that bore them. "we shall find that he hath done a brave deed this day." more loudly did they both aver that thing when they came to the scene of the skirmish. "knights of ransom!" exclaimed sir thomas. "did any escape?" "i know not," said richard, "but if more boats be at hand, above or below, they are to be sought for. may not these four ply here, while we march up the stream?" "no use to scout below," replied sir thomas. "we are now twenty men-at-arms, on foot, and near a hundred of thy kerns and bowmen. march! we may all die, but we may win the bridge head." on the other bank they could see the columns of earl warwick's men, sent hurriedly to re-enforce them, and shortly the o'rourke shouted, "another boat, and yet another twice larger, at the bank." "that may save us," said sir peter, "but i would we were more in number." so said the king himself, as he sat upon his palfrey and gazed across the seine, not long thereafter. the french had not left the bridge without a guard, even if they had broken it down. men of all arms were there, with many crossbowmen, and at first they had but laughed and derided what they supposed to be the utter disappointment of king edward. "sire," exclaimed sir geoffrey of harcourt, "the earl is right! yonder are richard of wartmont and his men." "too few! too few!" muttered the king. "he is over rash. he hath lost all." all had been lost, indeed, but for the swift plying of the larger boats and the manner of their packing with brave men. sir thomas holland had now been joined by gifford and wakeham and good swords not a few, and the archers had swarmed into all boats like bees; with them were their stings, moreover, and most of all, mayhap, they came upon the french at the bridge as a surprise. loudly were they jeering, and the crossbowmen were even hurling a few useless bolts that fell halfway, as if to show the king what error he had made. there were many unarmed also, that crowded closely, mocking at the english. not upon these, but upon spearmen and crossbowmen, there suddenly fell a flight of cloth-yard shafts, doing deadly work. in a moment the unarmed mob was tangled with the soldiery, and all these were in confusion. how many english were coming they knew not, for sir henry of wakeham had cunningly stretched out his line full widely, and it looked like a strong force. there were a few good french knights who set their spears in rest and charged rashly, to be unhorsed and taken, but the mixed mass behind them surged away from the bridge head. here, too, had been a fort, not strong, but good enough for an occasion, and it was not at all broken. "richard neville," had said sir peter, "follow me. if we can gain yonder tower and those palisades, the bridge is won." who would have deemed that a man in armor of proof could run so well! but sir peter was even shoulder to shoulder with guy the bow and richard when they rushed into the empty fortalice. "won!" shouted sir peter. "let in our own, but the french will rally; they will be back upon us quickly enough." sir henry and the rest had a sharp fight of many minutes ere they could break through, but now the place was garrisoned, and the boats could come in safety to the wharf below, behind the line of palisades. "sire," said sir geoffrey, "i will myself go over and care for the matter." "thou wilt not," replied the king. "i will not risk thy head in that cage until more men-at-arms may be with thee. there! 'tis sir henry of wakeham's own banner! i knew it not. the boy and his outlaws have gained our crossing. go, sir geoffrey, and take with thee the bridge-builders." it was well for him and them, nevertheless, that their headlong rashness had not cost them their lives, as it would have done, but for the promptness and power of their re-enforcements. "wakeham," said sir geoffrey, in the bridgehead fort, "i may hardly trust my eyes. here could philip have given us vast trouble, and now we have none. we will have a camp here quickly, with ten thousand men in it, lest we lose this advantage." there were boats enough now, and the forces on that bank were growing fast. they were pushing out, moreover, and they were skirmishing briskly with sundry parties of the enemy who seemed to be without a general. therein was the secret of this matter. philip of france had been taken unawares by the bold, swift dash of edward's army. its vanguard had reached poissy, mayhap, two days before the french captains had deemed it possible for it to get there. the night came and went, and it was the next midday when richard neville stood on the wharf, watching the london shipwrights ply their tools and swing the timbers into place. "a man who would move an army," he said aloud, "must needs learn how to build a bridge. i can row a boat, but i must swim better. those irish are as nimble as fishes in the water." a deep voice hailed him at the moment, and he quickly turned. "sir geoffrey!" he exclaimed. "this to the king," said the marshal, holding out a very small parcel, like a letter. "come thou not back, save by the king's command, till thou hast carried this also to the earl. take with thee only a boat load of thy men, but go not alone, for thy errand must not miscarry." so happened it, then, that only david griffith and a dozen welshmen went with him, whose tongue he spoke not; but on the other shore his boat was waited for by the earl of warwick and none other, by chance. "glad am i," said richard, giving him sir geoffrey's parcel, and the earl read hastily. "to the king!" he shouted. "i go with thee. the good knight reasons well. we must harry and burn to the paris streets, that we may know what power is there. he hath word that the allies and the levies of philip of france are very near to come." "the bridge buildeth fast," said richard. "ben of coventry saith that by the morrow there will be a footway for twain abreast." "aye," replied the earl, "but not for horses nor for wains. three days more for them." the english army was now holding both sides of the stream, and the quarters of the king were in the old chateau of poissy, not far from the bridge. small was his care for state, however, and plain was his ordering, as of a soldier in the field. none hindered the earl marshal, and the king's officer of the house, that day, was sir john of chandos, good knight and true. a greeting, a courteous reverence from sir john to the earl, a word or so of command, and richard was before the king in the audience hall of the chateau. cold, hard, and stern, like iron and like ice, was the face of his majesty, as he opened and read the letter from sir geoffrey. "neville," said he to richard, "hast thou spoken to any but the earl?" "not so, sire," said richard. "i did meet him at the river bank." "thou art young," said the king; "be prudent also, on thy head. tell no man, high or low, that philip hath already forty thousand men in paris. if thou shalt betray that matter, thou diest." "he useth not his tongue overmuch," said the earl, for the king's word pleased him not. "but he hath somewhat more to say." "let him say on," growled the king, for it was shown that he was sore wroth ere they came. "if it please the king," said richard boldly, "a peasant whom i saw not fled from the city and had speech with some of the welshmen. he was of brittany, and their language was like to their understanding of each other. he saith not forty thousand, but less than half, only that they are mostly men-at-arms, with few horses to ride upon. there be many foot soldiers from brittany. i would go around the city in one night, if david griffith and another might go with me. do not i speak french as do those i am to meet?" "wilt thou let him go, warwick?" said the king. "it were death if he were taken." "richard, go thou!" said the earl. "if any question thee, tell that thou art richard de la saye, for i now give thee that estate of mine in brittany. thou wilt not speak falsely.--sire, hath he not earned la saye?" "verily, if he keep his head and bring back true tidings, he will have earned a manor or so," said the king less hardly. "i were in better mood with better news, but i have word from york. the archbishop is calling out all forces, for the scottish clans are mustering and their host will march for the border forthwith. moreover, our barons are sluggards, and our own re-enforcements do not come. we must even beat the french with what we have. not a man more than we landed with at la hague." "i will retire, then," said the earl. "i will send richard speedily." out they did go, but sir john of chandos shook his head and looked ruefully at richard. "heed him not!" said the earl. "keep thy heart strong. make thou the circuit of paris and come again. it will be the easier because i shall this night attack with a strong force the suburb and castle of st. germain, near the city." many other things he said, but richard sent for david griffith, and they talked long together. two more of griffith's clansmen were called in, and both agreed with no murmuring. on foot, clad in full armor, with his helmet closed, armed with but sword and dagger, attended only by the three welshmen, as if they were armed serving men, did richard at the gloaming walk slowly along the st. germain road. by another way, he knew, the earl marshal was at that hour pushing forward his force, but the sound of the combat had not yet begun. "we shall soon reach an outpost of the foe," he was thinking, when in a shadowed hollow beyond him he heard one speak in french: "who cometh, in the king's name?" "normandy, with a countersign." "advance, normandy, with the sign." "for philip the king, guienne!" "and all is well, guienne," replied the sentry. there was a slight clank of armor, for the french outpost was but changing sentries, and the officer rode away. "now we know sign and countersign," said richard, and he carefully instructed his companions. hardly had he done so before a glare of red light, not far to the right, told of hayricks set on fire by warwick's men. there came sounds of trumpets also, and of shouting, for the attack had begun. "forward, now," said richard; "we are safe, if once within their lines." loud and angry was the summons of the french vidette, startled sorely. "de la saye, normandy, with a countersign," responded richard. "advance, de la saye and normandy, with a sign," replied the sentry. "to philip the king, guienne," said richard, "and i bid thee save thy neck. the english are charging in." "the count d'ivry," began the sentry. "cease thy chatter!" exclaimed richard. "go tell the count, from de la saye, that earl warwick is upon him. bid him, from me, to send word speedily to the king, lest he lose his head." "aye, sieur de la saye," spoke yet another voice from one who sat upon a horse in the road. "thou hast scouted far and well. i am the count de la torre, of provence. i will report well of thee to the king. our other scouts are worthless. what force sawest thou with the earl?" "a thousand men-at-arms, about three thousand foot, in the advance. what more behind them knoweth no man. but there surely is no need to lose st. germain this night." fiercely loud were the sayings of the count concerning the carelessness and bad management of the french captains. they had lost the bridge of poissy. they were keeping but poor guard elsewhere. now, but for this sieur de la saye, of brittany, naught would have been known of warwick's dash upon the city. therefore forward marched richard and his welshmen, and for a distance de la torre rode beside them, questioning right soldierly concerning all that they had seen. but he spoke not, he said, the tongue of the peasants of brittany. "were we all born in paris," said david, after the count left him, "we could hardly be safer than we now are. but our peril will come in getting out." "great will it be," said richard, "if we escape not before they change the countersign. we will walk fast and work while we may." there were many camps to look upon, by their camp fires, and not too nearly. richard himself had speech of even knights and men-at-arms, all of them disturbed in mind by the sudden advance of earl warwick. each in turn, as it were, upbraided the slow arriving of king philip's allies and levies, and especially of certain large bodies of mercenaries from the low countries and from italy. the welshmen found no troops from brittany until near the dawn, and then it was but at an outpost. sleepy and dull were the half score of pikemen who were rudely aroused to hear the sieur de la saye scolding their brigadier for carelessness, and compelling him to repeat the countersign more correctly. griffith and his two men spake, and then they were silent, suddenly. "on, my lord of wartmont!" whispered david hoarsely. "on, for thy head! some of these men came from within two leagues of la saye. one cometh to the brigadier." a few quick paces and they were beyond the camp firelight. it was a place of trees and bushes. sharp voices heard they contending and inquiring. "some one else hath come," said richard. "the officer of the guard, with horsemen. into the forest! haste!" down dropped they behind cover, but men-at-arms went charging down the road, for one of the peasant pikemen had told to the brigadier, and then to a knight: "the château la saye is a heritage of the english earl warwick, and it hath no french owner." "go! a spy!" roared the knight. "we will teach him a lesson!" a youth brought up near longwood and three welshmen from the hills were not men easily to be found in a forest; surely not by heavily armed french cavalry. it was high noon, nevertheless, when richard marched wearily into an encampment over which floated the flag of sir thomas gifford. free was his welcome; but when he stood before his good friend the knight he did but put a finger to his lips, and say: "sir thomas, the king, and him only!" "speak thou no other word!" exclaimed sir thomas. "come with me speedily. the earl told me of thy going. glad am i to see thee again alive." no other was allowed to question them as they went; but sir geoffrey of harcourt, and not earl warwick, was with king edward when his young spy of paris stood before him. "speak thou slowly and with care," he said, and richard told his tale. "three days, and philip's main host will be within striking distance?" murmured the king at last. "chandos, go thou to warwick and bid him smite fast and hard, burning tower and hamlet. harcourt, move every man and horse across the bridge as fast as it will bear them. our five days here will be enough for rest. on the sixth we must be a full day's march in advance of this huge mob of french, germans, bohemians, italians, and what not. now, my lords and gentlemen, for a great battlefield and for the taking of calais. our barons of the north counties must deal with david of scotland and his overtreacherous raid." out went all orders speedily, but the prince, with half the army, was already on the farther bank of the seine. richard's men were there also, and he was sent to join them; but bitter and destructive was the work done by the earl marshal in the outskirts of paris, while the bridge was finishing, and while the army moved on, out of camp after camp. even as the king had commanded, the sixth day found his rear guard half a day's march beyond poissy, seemingly in hot retreat. philip of france had been as busy as had been his english rival, and his vast host was also moving. but it was not well in hand, nevertheless, for after that, from camp to camp, from river to river, day after day, the perfectly trained forces of edward kept just beyond his reach, as if they were enticing him to follow. there was many a sharp skirmish, and the french captains believed that their foe had often but narrowly escaped. 'twas the king's plan, nor did he at any time hasten his march, and at last he said to his two marshals, mockingly: "philip hath me now, indeed, between his host and this river somme and the sea. but i think the men and the beasts are not overwearied, and we have left but a desert behind us. yet three days now, and we may need to retreat no more." chapter x. the great day of crécy. "'tis yet an hour before the tide will be out, but i believe that horsemen might cross now." the speaker was a clownish-looking man wearing the wooden shoes and coarse blouse of a french peasant. he stood at the stirrup of a knight in black armor, whose questions he was answering. "sir henry of wakeham," the prince said, "send in thy men-at-arms. post thy archers on the bank, right and left. we shall soon see if godemar du fay can bar the somme against us." "the archers are already posted," replied sir henry; "neville and his warwickshire men hold the right. the men of suffolk and kent are on the left." "forward, in the king's name!" commanded the young general, for his royal father had given him charge of the advance. it was a critical moment, for if the ford of blanche taque should not be forced, the entire english army would be hemmed in between the river somme and the hosts of france. it was but little after sunrise, and edward had sent orders to all his captains to move forward. the river somme was wider here than in its deeper channels above and below. the opposite bank was held by a force that was evidently strong, but its numbers were of less account at the outset. only a few from either side could contend for the passage of blanche taque. therefore these were the chosen knights of all england who now rode into the water, finding it nearly up to their horse girths. forward from the other shore rode in the men-at-arms of godemar du fay to hold the ford for philip of valois. "now is our time!" shouted richard to his archers. "guy the bow, let every archer draw his arrow to the head!" ill fared it then for the french riders when among them, aimed at horses rather than at men, flew the fatal messengers of the marksmen from the forest of arden. lances were fiercely thrust, maces and swords rang heavily upon helm and shield; but soon the french column fell into confusion. its front rank failed of support and was driven steadily back. it was almost as if the english champions went on without pausing; and in a few minutes they were pushing forward and widening their front upon the land. blanche taque was taken, for of godemar du fay's twelve thousand, only a thousand were men-at-arms. when the regular ranks of these were broken, his ill-disciplined infantry took to flight and the battle was over. all the while the tide was running out. "stand fast, o'rourke!" called richard to the impatient irish chieftain, who was striding angrily back and forth in front of his line of axemen. "ay, but, my lord of wartmont," returned the o'rourke, "there is fighting, and we are not in the battle. hark!" "neville, advance! thou and all thine to the front, seeking wakeham. in the king's name, forward!" a knight in bright armor had drawn rein at a little distance, and he pointed toward the ford as he spoke. it was crowded still by sir thomas gifford's men-at-arms, but the battle on the other shore had drifted far away. "forward, o'rourke!" shouted richard. "forward, guy the bow! forward, david griffith! good fortune is with us. we are to be under the prince's own command." loud cheers replied, and with much laughter and full of courage richard's force waded into the shallow somme. it was easy crossing now for all, with none to hinder. then, as the last flags of the english rearguard fluttered upon the left bank of the somme, good eyes might have discovered on the horizon the banners of the foremost horsemen of king philip. he had marched fast and far that morning, and once more the english army seemed barely to have escaped him. "a cunning hunter is our good lord the king," remarked ben o' coventry to his fellows as they pushed on. "thou art ever malapert," said guy the bow. "what knowest thou of the thoughts of thy betters?" "he who runs may read," said ben. "can a frenchman live without eating?" "i trow not," responded guy. "what is thy riddle?" "did we not waste the land as we came?" said ben. "hath not philip these three days marched through the waste? i tell thee that when he is over the somme he must fight or starve. well for us, and thanks to the king, that we are to meet a host that is both footsore and half famished. i can put down a hungry man any day." deep indeed had been the wisdom of the king, and his army encamped that thursday night, without fear of an attack, and the next morning they again went on. edward himself rode forward in the advance, after the noontide of friday, and during the whole march he seemed to be searching the land with his eyes. "sir john of chandos," he exclaimed at last, "see yon windmill on the hill. this is the place i sought. ride thou with me." the hill was not very high, and its sides sloped away gently. the king dismounted at the door of the mill and gazed in all directions. "they will come from the west," he said, "with the sun in their eyes. yon is our battlefield. here we will bide their onset. chandos, knowest thou that i am to fight philip of valois on mine own land?" "the village over there is called crécy," replied sir john. "truly, the crown of france is thine, rather than philip's!" "ay, so," said edward, "whether or no he can keep it from me; but this broad vale and the village and the chateaux are my inheritance from my grandmother. seest thou that ditch to the right, with its fellow on the left? i trust they have good depth. 'tis a field prepared!" after that he rode slowly, with his son and a gallant company, throughout the camps, talking kindly and familiarly with high and low alike, and bidding all to trust god and be sure of victory. brave men were they, and well did they love their king, but it was good for their courage that they should see his face and hear his voice, and assure their hearts that they had a great captain for their commander. in number they were about as many as had sailed at the first from england, small losses by the way, and the absence of those left as garrisons of strongholds captured in normandy, having been made good by later arrivals. this first duty done, the king went to his quarters in the neighboring castle of la broye, and here he gave a grand entertainment to all his captains and gentlemen of note. there was much music at the royal feast, and every man was inspired to do his best on the morrow. all the instruments sounded together loudly, at the close, when the warriors, who were so soon to fight to the death, arose to their feet and stood then in silence, while the king and the prince turned away and walked out of the hall together, no man following. "whither go they?" whispered the earl of hereford to sir john chandos. "as it doth well become our king at this hour," replied sir john. "they go to the chapel of la broye to pray for victory. 'twill do our men no harm to be told that the king and the prince are on their knees." "verily, my men shall know," said richard neville to sir thomas gifford. all of edward's army, save the watchers and sentries, slept soundly that night. it was wonderful how little uncertainty they had about the result of the battle. the morning came, but there were clouds in the sky and the air was sultry. it was saturday, the 26th of august, 1346. edward the king posted himself at the windmill. on the slope and below it were a third of his men-at-arms and a strong body of footmen. this was the reserve. in front thereof, the remainder of the army was placed in the form of a great harrow, with its point--a blunt one enough--toward the hill, and its beams marked by the ditch lines. the right beam of this english harrow was commanded by the black prince in person, and with him were the earls of warwick and hereford, geoffrey of harcourt, and sir john chandos, with many another famous knight. their force was less than a thousand men-at-arms, with many irish and welsh, but they were especially strong in bowmen, for the king retained few archers with him. but little less was the strength of the left beam of the harrow, commanded by the earls of northampton and arundel. "fortune hath favored us!" exclaimed one of the men-at-arms to his young commander; "we are well placed here at the right. we shall be among the first to face the french!" "here cometh the prince," responded richard, "with his red dragon banner of wales. the royal standard is with the king at the mill." reviewing the lines with care, and giving many orders as he came, the prince rode up, clad in his plain black armor and wearing the helmet of a simple esquire. "richard neville," he said, as he drew near, "see that thou dost thy devoir this day." richard's head bowed low as the prince wheeled away. as he again sat erect upon his war horse a voice near him muttered: "ho! seest thou? the french are coming!" richard looked, and in the distance he could see a glittering and a flag, but after a long gaze he replied: "it is too soon. those are but a band of skirmishers." so it proved; and the long, hot hours went slowly by. at length the king ordered that every man should be supplied with food and drink, that they might not fight fasting. darker grew the clouds until they hung low over all the sky. blue flashes of lightning were followed by deafening thunder peals, and then there fell a deluge of warm rain. the english archers were posted in the front ranks along the harrow beams, but the rain harmed not their bows. every bowstring was as yet in its case, with its hard spun silk securely dry. "hearken well, all," said richard, addressing his men. "the prince ordereth that there shall be no shouting. fight with shut lips, and send forth no shaft without a sure mark." "we are to bite, and not to bark," said ben o' coventry in a low voice. then he added aloud: "yon marshy level is better for the rain. a horse might sink to his pasterns." "the ditch runneth full," said richard. "the king chose his battle ground wisely." "we are put behind the archery now," said david griffith to his welshmen. "so are the irish; but our time to fight will come soon enough." most of the men-at-arms belonging to each beam of the harrow were drawn up at the inner end, ready to mount and ride, but wasting no effort now of horse or man. "the very rain hath fought for england," remarked the prince to his knights, as at the front they wheeled for their return. "there will be hard marching for the host of philip of valois." "they must come through deep mud and tangled country, my lord the prince," replied the earl of warwick. "his huge rabble of horse and foot will be sore crowded and well wearied." moreover, there was much free speech among the knights concerning the difference between the opposing armies as to their training and discipline. king philip willed to begin the fight with an advance of his genoese crossbowmen, fifteen thousand strong. it was bolts against arrows. the genoese might have done better on another day, for their fame was great; but at this hour they were at the end of a forced march of six leagues, each man carrying his cumbrous weapon with its sheaf of bolts. this had weakened their muscles and diminished their ardor; besides, the sudden rain had soaked their bowstrings. the cords stretched when the strain of the winding winch was put upon them, and had lost their spring, so that they would not throw with good force. their captains nevertheless drove them forward, at the french king's command. from his post at the mill foot the royal general of england surveyed the field. "the day waneth," he said to his earls, "but the waiting is over. the sun is low and sendeth the stronger glare into their eyes. mark you how closely packed is that hedge of men-at-arms and lances behind the genoese? philip is mad!" on pushed the crossbowmen, until they were well within the beams of the broad harrow, but there they halted, to do somewhat with their bolts, if they could; and they sent up a great shout. no answer came, for the english archers stood silent, holding each a cloth-yard arrow ready for the string. small harm was done by the feebly shot crossbow bolts, and the genoese were ordered to go nearer. they made a threatening rush indeed; but then of their own accord they halted again and shouted, thinking perhaps to terrify the english army. steady as statues stood the archers until the earl of hereford, at a word from the prince, rode out to where he could be seen by all and waved his truncheon. up came the bows along the serried lines, while each man chose his mark as if he were shooting for a prize upon a holiday in merry england. those of the enemy who escaped to tell the tale said afterward that then it seemed as if it snowed arrows, so swiftly twanged the strings and sped the white shafts. with yells of terror the stricken genoese broke and fled; for by reason of edward's order of battle they were in a cross fire from the two beams of the harrow, and few shots failed of a target among them. some of them even cut the damp strings of their useless crossbows as they went, lest they should be bidden to turn and fight again. they were now, however, only a pell-mell mob, and it was impossible to command them. behind the advance of the genoese had been the splendid array of king philip's men-at-arms--a forest of lances. in a fair field, and handled well, they were numerous enough to ride down the entire force of king edward. against such an attack the english king had cunningly provided. at no great distance in the rear of his knights rode philip himself, with kings and princes for his company; and fierce was his wrath over the unexpected discomfiture of his luckless cross-bowmen. "slay me these cowardly scoundrels!" he shouted to his knights. "charge through them, smiting as ye go!" forward rode the thousands of the chivalry of france and germany and bohemia, every mailed warrior among them being full of contempt for the thin barrier of english foot soldiers. all they now needed, it seemed to them, was to disentangle their panoplied war horses from that crowd of panic-stricken genoese. it would also be well if they could pass the wet ground and avoid plunging against one another in the hurly burly. but now was to be noted another proof of the wise forethought of the english king. he had had prepared, and the prince had placed at short intervals along the battle line, a number of the new machines called "bombards." these were short, hollow tubes, made either of thick oaken staves, bound together with strong straps of iron, or (as was said of some of them) the staves themselves were bars of iron. before this day, none knew exactly when, there had been discovered by the alchemists a curious compound that, packed into the bombards, would explode with force when touched by fire, and hurl an iron ball to a great distance. it would hurt whatever thing it might alight upon; but the king's thought was rather that the loud explosions and the flying missiles might affright the mettled horses of the french men-at-arms. soon the air was full of the roaring of these bombards, and they served somewhat the king's purpose. but so little was then thought of this use of gunpowder at crécy that some who chronicled the battle, not having been there to see and hear, failed even to mention it. [illustration: soon the air was full of the roaring.] the fine array of the gallant knights was now confused indeed. they vainly sought to restore their broken order. not only the manner of the flight of the genoese, and the greater force and longer line of the right beam of the english harrow invited them to urge their steeds in that direction, but there also floated the red dragon banner of the prince of wales. well did each good knight know that there was beating the heart of the great battle. worse than the noisy wrath of bombards came now at the command of the prince. to right and left, plying their bows as they went, wheeled orderly sections of the archery lines, that through those gaps might pass the fierce rush of the wild welshmen. they were ordered forward, not to contend with knights in armor of proof, but to slay the horses with their javelins. terrible was the work they did, darting lightly to and fro; and it was pitiful to see so many gallant knights rolled helplessly upon the ground, encumbered by their armor. nevertheless, many kept their saddles, and broke through the welsh to find themselves forced to draw rein in front of the deep ditches that guarded the archery, who were ever plying their deadly bows. "down lances!" shouted the black prince to his men-at-arms, at the head of the harrow. "for england! for the king! st. george! charge!" more than two thousand mailed horsemen, of england's best, struck their spurs deep as the royal trumpet sounded. riders and horses were fresh and unwearied. there was the thunder of many hoofs, a crash of splintering lances, and they were hand-to-hand with king philip's disordered chivalry. well for him and his if he had then sounded a recall, so that his shattered forces might be rearranged; but instead, he poured forward his reserves, thereby increasing the pressure and the tumult, while the english archers ever plied their bows with deadly effect. it was then that the blind king of bohemia, the ally of philip in this war, was told how the day was going. at his side rode several of his nobles, and he said to them: "i pray and beseech you that you lead me so far into the fight that i may strike one blow with this sword of mine." he had been accounted a knight of worth in his youth, and the spirit of battle was yet strong upon him, neither did there yet seem to be good reason why his request should not be granted. therefore his friends on either hand fastened the bridle bits of their horses on a line with his own, and they rode bravely forward together. right hard was the strife that now went on, especially between the beams of the harrow and toward the right. in the midst of it floated the red dragon flag, and here the prince and his companions in arms were contending against the greater numbers of their assailants. here was the center toward which all were pressing, and here, it was seen, the fate of the battle was to be decided. for this very reason the pressure was less upon the left beam of the harrow, and its captains could the better observe the marvelous passage at arms around the prince. "sir thomas norwich," spoke the earl of northampton, "we must all go forward and do our best. ride thou to the king, and crave of him that he send help with speed. we fear it is full time for the reserves to move, if it be not even now too late." then the earl of arundel and other knights lowered their lances, and setting spurs to their horses charged into the thickest press. away spurred the knight of norwich, and ere many minutes had elapsed he gave the message to the king at the foot of the windmill; for there had the king been standing all the while watching the course of the battle with better perception than could be had by any of those who were in it. he could therefore discern in what manner philip of valois was defeating himself, crushing his own forces. "is my son dead, or unhorsed, or so wounded that he can not help himself?" he calmly inquired of the messenger. "no, sire," responded norwich; "but he is in a hard passage at arms, and sorely needeth your help." "return thou, sir thomas, to those who sent thee," said the king, "and bid them not to send to me so long as my son liveth. let the boy win his spurs; for, if god so order it, i will that the day may be his, and that the honor may be with him and with them to whom i gave it in charge." no more could the good knight say, and back he rode without company. there were those who thought it hard of the king, but better it was that he should hold his reserves for utter need. nevertheless, the aspect seemed to be growing darker to the true english hearts that were fighting in the press. they saw not, as the king did, that, owing to his cunning plan of battle, more in number of the english than of the enemy were at any instant actually smiting, save at the center, around the prince himself. dark as was the seeming, the heart of none was failing. "to the prince! to the prince!" shouted richard neville, as the space in front of him was cleared somewhat of foemen. "follow me!" forward he went, and loudly rang out behind him the battle shouts of his men. they were fewer than at the beginning, but boldly and loyally they had closed up shoulder to shoulder. richard's horse was slain under him by a thrust from a german pike; but the rider was lifted to his feet in time to meet the rush of the king of bohemia and his friends. their horses were sadly hampered by that hitching together of bridles, and were rearing, plunging, unmanageable. more than one blow had the old, blind hero given that day, as he had willed. none knew now by whose arrows his horse and those of his comrades went down, but after they were unhorsed the wild tide of the battle passed over them, for none of them rose again. "to the prince!" shouted richard fiercely. "i saw his crest go down!" the arrows and darts flew fast as the young hero of wartmont fought his way in amid the crash of swords and lances. "now, heaven be praised!" he cried out, "i see the prince! he liveth!" he said no more, for before him stood a tall knight with a golden wing upon his helmet, and wielding a battle-axe. clang, clang, followed blow on blow between those twain. it had been harder for richard but that his foe was wearied with the heat and the long combat. well and valorously did each hold his own, but a blow from another blade fell upon richard's bosom, cleaving his breastplate. then, even as he sank, across him strode what seemed some giant, and a wild cry in the irish tongue went up as the o'rourke poleaxe fell upon the shoulder of the knight of the golden wing. "on!" shouted the furious chief. "on, men of the fens! forward, connaught and ulster! vengeance for our young lord! down with the french!" hundreds of strong irish had followed their leader, and timely indeed was their coming, for the sun was sinking, and need was to win the victory speedily. "alas!" said guy the bow, as he bent over richard. "i pray thee, tell me, art thou deadly hurt, my lord?" "lift me!" gasped richard. "put me upon my feet. i would fight on and fall with the prince." quickly they lifted him, but he staggered faintly and leaned upon guy the bow. "i fear he is sore hurt," muttered guy. but at that moment there arose a great shouting. it began among the reserves who were with the king on the slope of the hill. "they fly! the foe are breaking! the day is ours! the field is won! god and st. george for england, and for the king!" it was true, for the army of the king of france could bear no more. all things were against them. they could neither fight in ranks nor flee from the cloth-yard shafts. the prince came near the group around richard, and, pausing from giving swift orders to his knights, he stepped forward. "'tis richard of wartmont!" he exclaimed. "is he dying?" straight up stood richard, raising his visor. he was ghastly pale, but his voice had partly come back to him. "i think not, prince edward," he faltered. "but i thank heaven that thou art safe!" "courage!" said the prince. "the field is ours, and thou hast won honor this day. bear him with me to the king." here and there brave fragments of what had been the mighty host of france held out and still fought on; but they were not enough. all others sought to save themselves as best they might from the pitiless following of the english. those in the rear who fled at once were safe enough, and the sunset and the evening shadows were good friends to many more of the french. most fortunate were such horsemen as had not been able to get into the harrow, for only about twelve hundred knights were slain. with them, however, fell eleven princes and the king of bohemia, and thirty thousand footmen. the king of france himself was a fugitive that night, seeking where he might hide his head. from his place on the hill king edward of england watched the closing of the great day of crécy, and now before him stood a strange array. shorn plumes, cloven crests or none, battered and bloody armor, broken swords, shivered lances, battle-worn faces, lighted somewhat by pride of victory, were arrayed before him. all were on foot, and each man bowed the knee. few, but weighty and noble with thanks and honor, were the words of the king. more he would say, he told them, when he should better know each man's meed of praise. at length the black prince came forward, and he knelt before his father, to rise a knight, for he had won his spurs. "richard of wartmont!" cheerily spoke the king. "come thou!" "sore wounded, sire," said sir henry of wakeham; "but i will aid." "not so," exclaimed the prince. "i will bring him myself." when richard was brought before king edward, he heard but faintly the words that made him a knight: "arise, sir richard of wartmont!" [illustration: "arise, sir richard of wartmont!"] all strength and life that were yet in richard had helped him to lean upon the prince's arm, to kneel, to rise again, and to hear, almost without hearing, the good words of the king. then he stepped backward, and guy the bow put an arm around him and said lovingly: "sir richard of wartmont, proud will thy lady mother be! i trow the war is over. when thy wounds are well healed we will take thee home to her." long after the sun went down strong detachments of king edward's army were busily at work gathering in the fruits of the victory. not that there was any effort to take prisoners of the common men, but that many knights who could pay good ransom lay upon the field sore wounded or encumbered with their armor. moreover, there was great spoil of arms, and of other matters of war and peace. heavily slumbered richard neville, and a careless watcher might have thought him dead; but those who were with him watched lovingly, listening for every breath, and moving him with care at times. "he waketh!" whispered guy the bow, as the light began to come in through the high window of the room in the château la broye. "the leech will soon be here." even as he spoke there entered a small, slight man in the black dress of the king's physicians. no word he spoke, but he bent low over the sword mark upon richard's ribs, removing its cover. "is this all?" he asked of guy. "save bruises," said guy, "no other hurt have we found." "the youth will do well," replied the leech. "he fell rather from heat and exhaustion of the long fray than from this blow. not a rib is cut through." he gave simple directions only, and he passed out, but he heard from ben of coventry: "that man hath good sense. my lady of wartmont will not lose her son." "but the leech did it not," said guy. "more was done by the thickness of yonder cloven breastplate. he will need long rest." so did the army, but the king gave it no more than was needful. before the close of that day all knew that the king of france himself had been taken, and that the war had no more great battles in it. all news was brought to richard by his friends, for among them came earl warwick and sir geoffrey and the earl of arundel, and many another whose coming was high honor to the young knight of wartmont. only the third day thence, and richard stood almost firmly upon his feet, for sir john chandos entered the room. "the king," he said, "and with him is the prince." in a moment more it was to richard as if he had gained sudden strength, for before him stood the two royal warriors. "nay, man, sit thee down!" commanded the king; but the black prince stepped forward and grasped his hand. "i heard thee, richard neville," he said most graciously--"i heard thee in the fray, when thou didst bid thy men fight on and die with thee and me. i will trust thee!" the king had looked kindly into richard's face, and now he spoke again: "neville of wartmont, whether or not thou goest to the seashore in a litter, thou wilt set out to-morrow. haste is not needed so much as a trusty messenger. thy packet will be ready for thee, and thou wilt also have in thy mind unwritten words for the archbishop of york. rest thou to-night. the prince will come to thee, not i; so will the earl." not long were ever the speeches of the king, but sir john chandos now came in again, for he had left them, and with him he brought a sword with a silver hilt and cross. "this is for thee, richard neville," said the prince, "for thine own was broken. wear it bravely thou wilt. it was found among the baggage of the king of france, and they say it hath been carried by more than one crowned head. it is my token of good will, and the king's." richard knelt low to take the sheathed blade, but as he arose they departed. a little later it was as if all the archers of longwood felt that the royal sword had been given to them, so proud were they of their young knight and captain. full a hundred of them, moreover, were permitted to return by ship with richard. much spoil went with them, and more had gone before them, and each man went with a promise and a command to return with many men like himself to aid the king before the walls of calais. not in a litter would richard travel the next day, after long converse with the prince, but upon an ambling palfrey whose paces pained him not. it was a small seaport to which the prince's order sent him. even three long days were wasted before the arrival of the craft that was to bear richard and his men across the channel. rough, not smooth, was their passage to portsmouth, but the sea was clear of all foemen. it was well on in september, therefore, when a column of bowmen, with richard at their head, rode through the gate of warwick town. the tidings of crécy had reached the whole land much earlier, but the people poured out of all the houses to see the first returning of the men who had won the great day. richard now rode a good horse and wore his armor, with the crested helmet of a knight, with a gold chain and spurs, and he was girded with the king's gift sword. there was great shouting, and the mayor met him, bidding him to a feast at the town hall, where many knights and gentlemen and rich burghers were to welcome him, and to hear whatever he could tell of the war in france. this, too, he well knew, was of the will of the king, to stir the loyalty of his lieges at home and to content them concerning the taxes he yet must levy. but on rode richard to the castle gateway, and therein were many noble women. "i see her!" he thought. "is she not beautiful in her long white robe and with the pearls in her white hair?" down sprang the young knight, as if he had had never a wound, but ere his feet were on the earth his mother's arms were around him. "i have thee again!" she exclaimed. "thou art like thy father, o my son!" she was silent then, and her eyes were closed, but her lips moved a little. if it were a prayer of thanks, its words were heard only by him who is above. the countess of warwick came next, and many that were nevilles or beauchamps, or of kindred houses, and they led him on into the castle. "mother," he said, "it is almost like a dream!" "thou wilt rest thee here," she said, after he told under what duty he was bound. "i can not let thee go at once." "the king bade me make no haste," he replied, "but rather to be his newsman to all who would inquire of the army and of its deeds. so shall there be better content." it was a grand feasting at the town hall. the archers from crécy field were feasted by themselves ere they set out for home, and many a stout bowman who saw how well they were and heard their tales, was eager to march with them whenever the king again might send to bid them muster. of necessity the resting at warwick was but brief, and then sir richard neville and a party of men-at-arms rode northward. not in haste, like his first journey, was this he was making now. hard was it to pass by or to get away from any tower or town to which he came; but everywhere he did the errand upon which the king had sent him, and everywhere were all men readier than before in their loyalty and their service of the crown, whether they were barons or commons. even more than to the king was the praise they were willing to give the prince. once again, as he drew near, did richard wonder at the spire of york cathedral, and once more was he led on into the audience hall, and then into the oratory of the archbishop, that he might deliver privately the letters and the messages of the king. pale somewhat was the face of the good prelate, but very calmly he read and he listened. "my son," he said at last, "all is well. we will give god praise for the good news from france, but thou knowest that the scottish host is in england?" "i have heard much," said richard. "then know also that ere this they are face to face with our own lines. a battle as great as that of crécy----" loud shouts were heard in the street without, and then in the great hall. "my son!" exclaimed the archbishop, listening with lifted hand. open swung the door, and a barefooted friar rushed in. "my lord archbishop! a knight from the battle! the scottish host is defeated----" but close behind him strode a man in armor, covered with dust, unhelmeted, and marked by a fresh sword cut on his face. "i waited not, my lord archbishop," he said. "king david of scotland is a prisoner! his army is routed! he hath lost his crown!--what, richard, art thou here?" "praise be to heaven, sir robert johnstone!" responded the archbishop. "he cometh from the king's victory at crécy----" "knighted!" exclaimed sir robert. "then i will tell thee, sir richard neville of wartmont, this victory of our english bowmen over the clans and the men-at-arms of scotland hath been won at the field of neville's cross. all the king's counsel hath prevailed, and his realm is safe!" annie o' the banks o' dee by gordon stables illustrations by none published by f.v. white & co, 14 bedford street, strand, london wc. this edition dated 1899. annie o' the banks o' dee, by gordon stables. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ annie o' the banks o' dee, by gordon stables. chapter one. at bilberry hall. "it may not be, it cannot be that such a gem was meant for me; but oh! if it had been my lot, a palace, not a highland cot, that bonnie, simple gem had thrown bright lustre o'er a jewelled crown; for oh! the sweetest lass to me is annie--annie o' the banks o' dee?" old song. far up the romantic dee, and almost hidden by the dark waving green of spruce trees and firs, stands the old mansion-house of bilberry hall. better, perhaps, had it still been called a castle, as undoubtedly it had been in the brave days of old. the many-gabled, turreted building had formerly belonged to a family of gordons, who had been deprived of house and lands in the far north of culloden, after the brutal soldiery of the bloody duke had laid waste the wild and extensive country of badenoch, burning every cottage and house, murdering every man, and more than murdering every woman and child, and "giving their flesh to the eagles," as the old song hath it. but quiet indeed was bilberry hall now, quiet even to solemnity, especially after sunset, when the moon sailed up from the woods of the west, when only the low moan of the wind through the forest trees could be heard, mingling with the eternal murmur of the broad winding river, or now and then the plaintive cry of a night bird, or the mournful hooting of the great brown owl. it was about this time that laird mcleod would summon the servants one and all, from the supercilious butler down to shufflin' sandie himself. then would he place "the big ha' bible" before him on a small table, arrange his spectacles more comfortably astride his nose, clear his throat, and read a long chapter. one of the psalms of david in metre would then be sung. there wasn't a deal of music in the laird's voice, it must be confessed. it was a deep, hoarse bass, that reminded one of the groaning of an old grandfather's clock just before it begins to strike. but when the maids took up the tune and sweet annie lane chimed in, the psalm or hymn was well worth listening to. then with one accord all fell on their knees by chairs, the laird getting down somewhat stiffly. with open eyes and uplifted face he prayed long and earnestly. the "amen" concluded the worship, and all retired save annie, the laird's niece and almost constant companion. after, mcleod would look towards her and smile. "i think, my dear," he would say, "it is time to bring in the tumblers." there was always a cheerful bit of fire in the old-fashioned grate, and over it from a sway hung a bright little copper kettle, singing away just as the cat that sat on the hearth, blinking at the fire, was doing. the duet was the pleasantest kind of music to the laird mcleod in his easy-chair, the very image of white-haired contentment. annie lane--sixteen years of age she was, and beautiful as a rosebud-would place the punch-bowl on the little table, with its toddy-ladle, and flank it with a glass shaped like a thistle. into the bowl a modicum of the oldest whisky was poured, and sugar added; the good squire, or laird, with the jolly red face, smiled with glee as the water bubbled from the spout of the shining kettle. "now your slippers, dear," annie would say. off came the "brogue shoes" and on went a pretty pair of soft and easy slippers; by their flowery ornamentation it was not difficult to tell who had made them. a long pipe looked rather strange between such wee rosy lips; nevertheless, annie lit that pipe, and took two or three good draws to make sure it was going, before handing it to her uncle. then she bent over the back of the chair and kissed him on the bald pate, before going out with her maid for a walk on the lawn. it might be in the sweet summer time, when those green grassy terraces were perfumed with roses of every hue, or scented with the sweet syringa; in spring, when every tree and bush were alive with bird song; in red-berried autumn, or in the clear frost of a winter's night, when the world was all robed in its white cocoon and every bush, brake, or tree had branches like the whitest of coral. jeannie lee, the maid, was a great favourite with annie, and jeannie dearly loved her young mistress, and had done so for ten long years, ever since she had arrived at bilberry hall a toddling wee thing of six, and, alas! an orphan. both father and mother had died in one week. they had loved each other in life, and in death were not divided. jeannie was just four years older than her mistress, but she did not hesitate to confide to her all her secrets, for jeannie was a bonnie lassie. "she whiles had a sweetheart, and whiles she had two." well, but strange as it may appear, annie, young as she was, had two lovers. there was a dashing young farmer--craig nicol by name--he was well-to-do, and had dark, nay, raven hair, handsome face and manly figure, which might well have captivated the heart of any girl. at balls and parties, arrayed in tartan, he was indeed a splendid fellow. he flirted with a good many girls, it is true, but at the bottom of his heart there was but one image--that of annie lane. annie was so young, however, that she did not know her own mind. and i really think that craig nicol was somewhat impetuous in his wooing. sometimes he almost frightened her. poor craig was unsophisticated, and didn't know that you must woo a woman as you angle for a salmon. he was a very great favourite with the laird at all events, and many were the quiet games of cards they played together on winter evenings, many the bowl of punch they quaffed, before the former mounted his good grey mare and went noisily cantering homewards. no matter what the weather was, craig would be in it, wind or rain, hail or snow. like burns's tam o' shanter was craig. "weel mounted on his grey mare, meg, a better never lifted leg, tam skelpit on through dub and mire, despising wind and rain and fire, whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet, whiles crooning o'er some auld scots sonnet." yes, indeed. craig nicol was a dashing young blade, and at times annie thought she almost loved him. but what of the girl's other lover? well, he was one of a very different stamp. a laird he was too, and a somewhat wealthy one, but he was not a week under fifty. he, too, was a constant visitor at bilberry hall, and paid great attention to annie, though he treated her in a kind and fatherly sort of manner, and annie really liked the man, though little did she think he was in love with her. one lovely moonlight night in autumn, however, when laird fletcher--for that was his name--found himself seated beside annie and her maid in an arbour that overlooked the dreamy, hazy forest, he suddenly said to jeannie: "jeannie, i'd be the happiest man on earth if i only had this darling child to be my bride." annie never spoke. she simply smiled, thinking he was in fun. but after a pause the laird took annie's hand: "ah! dear lassie, i'll give you plenty of time to think of it. i'd care for you as the apple of my eye; i'd love you with a love that younger men cannot even dream of, and not a lady in all the land should be dressed so braw as my own wee dove." annie drew her hand from his; then--i can't tell why--perhaps she did not know herself, she put her little white hands to her face and burst into tears. with loving words and kind, he tried to soothe her, but like a startled deer she sprang away from him, dashed across the lawn, and sought shelter in her own boudoir. the laird, honest fellow, was sad, and sorry, too, that he had proposed to annie; but then he really was to be excused. what is it a man will not do whom love urges on? laird fletcher was easy-minded, however, and hopeful on the whole. "ah! well," he said to himself; "she'll come round in time, and if that black-haired young farmer were only _out of the way_, i'd win the battle before six months were over. gives himself a mighty deal too much side, he does. young men are mostly fools--i'll go into the house and smoke a pipe with my aged friend, mcleod." shufflin' sandie seemed to spring from the earth right in front of him. a queer little creature was sandie, soul and body, probably thirty years old, but looking older; twinkling ferrety eyes and red hair, a tuft of which always stuck up through a hole on the top of the broad prince charlie bonnet he wore; a very large nose always filled with snuff; and his smile was like the grin of a vixen. sandie was the man-of-all-work at bilberry. he cleaned knives and boots in-doors, ran errands, and did all kinds of odd jobs out of doors. but above all sandie was a fisherman. old as he was, squire mcleod, or laird, as he was most often called, went to the river, and sandie was always with him. the old man soon tired; then sandie took the rod, and no man on all deeside could make a prettier cast than he. the salmon used to come at his call. "hullo!" said laird fletcher, "where did _you_ come from?" "just ran round, sir, to see if you wanted your horse." "no, no, sandie, not for another hour or two." the truth is that sandie had been behind the arbour, listening to every word that was said. sandie slept in a loft above the stable. it was there he went now, and threw himself on his bed to think. "folks shouldn't speak aloud to themselves," he thought, "as laird fletcher does. wants farmer nicol got out of the way, does he? the old rascal! i've a good mind to tell the police. but i think i'd better tell craig nicol first that there is danger ahead, and that he mustn't wear his blinkers. poor man! indeed will i! then i might see what the laird had to say as well. that's it, sandie, that's it. i'll have twa strings to my bow." and sandie took an enormous pinch of snuff and lay back again to muse. i never myself had much faith to put in an ignorant, deformed, half-dwarfed creature, and shufflin' sandie was all that, both physically and morally. i don't think that sandie was a thief, but i do believe he would have done almost anything to turn an honest penny. indeed, as regards working hard there was nothing wrong with sandie. craig nicol, the farmer, had given him many a half-crown, and now he saw his way, or thought he did, to earn another. well, sandie, at ten o'clock, brought round laird fletcher's horse, and before mounting, the laird, who, with all his wealth, was a wee bit of a niggard, gave him twopence. "the stingy, close-fisted, old tottering brute. tuppince, eh!" shufflin' sandy shook his fist after the laird. "_you_ marry our bonnie annie?" he said, half-aloud. "man, i'd sooner see the dearie floating down the dee like a dead hare than to see her wedded to an old fossil like you." sandie went off now to his bed in the loft, and soon all was peace around bilberry hall, save when the bloodhounds in their kennels lifted up their bell-like voices, giving warning to any tramp, or poacher that might come near the hall. annie knelt reverently down and said her prayers before getting into bed. the tears were in her eyes when she got up. "oh," she said to her maid, "i hope i haven't hurt poor mr fletcher's feelings! he really is a kind soul, and he was very sincere." "well, never mind, darling," said jeannie; "but, lor, if he had only asked _my_ price i would have jumped at the offer." chapter two. "there is danger in the sky." "what!" said annie lane, "would you really marry an old man?" "ay, that would i," said the maid. "he's got the money. besides, he is not so very old. but let me sing a bit of a song to you--very quietly, you know." jeannie lee had a sweet voice, and when she sang low, and to annie alone, it was softer and sweeter still, like a fiddle with a mute on the bridge. this is the little song she sang: "what can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, what can a young lassie do with an old man? bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie to sell her poor jenny for silver and land. "he's always complaining from morning till eenin', he coughs and he hobbles the weary day long; he's stupid, and dozin', his blood it is frozen- oh! dreary's the night wi' a crazy old man! "he hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers- i never can please him, do all that i can; he's peevish and jealous of all the young fellows- oh! grief on the day i met wi' an old man! "my old aunty kitty upon me takes pity: i'll do my endeavour to follow her plan; i'll cross him and rack him until i heart-break him, and then his old brass will buy a new pan!" "but, oh, how cruel!" said annie. "oh, i wish you would marry that laird fletcher--then he would bother me no more. will you, jeannie, dear?" jeannie lee laughed. "it will be you he will marry in the long run," she said; "now, i don't set up for a prophet, but remember my words: laird fletcher will be your husband, and he will be just like a father to you, and your life will glide on like one long and happy dream." it will be observed that jeannie could talk good english when she cared to. when speaking seriously--the scots always do--the doric is for the most part of the fireside dialect. "and now, darling," continued annie's maid, "go to sleep like a baby; you're not much more, you know. there, i'll sing you a lullaby, an old, old one: "`hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, holy angels guard thy bed; countless blessings without number gently falling on thy head.'" the blue eyes tried to keep open, but the eyelids would droop, and soon annie o' the banks o' dee was wafted away to the drowsy land. -----------------------------------------------------------------------shufflin' sandie was early astir next morning. first he fed and attended to his horses, for he loved them as if they had been brothers; then he went to the kennels to feed the hounds, and in their joy to see him they almost devoured him alive. this done, sandie had a big drink of water from the pump, for sandie had had a glass too much the night before. he was none the worse, however; so he hied him to the kitchen. there were lots of merry scotch lassies here, and they delighted to torment and tease sandie. "sandie," said one, "i've a good mind to tie the dish-cloth round your head." "tie it round your own," said sandie. "anything becomes a good-looking face, my bonnie betsy." "sandie," said another buxom girl, "you were drunk last night. i'm sure of it." "no, not so very full, fanny. i hadn't enough to get happy and jolly on." "but wouldn't you like a hair of the doggie that bit you this morning?" "indeed would i, fanny. i never say no to a drop of good scotch." "well, ye'll have to go to the village. ye'll get none here. just make your brose, and be content." sandie did as he was bidden. into a huge wooden bowl, called a "caup," he put three large handfuls of fine oatmeal and a modicum of salt. the kettle was boiling wildly on the fire, so the water was poured on and stirred, and the "brose" was made. a huge piece of butter was placed in the centre, and the bowl was flanked by a quart of new milk. and this was shufflin' sandie's breakfast, and when he had finished all save the bit he always left for collie and the cat, he gave a sigh of contentment, and lit his pipe. and now the lasses began their banter again. "that's the stuff to make a man of you," said fanny. "make a man of an ill-shapen dwarf like him," said maggie reid. "well! well! well!" "hush, mag," cried fanny, "hush! god could have made you just as misshapen as poor sandie." but sandie took no heed. he was thinking. soon he arose, and before fanny could help herself, he had kissed her. fanny threw the dish-cloth after him, but the laugh was all against her. the laird would be downstairs now, so sandie went quietly to the breakfast-room door and tapped. "come in, sandie," cried the laird. "i know it is you." the laird had a good scotch breakfast before him. porridge, fresh herrings and mashed potatoes, with ducks' eggs to follow and marmalade to finish off with. "will you have a thistle, sandie?" "indeed i will, sir, and glad to." "well, there's the bottle, and yonder's the glass. help yourself, lad." sandie did that, right liberally, too. "horses and hounds all well, sandie?" "all beautiful, laird. and i was just going to ask if i could have the bay mare, jean, to ride o'er to birnie-boozle (craig nicol's farm possessed that euphonic name). i've news for the fairmer." "all right, sandie. take care you don't let her down, though." "i'll see to her, laird." and away went sandie exultant, and in ten minutes more was clattering along the deeside road. it was early autumn, and the tints were just beginning to show red and yellow on the elms and sycamores, but sandie looked at nothing save his horse's neck. "was the farmer at home?" "yes; and would sandie step into the parlour for a minute. mary would soon find him." "why, sandie, man, what brings you here at so early an hour?" sandie took a lordly pinch of snuff, and handed the box to craig nicol. "i've something to tell ye, sir. but, hush! take a peep outside, for fear anybody should be listening." "now," he continued, in a half-whisper, "ye'll never breathe a word of what i'm going to tell you?" "why, sandie, i never saw you look so serious before. sit down, and i'll draw my chair close to yours." the arrangement completed, sandie's face grew still longer, and he told him all he heard while listening behind the arbour. "i own to being a bit inquisitive like," he added; "but man, farmer, it is a good thing for you on this occasion that i was. i've put you on your guard." craig laughed till the glasses on the sideboard jingled and rang. "is that all my thanks?" said sandie, in a disheartened tone. "no, no, my good fellow. but the idea of that old cockalorum--though he is my rival--doing a sturdy fellow like me to death is too amusing." "well," said sandie, "he's just pretty tough, though he is a trifle old. he can hold a pistol or a jock-the-leg knife easily enough; the dark nights will soon be here. he'd be a happy man if you were dead, so i advise you to beware." "well, well, god bless you, sandie; when i'm saying my prayers to-night i'll think upon you. now have a dram, for i must be off to ride round the farm." just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite all over the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into sandie's hand, and off the little man marched with a beaming face. "i'll have a rare spree at nancy wilson's inn on saturday," he said. "i'll treat the lads and lassies too." but shufflin' sandie's forenoon's work was not over yet. he set spurs to his mare, and soon was galloping along the road in the direction of laird fletcher's mansion. the laird hadn't come down yet. he was feeling the effects of last evening's potations, for just as- "the highland hills are high, high, high, the highland whisky's strong." sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half an hour laird fletcher came shuffling along in dressing-gown and slippers. "want to speak to me, my man?" "seems very like it, sir," replied sandie. "well, come into the library." the laird led the way, and sandie followed. "i've been thinkin' all night, laird, about the threat i heard ye make use of--to kill the farmer of birnie-boozle." gentlemen of fifty who patronise the wine of scotland are apt to be quick-tempered. fletcher started to his feet, purple-faced and shaking with rage. "if you dare utter such an expression to me again," he cried, banging his fist on the table, "i won't miss you a kick till you're on the deeside road." "well, well, laird," said sandie, rising to go, "i can take my leave without kicking, and so save your old shanks; but look here. i'm going to ride straight to aberdeen and see the fiscal." sandie was at the door, when laird fletcher cooled down and called him back. "come, come, my good fellow, don't be silly; sit down again. you must never say a word to anyone about this. you promise?" "i promise, if ye square me." "well, will a pound do it?" "look here, laird, i'm saving up money to buy a house of my own, and keep dogs; a pound won't do it, but six might." "six pounds!" "deuce a dollar less, laird." the laird sighed, but he counted out the cash. it was like parting with his heart's blood. but to have such an accusation even pointed at him would have damned his reputation, and spoilt all his chances with annie o' the banks o' dee. shufflin' sandie smiled as he stowed the golden bits away in an old sock. he then scratched his head and pointed to the decanter. the laird nodded, and sandie drank his health in one jorum, and his success with miss lane in another. sly sandie! but his eyes were sparkling now, and he rode away singing "auld lang syne." he was thinking at the same time about the house and kennels he should build when he managed to raise two hundred pounds. "i'll save every sixpence," he said to himself. "when i've settled down i'll marry fanny." -----------------------------------------------------------------------that same forenoon craig called at bilberry hall. he was dressed for the hill in a dark tweed kilt, with a piece of leather on his left shoulder. he had early luncheon with mcleod, annie presiding. in her pretty white bodice she never looked more lovely. so thought craig. "annie, come to the hill with me. _do_." "annie, go," added her uncle. "well, i'll go, and bring you some birds, uncle dear, and sandie shall ghillie me." "_i_ have a ghillie," said craig. "never mind. two are better than one." they had really a capital day of it, for the sun shone brightly and the birds laid close. gordon setters are somewhat slow, and need a drink rather often, but they are wondrous sure, and bolt, the retriever, was fleet of foot to run down a wounded bird. so just as the sun was sinking behind the forests of the west, and tingeing the pine trees with crimson, they wended their way homeward, happy--happy with the health that only the highland hills can give. shufflin' sandie had had several drops from craig's flask, but he had also had good oatcakes and cheese, so he was as steady as a judge of session. when near to bilberry hall, nicol and annie emptied their guns in the air, and thus apprised of their approach, white-haired old mcleod came out to bid them welcome. a good dinner! a musical evening! prayers! the tumblers! then, bidding annie a fond adieu, away rode the jolly young farmer. shufflin' sandie's last words to him were these: "mind what i told you. there's danger in the sky. good-night, and god be with you, farmer craig." chapter three. sandie tells the old, old story. "i wonder," said craig nicol to himself that night, before going to bed, and just as he rose from his knees, "if there can be anything in shufflin' sandie's warning. i certainly don't like old father fletcher, close-fisted as he is, and stingy as any miser ever i met. i don't like him prowling round my darling annie either. and _he_ hates _me_, though he lifts his hat and grimaces like a tom-cat watching a bird whenever we meet. i'll land him one, one of these days, if he can't behave himself." but for quite a long time there was no chance of "landing the laird one," for fletcher called on annie at times when he knew craig was engaged. and so the days and weeks went by. laird fletcher's wooing was carried on now on perfectly different lines. he brought annie many a little knick-knack from aberdeen. it might be a bracelet, a necklet of gold, or the last new novel; but never a ring. no; that would have been too suggestive. annie accepted these presents with some reluctance, but fletcher looked at her so sadly, so wistfully, that rather than hurt his feelings she did receive them. one day annie, the old laird and the younger started for aberdeen, all on good horses--they despised the train--and when coming round the corner on his mare, whom should they meet face to face but craig nicol? and this is what happened. the old man raised his hat. the younger laird smiled ironically but triumphantly. annie nodded, blushed, and smiled. but the young farmer's face was blanched with rage. he was no longer handsome. there was blood in his eye. he was a devil for the present. he plunged the spurs into his horse's sides and went galloping furiously along the road. "would to god," he said, "i did not love her! shall i resign her? no, no! i cannot. yet- "`tis woman that seduces all mankind; by her we first were taught the wheedling arts.'" worse was to follow. right good fellow though he was, jealousy could make a very devil of craig. "for jealousy is the injured woman's hell." and man's also. one day, close by the dee, while craig was putting his rod together previous to making a cast, laird fletcher came out from a thicket, also rod in hand. "ah, we cannot fish together, nicol," said the laird haughtily. "we are rivals." then all the jealousy in nicol's bosom was turned for a moment into fury. "you--_you_! you old stiff-kneed curmudgeon! you a rival of a young fellow like me! bah! go home and go to bed!" fletcher was bold. "here!" he cried, dashing his rod on the grass; "i don't stand language like that from anyone!" off went his coat, and he struck craig a well-aimed blow under the chin that quite staggered him. ah! but even skill at fifty is badly matched by the strength and agility of a man in his twenties. in five minutes' time fletcher was on the grass, his face cut and his nose dripping with blood. craig stood over him triumphantly, but the devil still lurked in his eyes. "i'm done with you for the time," said fletcher, "but mark me, i'll do for you yet!" "is that threatening my life, you old reprobate? you did so before, too. come," he continued fiercely, "i will help you to wash some of that blood off your ugly face." he seized him as he spoke, and threw him far into the river. the stream was not deep, so the laird got out, and went slowly away to a neighbouring cottage to dry his clothes and send for his carriage. "hang it!" said craig aloud; "i can't fish to-day." he put up his rod, and was just leaving, when shufflin' sandie came upon the scene. he had heard and seen all. "didn't i tell ye, sir? he'll kill ye yet if ye don't take care. be warned!" "well," said craig, laughing, "he is a scientific boxer, and he hurt me a bit, but i think i've given him a drubbing he won't soon forget." "no," said sandie significantly; "he--won't--forget. take my word for that." "well, sandie, come up to the old inn, and we'll have a glass together." -----------------------------------------------------------------------for a whole fortnight laird fletcher was confined to his rooms before he felt fit to be seen. "a touch of neuralgia," he made his housekeeper tell all callers. but he couldn't and dared not refuse to see shufflin' sandie when he sent up his card--an old envelope that had passed through the post-office. "well," said the laird, "to what am i indebted for the honour of _this_ visit?" "come off that high horse, sir," said sandie, "and speak plain english. i'll tell you," he added, "i'll tell you in a dozen words. i'm going to build a small house and kennels, and i'm going to marry fanny--the bonniest lassie in all the world, sir. ah! won't i be happy, just!" he smiled, and took a pinch, then offered the box to the laird. the laird dashed it aside. "what in thunder?" he roared, "has your house or marriage to do with me?" "ye'll soon see that, my laird. i want forty pounds, or by all the hares on bilberry hill i'll go hot-foot to the fiscal, for i heard your threat to craig nicol by the riverside." half-an-hour afterwards shufflin' sandie left the laird to mourn, but sandie had got forty pounds nearer to the object of his ambition, and was happy accordingly. as he rode away, the horse's hoofs making music that delighted his ear, sandie laughed aloud to himself. "now," he thought, "if i could only just get about fifty pounds more, i'd begin building. maybe the old laird'll help me a wee bit; but i must have it, and i must have fanny. my goodness! how i do love the lassie! her every look or glance sends a pang to my heart. i cannot bear it; i _shall_ marry fanny, or into the deepest, darkest kelpie's pool in the dee i'll fling myself. "`o love, love! love is like a dizziness, that winna let a poor body go about his bus-i-ness.'" shufflin' sandie was going to prove no laggard in love. but his was a thoroughly dutch peasant's courtship. he paid frequent visits by train to the granite city, to make purchases for the good old laird mcleod. and he never returned without a little present for fanny. it might be a bonnie ribbon for her hair, a bottle of perfume, or even a bag of choice sweets. but he watched the chance when fanny was alone in the kitchen to slip them into her hand half-shyly. once he said after giving her a pretty bangle: "i'm not so very, _very_ ugly, am i, fanny?" "'deed no, sandie!" "and i'm not so crooked and small as they would try to make me believe. eh, dear?" "'deed no, sandie, and i ay take your part against them all. and that you know, sandie." how sweet were those words to sandie's soul only those who love, but are in doubt, may tell. "tis sweet to love, but sweeter far to be beloved again; but, ah! how bitter is the pain to love, yet love in vain!" "ye haven't a terrible lot of sweethearts, have you, fanny?" "well, sandie, i always like to tell the truth; there's plenty would make love to me, but i can't bear them. there's ploughman sock, and geordie mckay. ach! and plenty more." she rubbed away viciously at the plate she was cleaning. "and i suppose," said sandie, "the devil a one of them has one sixpence to rub against another?" "mebbe not," said fanny. "but, fanny--" "well, sandie?" "i--i really don't know what i was going to say, but i'll sing it." sandie had a splendid voice and a well-modulated one. "my love is like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in june; my love is like a melody, that's sweetly played in tune. "as fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am i; and i will love you still, my dear, till a' the seas go dry. "till a' the seas go dry, my lass, and the rocks melt with the sun; yes, i will love you still, my dear, till sands of life are run." the tears were coursing down the bonnie lassie's cheeks, so plaintive and sweet was the melody. "what! ye're surely not crying, are ye?" said sandie, approaching and stretching one arm gently round her waist. "oh, no, sandie; not me!" but sandie took the advantage, and kissed her on the tear-bedewed cheeks. she didn't resist. "i say, fanny--" "yes, sandie." "it'll be a bonnie night to-night, the moon as bright as day. will you steal out at eight o'clock and take a wee bit walk with me? just meet me on the hill near tammie gibb's ruined cottage. i've something to tell you." "i'll--i'll try," said fanny, blushing a little, as all innocent scotch girls do. sandie went off now to his work as happy as the angels. and fanny did steal out that night. only for one short hour and a half. oh, how short the time did seem to sandie! it is not difficult to guess what sandie had to tell her. the old, old story, which, told in a thousand different ways, is ever the same, ever, ever new. and he told her of his prospects, of the house--a but and a ben, or two rooms--he was soon to build, and his intended kennels, though he would still work for the laird. "will ye be my wife? oh, will you, fanny?" "yes." it was but a whispered word, but it thrilled sandie's heart with joy. "my ain dear dove!" he cried, folding her in his arms. they were sitting on a mossy bank close by the forest's edge. their lips met in one long, sweet kiss. yes, peasant love i grant you, but i think it was leal and true. "they might be poor--sandie and she; light is the burden love lays on; content and love bring peace and joy. what more have queens upon a throne?" homeward through the moonlight, hand-in-hand, went the rustic lovers, and parted at the gate as lovers do. sandie was kind of dazed with happiness. he lay awake nearly all the livelong night, till the cocks began to crow, wondering how on earth he was to raise the other fifty pounds and more that should complete his happiness. then he dozed off into dreamland. he was astir, all the same, at six in the morning. and back came the joy to his heart like a great warm sea wave. he attended to his horses and to the kennel, singing all the time; then went quietly in to make his brose. some quiet, sly glances and smiles passed between the betrothed--scotch fashion again--but that was all. sandie ate his brose in silence, then took his departure. -----------------------------------------------------------------------one morning a letter arrived from edinburgh from a friend of craig nicol. craig was sitting at the table having breakfast when the servant brought it in and laid it before him. his face clouded as he read it. the friend's name was reginald grahame, and he was a medical student in his fourth year. he had been very kind to craig in edinburgh, taking him about and showing him all the sights in this, the most romantic city on earth- "edina, scotia's darling seat." nevertheless, craig's appetite failed, and he said "bother!" only more so, as he pitched the letter down on the table. chapter four. "this quarrel, i fear, must end in blood." reginald grahame was just as handsome a young fellow as ever entered the quad of edinburgh university. not the same stamp or style as craig; equally as good-looking, but far more refined. "my dear boy," ran the letter,--"next week look out for me at birnie-boozle. i'm dead tired of study. i'm run down somewhat, and will be precious glad to get a breath of your highland air and a bit of fishing. i'm only twenty-one yet, you know, and too young for my m.d. so i'm going soon to try to make a bit of money by taking out a patient and her daughter to san francisco, then overland to new york, and back home. why, you won't know your old friend when he comes back," etc, etc. "hang my luck!" said craig, half-aloud. "this is worse than a dozen laird fletchers. annie has never said yet that she loved me, and i feel a presentiment that i shall be cut out now in earnest. och hey! but i'll do my best to prevent their meeting. it may be mean, but i can't help it. indeed, i've half a mind to pick a quarrel with him and let him go home." next week reginald did arrive, looking somewhat pale, for his face was "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," but very good-looking for all that. probably his paleness added to the charm of his looks and manner, and there was the gentleman in every movement, grace in every turn. they shook hands fervently at the station, and soon in craig's dogcart were rattling along towards birnie-boozle. reginald's reception was everything that could be desired, and the hospitality truly highland. says burns the immortal: "in heaven itself i'll seek nae mair than just a highland welcome!" -----------------------------------------------------------------------for over a week--for well-nigh a fortnight, indeed--they fished by the river, and caught many a trout, as well as lordly salmon, without seeing anyone belonging to bilberry hall, except shufflin' sandie, for whom the grand old river had irresistible attractions. sandie smelt a rat, though, and imagined he knew well enough why craig nicol did not bring his friend to the hall. before falling asleep one night, craig had an inspiration, and he slept more soundly after it. he would take his friend on a grand highland tour, which should occupy all his vacation. yes. but man can only propose. god has the disposal of our actions. and something happened next that craig could not have calculated on. they had been to the hill, which was still red and crimson with the bonnie blooming heather, and were coming down through the forest, not far from bilberry hall, when suddenly they heard a shot fired, then the sounds of a fearful struggle. both young men grasped their sturdy cudgels and rushed on. they found two of mcleod's gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with four sturdy poachers. but when craig and his friend came down they were man to man, and the poachers fled. not, however, before poor reginald was stabbed in the right chest with a _skean dhu_, the little dagger that kilted highlanders wear in their right stocking. the young doctor had fallen. the keepers thought he was dead, the blood was so abundant. but he had merely fainted. they bound his wound with scarves, made a litter of spruce branches, and bore him away to the nearest house, and that was the hall. craig entered first, lest annie should be frightened, and while shufflin' sandie rode post-haste for the doctor poor reginald was put to bed downstairs in a beautiful room that overlooked both forest and river. so serious did the doctor consider the case that he stayed with him all night. a rough-looking stick was this country surgeon, in rough tweed jacket and knickerbockers, but tender-hearted to a degree. craig had gone home about ten, somewhat sad-hearted and hopeless. not, it must be confessed, for his friend's accident, but reginald would now be always with annie, for she had volunteered to nurse him. but craig rode over every day to see the wounded man for all that. "he has a tough and wondrous constitution," said dr mcrae. "he'll pull through under my care and annie's gentle nursing." craig nicol winced, but said nothing. reginald had brought a dog with him, a splendid black newfoundland, and that dog was near him almost constantly. sometimes he would put his paws on the coverlet, and lean his cheek against his master in a most affectionate way. indeed, this action sometimes brought the tears to annie's eyes. no more gentle or kind nurse could reginald have had than annie. to the guileless simplicity of a child was added all the wisdom of a woman. and she obeyed to the very letter all the instructions the doctor gave her. she was indefatigable. though fanny relieved her for hours during the day, annie did most of the night work. at first the poor fellow was delirious, raving much about his mother and sisters. with cooling lotions she allayed the fever in his head. ay, she did more: she prayed for him. ah! scots folk are strange in english eyes, but perhaps some of them are saints in god's. reginald, however, seemed to recover semiconsciousness all at once. the room in which he lay was most artistically adorned, the pictures beautifully draped, coloured candles, mirrors, and brackets everywhere. he looked around him half-dazed; then his eyes were fixed on annie. "where am i?" he asked. "is this heaven? are you an--an--angel?" he half-lifted himself in the bed, but she gently laid him back on the snow-white pillows again. "you must be good, dear," she said, as if he had been a baby. "be good and try to sleep." and the eyes were closed once more, and the slumber now was sweet and refreshing. when he awoke again, after some hours, his memory had returned, and he knew all. his voice was very feeble, but he asked for his friend, craig nicol. but business had taken craig away south to london, and it would be a fortnight before he could return. ah! what a happy time convalescence is, and happier still was it for reginald with a beautiful nurse like annie--annie o' the banks o' dee. in a week's time he was able to sit in an easy-chair in the drawing-room. annie sang soft, low songs to him, and played just as softly. she read to him, too, both verse and prose. soon he was able to go for little drives, and now got rapidly well. is it any wonder that, thrown together in so romantic a way, these two young people fell in love, or that when he plighted his troth annie shyly breathed the wee word yes? -----------------------------------------------------------------------craig nicol came back at last, and he saw reginald alone. reginald--impulsive he ever was--held out his hand and asked for congratulations on his engagement to annie. craig almost struck that hand away. his face grew dark and lowering. "curse you!" he cried. "you were my friend once, or pretended to be. now i hate you; you have robbed me of my own wee lamb, my sweetheart, and now have the impudence--the confounded impertinence--to ask me to congratulate you! you are as false as the devil in hell!" "craig nicol," said reginald, and his cheeks flushed red, "i am too weak to fight you now, but when i am well you shall rue these words! _au revoir_. we meet again." this stormy encounter took place while the young doctor sat on a rocking-chair on the gravelled terrace. shufflin sandie was close at hand. "gentlemen," said sandie, "for the lord's sake, don't quarrel!" but craig said haughtily, "go and mind your own business, you blessed paul pry." then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, and soon after his horse's hoofs might have been heard clattering on the road as he dashed briskly on towards his farm of birnie-boozle. annie lane came round from the flower-garden at the west wing of bilberry hall. she carried in her hand a bouquet of autumnal roses and choice dahlias--yellow, crimson, and white; piped or quilled cactus and single. she was singing low to herself the refrain of that bonnie old song: "when jackie's far awa' at sea, when jackie's far awa' at sea, what's a' the pleasure life can gie, when jackie's far awa'?" perhaps she never looked more innocently happy or more beautiful than she did at that moment. "like dew on the gowans lying was the fa' o' her fairy feet; and like winds in summer sighing, her voice was low and sweet." but when she noticed the pallor on her lovers cheek she ceased singing, and advanced more quickly towards him. "oh, my darling," she cried, "how pale you are! you are ill! you must come in. mind, i am still your nursie." "no, no; i am better here. i have the fresh air. but i am only a little upset, you know." "and what upset you, dear reginald?" she had seated herself by his side. she had taken his hand, and had placed two white wee fingers on his pulse. "i'll tell you, annie mine--" "yes, i'm yours, and yours only, and ever shall be." "craig nicol has been here, and we have quarrelled. he has cursed and abused me. he says i have stolen your heart from him, and now he must for ever hate me." "but, oh, reginald, he never had my heart!" "i never knew he had sought it, dearest." "yet he did. i should have told you before, but he persecuted me with his protestations of love. often and often have i remained in my room all the evening long when i knew he was below." "well, he cursed me from the bottom of his heart and departed. not before i told him that our quarrel could not end thus, that i was too proud to stand abuse, that when well i should fight him." "oh, no--no--no! for my sake you must not fight." "annie, my ain little dove, do you remember these two wee lines: "`i could not love thee half so much, loved i not honour more.' "there is no hatred so deep and bitter as that between two men who have once been friends. no; both craig and i will be better pleased after we fight; but this quarrel i fear must end in blood." poor annie shuddered. just at that moment shufflin' sandie appeared on the scene. he was never far away. "can i get ye a plaid, mr grahame, to throw o'er your legs? it's gettin' cold now, i fear." "no, no, my good fellow; we don't want attendance at present. thank you all the same, however." oscar, reginald's great newfoundland, came bounding round now to his master's side. he had been hunting rats and rabbits. the embrace he gave his master was rough, but none the less sincere. then he lay down by his feet, on guard, as it were; for a dog is ever suspicious. annie was very silent and very sad. reginald drew her towards him, and she rested her head on his shoulder. but tears bedimmed her blue eyes, and a word of sympathy would have caused her to burst into a fit of weeping that would probably have been hysterical in its nature. so reginald tried to appear unconcerned. they sat in silence thus for some time. the silence of lovers is certainly golden. presently, bright, neatly-dressed fanny came tripping round, holding in advance of her a silver salver. "a letter, sir," she said, smiling. reginald took it slowly from the salver, and his hand shook visibly. "annie," he said, somewhat sadly, "i believe this contains my sailing orders." chapter five. a discovery that appalled and shocked everyone. reginald had guessed aright. the good barque _wolverine_ would sail from glasgow that day month, wind and weather permitting, for the south atlantic, and round the horn to the south pacific islands and san francisco. this was from the captain; but a note was enclosed from mrs hall, reginald's pet aunt, hoping he was quite restored to health and strength, and would join them some hours before sailing. she felt certain, she said, that the long voyage would quite restore her, and her daughter ilda and wee niece matty were wild with delight at the prospect of being- "all alone on the wide, wide sea." "oh, my darling!" cried annie, "i believe my heart will break to lose you." "but it will not be for long, my love--a year at most; and, oh, our reunion will be sweet! you know, annie, i am _very_ poor, with scarce money enough to procure me an outfit. it is better our engagement should not be known just yet to the old laird, your uncle. he would think it most presumptuous in me to aspire to the hand of his heiress. but i shall be well and strong long before a month; and think, dearest, i am to have five hundred pounds for acting as private doctor and nurse to mrs hall! when i return i shall complete my studies, set up in practice, and then, oh, then, annie, you and i shall be married! "`two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one.'" but the tears were now silently chasing each other down her cheeks. "cheer up, my own," said reginald, drawing her closer to him. presently she did, and then the woman, not the child, came uppermost. "reginald," she said, "tell me, is miss hall very beautiful?" "i hardly know how to answer you, annie. i sometimes think she is. fragile, rather, with masses of glittering brown hair, and hazel eyes that are sometimes very large, as she looks at you while you talk. but," he added, "there can be no true love unless there is a little jealousy. ah, annie," he continued, smiling, "i see it in your eye, just a tiny wee bit of it. but it mustn't increase. i have plighted my troth to you, and will ever love you as i do now, as long as the sun rises over yonder woods and forests." "i know, i know you will," said annie, and once more the head was laid softly on his shoulder. "there is one young lady, however, of whom you have some cause to be jealous." "and she?" "i confess, annie, that i loved her a good deal. ah, don't look sad; it is only matty, and she is just come five." poor annie laughed in a relieved sort of way. the lovers said little more for a time, but presently went for a walk in the flower-gardens, and among the black and crimson buds of autumn. reginald could walk but slowly yet, and was glad enough of the slight support of annie's arm. "ah, annie," he said, "it won't be long before you shall be leaning on my arm instead of me on yours." "i pray for that," said the child-woman. the gardens were still gay with autumnal flowers, and i always think that lovers are a happy adjunct to a flower-garden. but it seemed to be the autumn buds that were the chief attraction for reginald at present. they were everywhere trailing in vines over the hedgerows, supported on their own sturdy stems or climbing high over the gables and wings of the grand old hall. the deadly nightshade, that in summer was covered with bunches of sweetest blue, now grew high over the many hedges, hung with fruitlike scarlet bunches of the tiniest grapes. the _bryonia alba_, sometimes called the devil's parsnip, that in june snows the country hedges over with its wealth of white wee flowers, was now splashed over with crimson budlets. the holly berries were already turning. the black-berried ivy crept high up the shafts of the lordly lombardy poplars. another tiny berry, though still green, grew in great profusion--it would soon be black--the fruit of the privet. the pyrocanthus that climbs yonder wall is one lovely mass of vermilion berries in clusters. these rival in colour and appearance the wealth of red fruit on the rowan trees or mountain ashes. "how beautiful, annie," said reginald, gazing up at the nodding berries. "do you mind the old song, dear?- "`oh, rowan tree, oh, rowan tree, thou'lt ay be dear to me; begirt thou art with many thoughts of home and infancy. "`thy leaves were ay the first in spring thy flowers the summer's pride; there wasn't such a bonnie tree in a' the countryside, oh, rowan tree!'" "it is very beautiful," said annie, "and the music is just as beautiful, though plaintive, and even sad. i shall play it to you to-night." but here is an arbour composed entirely of a gigantic briar, laden with rosy fruit. yet the king-tree of the garden is the barberry, and i never yet knew a botanist who could describe the lavish loveliness of those garlands of rosy coral. with buds of a somewhat deeper shade the dark yews were sprinkled, and in this fairy-like garden or arboretum grew trees and shrubs of every kind. over all the sun shone with a brilliancy of a delightful september day. the robins followed the couple everywhere, sometimes even hopping on to reginald's shoulder or annie's hat, for these birds seem to know by instinct where kindness of heart doth dwell. "annie," said reginald, after a pause, "i am very, very happy." "and i, dear," was the reply, "am very hopeful." how quickly that month sped away. reginald was as strong as ever again, and able to play cards of an evening with laird mcleod or laird fletcher, for the latter, knowing that the farmer of birnie-boozle came here no longer, renewed his visits. i shall not say much about the parting. they parted in tears and in sorrow, that is all; with many a fond vow, with many a fond embrace. it has often grieved me to think how very little englishmen know about our most beautiful scottish songs. though but a little simple thing, "the pairtin'" (parting) is assuredly one of the most plaintively melodious i know of in any language. it is very _apropos_ to the parting of reginald and annie o' the banks o' dee. "mary, dearest maid, i leave thee, home and friends, and country dear, oh, ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee, happier days may soon be here. "see, yon bark so proudly bounding, soon shall bear me o'er the sea; hark! the trumpet loudly sounding, calls me far from love and thee. "summer flowers shall cease to blossom, streams run backward from the sea; cold in death must be this bosom ere it cease to throb for thee. "fare thee well--may every blessing shed by heaven around thee fa'; one last time thy lov'd form pressing- think on me when far awa'." "if you would keep song in your hearts," says a writer of genius, "learn to sing. there is more merit in melody than most people are aware of. even the cobbler who smoothes his wax-ends with a song will do as much work in a day as one given to ill-nature would do in a week. songs are like sunshine, they run to cheerfulness, and fill the bosom with such buoyancy, that for the time being you feel filled with june air or like a meadow of clover in blossom." -----------------------------------------------------------------------how lonely the gardens and the hall itself seemed to annie now that her lover had gone, and how sad at heart was she! well, and how reluctant am i myself to leave all these pleasant scenes, and bring before the mind's eye an event so terrible and a deed so dark that i almost shudder as i describe it; but as the evolution of this ower-true tale depends upon it, i am obliged to. first, i must tell you that just two days before joining his ship, reginald had to go to aberdeen to see friends and bid them adieu. but it happened that craig nicol had made a visit on foot to aberdeen about the same time. thirty, or even forty, miles was not too much for a sturdy young fellow like him. he had told his housekeeper a week before that he was to draw money from the bank--a considerable sum, too. this was foolish of him, for the garrulous old woman not only boasted to the neighbouring servants of the wealth of her master, but even told them the day he would leave for the town. poor craig set off as merrily as any half-broken hearted lover could be expected to do. but, alas! after leaving aberdeen on his homeward journey, he had never been seen alive again by anyone who knew him. as he often, however, made a longer stay in town than he had first intended, the housekeeper and servants of birnie-boozle were not for a time alarmed; but soon the assistance of the police was called in, with the hopes of solving the mystery. all they did find out, however, was that he had left the granite city well and whole, and that he had called at an inn called the five mile house on the afternoon to partake of some refreshment. after that all was a dread and awful blank. there was not a pond, however, or copse along from this inn that was not searched. then the river was dragged by men used to work of this sort. but all in vain. the mystery remained still unrevealed. only the police, as usual, vaunted about having a clue, and being pressed to explain, a sergeant said: "why, only this: you see he drew a lot of cash from the bank in notes and gold, and as we hear that he is in grief, there is little doubt in our minds that he has gone, for a quiet holiday to the continent, or even to the states." certain in their own minds that this was the case, the worthy police force troubled themselves but little more about the matter. they thought they had searched everywhere; but one place they had forgotten and missed. from the high road, not many miles from birnie-boozle, a road led. it was really little more than a bridle-path, but it shortened the journey by at least a mile, and when returning from town craig nicol always took advantage of this. strange, indeed, it was, that no one, not even the housekeeper, had thought of giving information about this to the police. but the housekeeper was to be excused. she was plunged deeply in grief. she and she only would take no heed of the supposed clue to the mystery that the sergeant made sure he had found. "oh, oh," she would cry, "my master is dead! i know, i know he is. in a dream he appeared to me. how wan and weird he looked, and his garments were drenched in blood and gore. oh, master, dear, kind, good master, i shall never, never see you more!" and the old lady wrung her hands and wept and sobbed as if her very heart would break. -----------------------------------------------------------------------reginald's ship had been about two days at sea. the wind was fair and strong, so that she had made a good offing, and was now steering south by west, bearing up for the distant shores of south america. and it was now that a discovery was made that appalled and shocked everyone in all the countryside. chapter six. a verdict of murder. about half-way up the short cut, or bridle-path, was a dark, dingy spruce-fir copse. it was separated from the roads by a high whitethorn hedge, trailed over with brambles, the black, shining, rasp-like fruit of which were now ripe and juicy. they were a great attraction to the wandering schoolboy. two lads, aged about eight or ten--great favourites with craig's housekeeper--were given a basket each in the forenoon and sent off to pick the berries and to return to tea about four o'clock. there was a gate that entered from the path, but it was seldom, if ever, opened, save probably by the wood-cutters. well, those two poor little fellows returned hours and hours before tea-time. they were pale and scared-looking. in their terror they had even dropped their baskets. "oh, the man! the man!" they cried, as soon as they entered. "the poor, dead man!" although some presentiment told the aged housekeeper that this must indeed be the dead body of her unhappy master, she summoned courage to run herself to the police-station. an officer was soon on the fatal spot, guided by the braver of the two little lads. with his big knife the policeman hacked away some of the lower branches of the spruce-fir, and thus let in the light. it was indeed craig, and there was little doubt that he had been foully murdered. but while one officer took charge of the corpse, he did not touch it, but dispatched another to telegraph to aberdeen at once for a detective. he arrived by the very next train, accompanied by men with a letter. the news had spread like wildfire, and quite a crowd had by this time gathered in the lane, but they were kept far back from the gate lest their footsteps should deface any traces of the murder. even the imprint of a shoe might be invaluable in clearing up an awful mystery like this. mr c., the detective, and the surgeon immediately started their investigations. it was only too evident that craig nicol had been stabbed to the heart. his clothes were one mass of gore, and hard with blood. on turning the body over, a discovery was made that caused the detective's heart to palpitate with joy. here, underneath it, was found a highlander's _skean dhu_ (stocking dirk). the little sheath itself was found at a distance of a few yards, and it must evidently have been dropped by the murderer, in his haste to conceal the body. "ha! this is indeed a clue," said the detective. "this knife did the deed, george. see, it is encrusted with blood." "i think so, sir." "and look, on the silver back of the little sheath are the letters r.g." he took the dagger in his hand, and went back to the little crowd. "can anyone identify this knife?" he asked, showing it to them. no one could. "can you?" said the detective, going to the rear and addressing shufflin' sandie. sandie appeared to be in deep grief. "must i tell?" "you needn't now, unless you like, but you must at the inquest." "then, sir, i may as well say it now. the knife belongs to mr grahame." a thrill of horror went through the little crowd, and sandy burst into tears. "where does he live, this mr grahame?" "he did live at bilberry hall, sir," blubbered sandie; "but a few days ago he sailed away for the southern seas." "was he poor or rich, sandie?" "as poor as a church mouse, sir. i've heard him tell miss annie lane so. for i was always dandlin' after them." "thank you; that will do in the meantime." craig had evidently been robbed, for the pockets were turned inside out, and another discovery made was this: the back of the coat was covered with dust or dried mud, so that, in all human probability, he must have been murdered on the road, then dragged and hidden here. there was a terrible bruise on one side of the head, so it was evident enough to the surgeon, as well as to the detective, that the unfortunate man must first have been stunned and afterwards stabbed. there was evidence, too, that the killing had been done on the road; there were marks of the gravel having been scraped away, and this same gravel, blackened with blood, was found in the ditch. the detective took his notes of the case, then calling his man, proceeded to have the man laid on the litter. the body was not taken home, but to the barn of an adjoining cottage. here when the coroner was summoned and arrived from aberdeen, part of the inquest was held. after viewing the body, the coroner and jury went to birnie-boozle, and here more business was gone through. the housekeeper was the first to be examined. she was convulsed with grief, and could only testify as to the departure and date of departure of her master for the distant city, with the avowed intention of drawing money. "that will do, my good woman; you can retire." the next witness to be examined was shufflin' sandie. he was exceedingly cool, and took a large pinch of snuff before answering a question. "were not craig nicol and reginald grahame particular friends?" "once upon a time, sir; but he was awfully jealous was craig, and never brought grahame to the hall; but after the fight with thae devils of poachers, grahame was carried, wounded, to bilberry hall, and nursed by miss annie. not much wonder, sir, that they fell in love. i would have done the same myself. i--" "now, don't be garrulous." "oh, devil a garrylus; i'll not say another word if ye like." "well, go on." "well, sir, they were engaged. then one day craig comes to the hall, and there was terrible angry words. craig cursed grahame and called him all the ill names he could lay his tongue to." "and did grahame retaliate?" "indeed did he, sir; he didn't swear, but he said that as soon as he was well, the _quarrel should end in blood_." (sensation in court.) "had craig any other enemy?" "that he had--old laird fletcher. they met at the riverside one day, and had a row, and fought. i saw and heard everything. craig nicol told the old laird that he would have nobody snuffling round his lady love. then they off-coat and fought. man! it was fine! the laird put in some good ones, but the young 'un had it at last. then he flung the laird into the river, and when he got out he threatened to do for poor craig nicol." (sensation.) sandie paused to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, and took snuff before he could proceed. "you think," said the coroner, "that laird fletcher meant to carry out his threat?" "i don't know. i only know this--he was in doonright devilish earnest when he made it." "i am here," said laird fletcher, "and here, too, are five witnesses to prove that i have not been twice outside my own gate since craig nicol started for aberdeen. once i was at the hall, and my groom here drove me there and back; i was too ill to walk." the witnesses were examined on oath, and no alibi was ever more clearly proven. laird fletcher was allowed to leave the court without a stain on his character. "i am sorry to say, gentlemen," addressing the jury, "that there appears no way out of the difficulty, and that his poverty would alone have led grahame to commit the terrible deed, to say nothing of his threat that the quarrel would end in blood. poor craig nicol has been robbed, and foully, brutally murdered, and reginald grahame sails almost immediately after for the south seas. i leave the verdict with you." without leaving the box, and after a few minutes of muttered conversation, the foreman stood up. "have you agreed as to your verdict?" "unanimously, sir." "and it is?" "wilful murder, sir, committed by the hands of reginald grahame." "thank you. and now you may retire." ill news travels apace, and despite all that fanny and annie's maid could do, the terrible accusation against her lover soon reached our poor heroine's ears. at first she wept most bitterly, but it was not because she believed in reginald's guilt. no, by no means. it was because she felt sorrow for him. he was not here to defend himself, as she was sure he could. perhaps love is blind, and lovers cannot see. but true love is trusting. annie had the utmost faith in reginald grahame--a faith that all the accusations the world could make against him could not shake, nor coroners' verdicts either. "no, no, no," she exclaimed to her maid passionately, through her tears, "my darling is innocent, though things look black against him. ah! how unfortunate that he should have gone to the city during those three terrible days!" she was silent for a couple of minutes. "depend upon it, jeannie," she added, "someone else was the murderer. and for all his alibi, which i believe to be got up, i blame that laird fletcher." "oh, don't, dearest annie," cried the maid, "believe me when i say i could swear before my maker that he is not guilty." "i am hasty, because in sorrow," said annie. "i may alter my mind soon. anyhow, he does not look the man to be guilty of so terrible a crime, and he has been always kind and fatherly to me, since the day i ran away from the arbour. knowing that i am engaged, he will not be less so now. but, oh, my love, my love! reginald, when shall i ever see thee again? i would die for thee, with thee; as innocent thou as the babe unborn. oh reginald my love, my love!" her perfect confidence in her lover soon banished annie's grief. he would return. he might be tried, she told herself, but he would leave the court in robes of white, so to speak, able to look any man in the face, without spot or stain on his character. then they would be wedded. -----------------------------------------------------------------------a whole month flew by, during which--so terrible is justice--an expedition was sent to san francisco overland, with policemen, to meet the _wolverine_ there, and at once to capture their man. they waited and waited a weary time. six months flew by, nine months, a year; still she came not, and at last she was classed among the ships that ne'er return. reginald grahame will never be seen again--so thought the 'tecs--"till the sea gives up the dead." chapter seven. buying the bonnie things. to say that annie was not now in grief would be wrong. still hope told a flattering tale. and that tale sufficed to keep her heart up. he must have been wrecked somewhere, but had she not prayed night and day for him? yes, he was safe--must be. heaven would protect him. prayers are heard, and he _would_ return safe and sound, to defy his enemies and his slanderers as well. fletcher had been received back into favour. somewhat penurious he was known to be, but so kind and gentle a man as he could never kill. had she not seen him remove a worm from the garden path lest it might be trodden upon by some incautious foot? he kept her hopes up, too, and assured her that he believed as she did, that all would come right in the end. if everybody else believed that the _wolverine_ was a doomed ship, poor annie didn't. there came many visitors to the hall, young and middle-aged, and more than one made love to annie. she turned a deaf ear to all. but now an event occurred that for a time banished some of the gloom that hung around bilberry hall. about two months before this, one morning, after old laird mcleod had had breakfast, shufflin' sandie begged for an audience. "most certainly," said mcleod. "show the honest fellow in." so in marched sandie, bonnet in hand, and determined on this occasion to speak the very best english he could muster. "well, sandie?" "well, laird. i think if a man has to break the ice, he'd better do it at once and have done with it. eh? what think _you_?" "that's right, sandie." "well, would you believe that a creature like me could possibly fall in love over the ears, and have a longing to get married?" "why not, sandie? i don't think you so bad-looking as some other folks call you." sandie smiled and took a pinch. "not to beat about the bush, then, laird, i'm just awfully gone on fanny." "and does she return your affection?" "that she does, sir; and sitting on a green bank near the forest one bonnie moonlit night, she promised to be my wife. you wouldn't turn me away, would you, sir, if i got married?" "no, no; you have been a faithful servant for many a day." "well, now, laird, here comes the bit. i want to build a bit housie on the knoll, close by the forest, just a but and a ben and a kennel. then i would breed terriers, and make a bit out of that. fanny would see to them while i did your work. but man, laird, i've scraped and scraped, and saved and saved, and i've hardly got enough yet to begin life with." "how much do you need?" "oh, laird, thirty pounds would make fanny and me as happy as a duke and duchess." "sandie, i'll lend it to you. i'll take no interest. and if you're able some time to pay it back, just do it. that will show you are as honest as i believe you are." the tears sprang, or seemed to spring, to sandie's eyes, and he had to take another big noseful of snuff to hide his emotions. "may the lord bless ye, laird! i'll just run over now and tell fanny." -----------------------------------------------------------------------it does not take so long to build a highland cot as it would to erect a crystal palace, and in three weeks' time shufflin' sandie's house was complete and furnished. he had even laid out a garden or kail-yard, and planted a few suitable trees. then, when another month had passed away, sandie once more sought audience of the good laird, and formally begged for fanny's hand. next the wedding-day was settled, and the minister's services requisitioned. and one day shufflin' sandie set off for aberdeen by train to buy the "bonnie things," as they are termed. perhaps there are no more beautiful streets in great britain than union street and king street, especially as seen by moonlight. they then look as if built of the whitest and purest of marble. while the beautiful villas of rubislaw, with their charming flower-gardens, are of all sorts of architecture, and almost rival the snow in their sheen. fanny was charmed. strange to say this simple servant lassie had never been to the city before. it was all a kind of fairyland to her, and, look wherever she might, things of beauty met her eyes. and the windows--ah, the windows! she must pull sandie by the sleeve every other minute, for she really could not pass a draper's shop nor a jeweller's without stopping to glance in and admire. "oh!" she would cry, "look, look, sandie, dear, at the chains and the watches, and the bracelets and diamonds and pearls. surely all the gold in ophir is there!" one particularly well-dressed window--it was a ladies' drapery shop-almost startled her. she drew back and blushed a little as her eyes fell on a full-length figure of a lady in fashionable array. "oh, sandie, is she living?" "de'il a living?" said sandie. "her body's timber, and her face and hands are made out of cobbler's wax. that's how living she is." "but what a splendid dress! and yonder is another. surely solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!" "well, fanny, lassie, beautiful though this shop be, it is a pretty cheap one, so we'll buy your marriage dress here." the shop-walker was very obsequious. "marriage dress, sir. certainly, sir. third counter down, my lady." fanny had never been so addressed before, and she rose several inches in her own estimation. "i--that is, she--is needing a marriage dress, missie." "ready-made?" "ay, that'll do, if it isn't over dear. grand though we may look in our sunday clothes, we're not o'er-burdened with cash; but we're going to be married for all that." sandie chuckled and took snuff, and fanny blushed, as usual. "i'm sure i wish you joy," said the girl in black. "i'm certain ye do. you're a bit bonnie lassie yerself, and some day ye'll get a man. ye mind what the song says: "`oh, bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, ye little know what may betide ye yet; some bonnie wee mannie may fa' to your lot, so ay be canty and thinkin' o't.'" the girl in black certainly took pleasure in fitting fanny, and, when dressed, she took a peep in the tall mirror--well, she didn't know herself! she was as beautiful as one of the wax figures in the window. sandy was dazed. he took snuff, and, scarce knowing what he was doing, handed the box to the lassie in black who was serving them. well, in an hour's time all the bonnie things that could be purchased in this shop were packed in large pasteboard boxes, and dispatched to the station waiting-room. but before sallying forth sandie and fanny thought it must be the correct thing to shake hands with the girl in black, much to her amusement. "good-bye, my lady; good-bye, sir. i hope you were properly served." this from the shop-walker. "that we were," said sandie. "and, man, we'll be married--fanny and me--next week. well, we're to be cried three times in one day from the pulpit. to save time, ye see. well, i'll shake hands now, and say good-day, sir, and may the lord be ay around you. good-bye." "the same to you," said the shop-walker, trying hard to keep from laughing. "the same to you, sir, and many of them." there were still a deal of trinkets to be bought, and many gee-gaws, but above all the marriage ring. sandie did feel very important as he put down that ten shillings and sixpence on the counter, and received the ring in what he called a bonnie wee boxie. "me and fanny here are going to be married," he couldn't help saying. "i'm sure i wish ye joy, sir, and"--here the shopman glanced at fanny--"i envy you, indeed i do." sandie must now have a drop of scotch. then they had dinner. sandie couldn't help calling the waiter "sir," nor fanny either. "hold down your ear, sir," sandie said, as the waiter was helping him to gorgonzola. "we're going to be married, fanny and i. cried three times in one sunday. what think ye of that?" of course, the waiter wished him joy, and sandie gave him a shilling. "i hope you'll not be offended, sir, but just drink my health, you know." the joys of the day ended up with a visit to the theatre. fanny was astonished and delighted. oh, what a day that was! fanny never forgot it. they left by a midnight train for home, and all the way, whenever fanny shut her eyes, everything rose up before her again as natural as life--the charming streets, the gay windows, and the scenes she had witnessed in the theatre, and the gay crowds in every street. and so it was in her dreams, when at last she fell asleep. but both fanny and sandie went about their work next day in their week-day clothes as quietly as if nothing very extraordinary had happened, or was going to happen in a few days' time. of course, after he had eaten his brose, sandie must "nip up," as he phrased it, to have a look at the cottage. old grannie stewart--she was only ninety-three--was stopping here for the present, airing it, burning fires in both rooms, for fear the young folks might catch a chill. "ah, grannie!" cried sandie, "i'm right glad to see you. and look, i've brought a wee drappie in a flat bottle. ye must just taste. it'll warm your dear old heart." the old lady's eyes glittered. "well," she said, "it's not much of that comes my way, laddie. my blood is not so thick as it used to be. for--would you believe it!--i think i'm beginnin' to grow auld." "nonsense," said sandie. old or young the old dame managed to whip off her drop of scotch, though it brought the water to her eyes. -----------------------------------------------------------------------and now all preparations were being made for the coming marriage. for several days sandie had to endure much chaff and wordy persecution from the lads and lasses about his diminutive stature and his uncouth figure. sandie didn't mind. sandie was happy. sandie took snuff. chapter eight. a scottish peasant's wedding and a ball. old laird mcleod had a right good heart of his own, and willingly permitted the marriage to take place in his drawing-room. there were very few guests, however. the grey-haired old minister was there in time to taste the wine of scotland before the ceremony began, which, after all, though short, was very solemn. no reading of prayers. the prayer that was said was from the heart, not from a book; that sort of prayer which opens heaven. a long exhortation followed, hands were joined, the minister laid his above, and sandie and fanny were man and wife. then the blessing. i don't know why it was, but fanny was in tears most of the time. the marriage took place in the afternoon; and dinner was to follow. annie good-naturedly took fanny to her own room and washed away her tears. in due time both sailed down to dinner. and a right jolly dinner it was, too. fanny had never seen anything like it before. of course that lovely haunch of tender venison was the _piece de resistance_, while an immense plum-pudding brought up the rear. dessert was spread, with some rare wines--including whisky--but sandie could scarce be prevailed upon to touch anything. he was almost awed by the presence of the reverend and aged minister, who tried, whenever he could, to slip in a word or two about the brevity of life, the eternity that was before them all, the judgment day, and so on, and so forth. but the minister, for all that, patronised the highland whisky. "no, no," he said, waving the port wine away. "`look not thou upon the wine when it is red; when it giveth his colour to the cup... at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.'" it was observed, however, that as he spoke he filled his glass with glenlivet. well, i suppose no man need care to look upon the wine when it is red, if his tumbler be flanked by a bottle of scotch. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the dinner ended, there was the march homeward to sandie's wee house on the knoll, pipers first, playing right merrily; sandie and his bride arm-in-arm next; then, four deep, lads and lasses gay, to the number of fifty at least. and what cheering and laughing as they reached the door. but finally all departed to prepare for the ball that was to take place later on in the great barn of bilberry hall. and it was a barn, too!--or, rather, a loft, for it was built partly on a brae, so that after climbing some steps you found yourself on level ground, and entered a great door. early in the evening, long ere lad and lass came linking to the door, the band had taken their places on an elevated platform at one side of, but in the middle of, the hall. the floor was swept and chalked, the walls all around densely decorated with evergreens, scotch pine and spruce and heather galore, with here and there hanging lamps. boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now and then, amazed and curious. to them, too, the tuning of the musicians' fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls. how they did long, to be sure, for the opening time. as the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the aberdeen "sweetie" wives scent a peasant's ball. and these had already assembled to the number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of sweets. these would be all sold before morning. these sweetie wives were not young by any means--save one or two- "but withered beldames, auld and droll, rig-woodie hags would spean a foal." they really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps with flapping borders. a half-hour goes slowly past. the band is getting impatient. a sweet wee band it is--three small fiddles, a 'cello, a double bass, and clarionet. the master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the wine of the country. then the leader gives a signal, and they strike into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as "auld robin grey," "the flowers o' the forest," "donald," etc, enough to draw tears from anyone's eyes. but now, hurrah! in sails fanny with shufflin' sandie on her arm, looking as bright as a new brass button. there is a special seat for them, and for the laird, annie, and the quality generally, at the far end of the hall--a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and draped with mcleod tartan. here they take their seats. there is a row of seats all round the hall and close to the walls. and now crowd in the highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their breasts and shoulders. very beautiful many look, with complexions such as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as they whisper to each other and smile. as each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads really infinitely more shy than the lasses. -----------------------------------------------------------------------now laird mcleod slowly rises. there is a hush now, and all eyes are turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man. "ladies and gentlemen all," he says, "i trust you will enjoy a really happy evening, and i am sure it will be an innocent one. `youth's the season made for joy.' i have only to add that the bridegroom himself will open the ball with a hornpipe." a deafening cheer rang out, the musicians struck up that inimitable college hornpipe, and next moment, arrayed in his best clothes, shufflin' sandie was in the middle of the floor. he waited, bowing to the mcleod and the ballroom generally, till the first measure was played. then surely never did man-o'-war sailor dance as sandie danced! his legs seemed in two or three places at one time, and so quickly did he move that scarce could they be seen. he seemed, indeed, to have as many limbs as a daddy-long-legs. he shuffled, he tripled and double-tripled, while the cracking of his thumbs sounded for all the world like a nigger's performance with the bones. then every wild, merry "hooch!" brought down the house. such laughing and clapping of hands few have ever heard before. sandie's uncouth little figure and droll face added to the merriment, and when he had finished there was a general cry of "encore!" sandie danced another step or two, then bowed, took a huge pinch of snuff, and retired. but the ball was not quite opened yet. a foursome reel was next danced by the bride and annie herself, with as partners shufflin' sandie and mcleod's nephew, a handsome young fellow from aberdeen. it was the reel of tulloch, and, danced in character, there is not much to beat it. then came a cry of "fill the floor!" and every lad rushed across the hall for his partner. the ball was now indeed begun. and so, with dance after dance, it went on for hours: "lads and lassies in a dance; nae cotillion brent new frae france; but hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels put life and mettle in their heels." sandie hardly missed a dance. he was indeed the life and soul of the ballroom. the sweetie wives were almost sold out already, for every jock must treat his own jeannie, or the other fellow's jeannie, to bags and handfuls of sweets. and the prettier the girl was the more she received, till she was fain to hand them over to her less good-looking sisters. but at midnight there came a lull--a lull for refreshments. white-aproned servants staggered in with bread, butter, and cheese, and bucketfuls of strong whisky punch. there was less reserve now. the lads had their lasses at either side of the hall, and for the most part on their knees. even the girls must taste the punch, and the lads drank heartily--not one mugful each, but three! nevertheless, they felt like giants refreshed. "and now the fun grew fast and furious"--and still more so when, arrayed in all the tartan glory of the highland dress, two stalwart pipers stalked in to relieve the band, grand men and athletes! "they screwed their pipes and made them skirl, till roofs and rafters all did dirl. the pipers loud and louder blew, the dancers quick and quicker flew." but at two o'clock again came a lull; more biscuits, more bread-and-cheese, and many more buckets of toddy or punch. and during this lull, accompanied by the violins, sandie sang the grand old love-song called "the rose of allandale." it was duly appreciated, and sandie was applauded to the "ring of the bonnet," as he himself phrased it. then annie herself was led to the front by her uncle. everyone was silent and seemingly dazzled by her rare but childlike beauty. her song was "ever of thee i'm fondly dreaming." perhaps few were near enough to see, but the tears were in the girl's eyes, and almost streaming over more than once before she had finished. and now mcleod and his party took their leave, sandie and his bride following close behind. the ball continued after this, however, till nearly daylight in the morning. then "bob at the booster"--a kind of kiss-in-the-ring dance-brought matters to a close, and, wrapped in plaids and shawls, the couples filed away to their homes, over the fields and through the heather. -----------------------------------------------------------------------next day shufflin' sandie was working away among his horses as quietly and contentedly as if he had not been married at all yesterday, or spent the evening in a ballroom. before, however, leaving his little cottage by the wood, he had dutifully made his wife a cup of tea, and commanded her to rest for hours before turning out to cook their humble dinner. and dutifully she obeyed. the laird and sandie came to an arrangement that same forenoon as to how much work he was to do for him and how much for himself. "indeed, sir," he told mcleod, "i'll just get on the same as i did before i got the wife. my kail-yard's but small as yet, and it'll be little trouble to dig and rake in the evening." "very well, sandie. help yourself to a glass there." sandie needed no second bidding. he was somewhat of an enthusiast as far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as regarded the wine of "poor auld scotland." -----------------------------------------------------------------------nearly three years passed away. the ship had not returned. she never would, nor could. chapter nine. a bolt from the blue. nearly three years! what a long, lonesome time it had been for annie! yet she still had somewhat of hope--at times, that is. her cousin, mr beale, from the city, had spent his holiday very delightfully at bilberry hall; he had gone shooting, and fishing also, with annie; yet, much though he admired her, and could have loved her, he treated her with the greatest respect, condoled with her in her sorrow, and behaved just like a brother to her. her somewhat elderly lover was different. lover he was yet, though now fifty and three years of age, but fatherly and kind to a degree. "we all have griefs to bear in this world, annie dear," he said once. "they are burdens god sends us to try our patience. but your sorrow must soon be over. do you know, dear, that it is almost sinful to grieve so long for the dead?" "dead!" cried annie. "who knows, or can tell?" "oh, darling, i can no longer conceal it from you. perhaps i should have told you a year ago. here is the newspaper. here is the very paragraph. the figurehead of the unfortunate _wolverine_ and one of her boats have been picked up in the midst of the pacific ocean, and there can remain no doubt in the mind of anyone that she foundered with all hands. the insurance has been paid." annie sat dumb for a time--dumb and dry-eyed. she could not weep much, though tears would have relieved her. she found voice at last. "the lord's will be done," she said, simply but earnestly. laird fletcher said no more _then_. but he certainly was very far from giving up hope of eventually leading annie to the altar. and now the poor sorrowing lassie had given up all hope. she was, like most scotch girls of her standing in society, pious. she had learnt to pray at her mother's knee, and, when mother and father were taken away, at her uncle's. and now she consoled herself thus. "dear uncle," she said, "poor reginald is dead; but i shall meet him in a better world than this." "i trust so, darling." "and do you know, uncle, that now, as it is all over, i am almost relieved. a terrible charge hung over him, and oh! although my very soul cries out aloud that he was not guilty, the evidence might have led him to a death of shame. and i too should have died." "you must keep up your heart. come, i am going to paris for a few weeks with friend fletcher, and you too must come. needn't take more than your travelling and evening dresses," he added. "we'll see plenty of pretty things in the gay city." so it was arranged. so it was carried out. they went by steamer, this mode of travelling being easier for the old highlander. fletcher and mcleod combined their forces in order to give poor annie "a real good time," as brother jonathan would say. and it must be confessed at the end of the time, when they had seen everything and gone everywhere, annie was calmer and happier than she ever remembered being for years and years, and on their return from paris she settled down once more to her old work and her old ways. but the doctor advised more company, so she either visited some friends, or had friends to visit her, almost every night. old laird mcleod delighted in music, and if he did sit in his easy-chair with eyes shut and hands clasped in front of him, he was not asleep, but listening. -----------------------------------------------------------------------how little do we know when evil is about to befall us! it was one lovely day in spring. annie had kissed her uncle on his bald, shining head, and gone off to gather wildflowers, chaperoned by jeannie, her maid, and accompanied by laird fletcher. this man was a naturalist--not a mere classifier. he did not fill cases with beetles or moths, give them latin names, and imagine that was all. he knew the life story and habits of almost every flower and tree, and every creature that crept, crawled, or flew. so he made just the kind of companion for annie that she delighted in. when he found himself thus giving her pleasure he felt hopeful--nay, sure--that in the end his suit would be successful. it was indeed a beautiful morning. soft and balmy winds sighing through the dark pine tree tops, a sky of moving clouds, with many a rift of darkest blue between, birds singing on the bonnie silver birches, their wild, glad notes sounding from every copse, the linnet on the yellow patches of whins or gorse that hugged the ground and perfumed the air for many a yard around, and the wild pigeon murmuring his notes of love in every thicket of spruce. rare and beautiful wildflowers everywhere, such as never grow in england, for every country has its own sweet flora. the little party returned a few minutes before one o'clock, not only happy, but hungry too. to her great alarm annie found her uncle still sitting on his chair, but seemingly in a stupor of grief. near his chair lay a foolscap letter. "oh, uncle dear, are you ill?" "no, no, child. don't be alarmed; it has pleased god to change our fortunes, that is all, and i have been praying and trying hard to say `thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,'--i cannot yet. i may ere long." but annie was truly alarmed. she picked up the lawyer's letter and read it twice over ere she spoke. and her bonnie face grew ghastly pale now. "oh, uncle dear," she said at last, "what does this mean? tell me, tell me." "it means, my child, that we are paupers in comparison to the state in which we have lived for many years. that this mansion and grounds are no longer our own, that i must sell horses and hounds and retire to some small cottage on the outskirts of the city--that is all." "cheer up, uncle," said annie, sitting down on his knee with an arm round his neck, as she used to do when a child. "you still have me, and i have you. if we can but keep jeannie we may be happy yet, despite all that fate can do." "god bless you, my child! you have indeed been a comfort to me. but for you, i'd care nothing for poverty. i may live for ten years and more yet, to the age of my people and clansmen, but as contentedly in a cottage as in a castle. god has seen fit to afflict us, but in his mercy he will temper the wind to the shorn lamb." luncheon was brought in, but neither mcleod nor his niece did much justice to it. the weather, however, remained bright and clear, and as the two went out to the beautiful arbour and seated themselves, they could hear the birds--mavis, chaffinch, and blackie--singing their wild, ringing lilts, as if there was no such thing as sorrow in all this wide and beautiful world. "uncle," said annie at last, "tell me the sad story. i can bear it now." "then, dear, i shall, but must be very brief. i love not to linger over sorrow and tribulation. the young fellow francis robertson, then, who now lays claim to the estate, is, to tell the honest truth, a _roue_ and a blackguard from the australian diggings. he is but twenty-two. even when a boy he was rough and wild, and at fifteen he was sentenced to six years' imprisonment for shooting a man at the gold diggings. he has but recently come out of gaol and found solicitors in australia and here to take up the cudgels for him. his father disappeared long, long ago, and i, not knowing that, before his death, he had married, and had one son, succeeded to this estate. but, ah me! the crash has come." "but may this young fellow not be an impostor?" "nay, child, nay. you see what the letter says: that if i go to law i can only lose; but that if i trouble and tire robertson with a lawsuit he will insist upon back rents being paid up. no," he added, after a pause, "he is fair enough. he may be good enough, too, though passionate. many a wild and bloody scene is enacted at the diggings, but in this case the police seem to have been wonderfully sharp. ah, well; he will be here to-morrow, and we will see." that was an anxious and sleepless night for poor annie. in vain did her maid try to sing her off into dreamland. she tossed and dozed all night long. then came the eventful day. and at twelve o'clock came young francis robertson, with a party of witnesses from australia. mcleod could tell him at once to be the heir. he was the express image of his dead father. the laird and his solicitor, hastily summoned from aberdeen, saw them alone in the drawing-room, only annie being there. robertson was tall, handsome, and even gentlemanly. the witnesses were examined. their testimony under oath was calm, clear, and to the point. not a question they did not answer correctly. the certificate of birth, too, was clear, and succinct. there were no longer any doubts about anything. then laird mcleod--laird now, alas! only by courtesy--retired with his advocate to another room to consult. said the advocate: "my dear laird, this is a sad affair; but are you convinced that this young fellow is the rightful owner?" "he is, as sure as yonder sun is shining." "and so am i convinced," said the advocate. "then there must be no lawsuit?" "no, none." "that is right. at your age a long and troublesome lawsuit would kill you." "then, my dear duncan," said laird mcleod, "look out for a pretty cottage for me at once." "i will do everything for you, and i know of the very place you want--a charming small villa on the beautiful rubislaw road. choose the things you want. have a sale and get rid of the others. keep up your heart, and all will yet be well. but we must act expeditiously." and so they did. and in a fortnight's time all was settled, and the little villa furnished. till the day of the sale francis robertson was a guest at the hall. now i must state a somewhat curious, but not altogether rare, occurrence. the young man, who really might be rash, but was not bad-hearted, sought audience of the laird on the very day before the sale. "my dear uncle," he said, "i would rather you did not leave. be as you were before. i will occupy but a small portion of the house. stay with me." "francis robertson," replied mcleod, "we _go_. i'll be no man's guest in a house that once was mine." "be it so, sir. but i have something further to add." "speak on." "from the first moment i saw her i fell in love with miss annie lane. will you give me her hand?" "have you spoken to herself?" "i have not dared to." mcleod at once rang the bell and summoned annie, his niece. "annie, dear, this gentleman, your relation, says he loves you, and asks for your hand. think you that you could love him?" annie drew herself haughtily up. she said but one word, a decisive and emphatic one: "_no_." "you have had your answer," said mcleod. francis bowed and went somewhat mournfully away. chapter ten. "what must be must--'tis fate." the old laird mcleod possessed that true christian feeling which we so rarely see displayed in this age, and as he left the door of the old mansion where he had lived so long and so happily he held out his hand to francis. "god bless you, lad, anyhow. be good, and you'll prosper." "the wicked prosper," said francis. "all artificial, lad, and only for a time. never can they be said to be truly happy." "good-bye--or rather, _au revoir_." "_au revoir_." then the old man clambered slowly into the carriage. poor annie was already there. she cast just one longing, lingering look behind, then burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. but the day was beautiful, the trees arrayed in the tender tints of spring, while high above, against a fleecy cloud, she could see a laverock (lark), though she could not hear it. but his body was quivering, and eke his wings, with the joy that he could not control. woods on every side, and to the right the bonnie winding dee, its wavelets sparkling in the sunshine. everything was happy; why should not she be? so she dried her tears, and while her uncle dozed she took her favourite author from her satchel, and was soon absorbed in his poems. -----------------------------------------------------------------------after they had settled down in mcleod cottage, as the snow-white pretty villa had now been called, i do believe that they were happier than when in the grand old mansion, with all its worries and work and trouble. they were not very well off financially, that was all. but it was a new pleasure for annie and her maid to do shopping along union street the beautiful, and even round the quaint old new market. she used to return happy and exultant, to show her uncle the bargains she had made. one night annie had an inspiration. she was a good musician on piano and zither. why not give lessons? she would. nor was she very long in finding a pupil or two. this added considerably to the fund for household expenditure. but nevertheless the proud old highlander mcleod thought it was somewhat _infra dignitate_. but he bore with this because it seemed to give happiness to the child, as he still continued to call her. so things went on. and so much rest did the laird now have that for a time, at least, his life seemed all one happy dream. they soon made friends, too, with their neighbours, and along the street wherever annie went she was known, for she was always followed by a grand and noble dog, a great dane, as faithful and as true as any animal could well be. one evening she and jeannie, her maid, were walking along a lovely tree-shaded lane, just as the beams of the setting sun were glimmering crimson through the leafy grandeur of the great elms. for some purpose of his own the dog was in an adjoining field, when suddenly, at the bend of the road, they were accosted by a gigantic and ragged tramp, who demanded money on the pain of death. both girls shrieked, and suddenly, like a shell from a great gun, darted the dog from the hedge, and next moment that tramp was on his back, his ragged neckerchief and still more ragged waistcoat were torn from his body, and but for annie his throat would have been pulled open. but while jeannie trembled, annie showed herself a true mcleod, though her name was lane. she called the dog away; then she quickly possessed herself of the tramp's cudgel. annie was not tall, but she was strong and determined. "get up at once," she cried, "and march back with us. if you make the least attempt to escape, that noble dog shall tear your windpipe out!" very sulkily the tramp obeyed. "i'm clean copped. confound your beast of a dog!" within a few yards of her own door they met a policeman, who on hearing of the assault speedily marched the prisoner off to gaol. when she related the adventure to her uncle he was delighted beyond measure, and must needs bless her and kiss her. -----------------------------------------------------------------------they had parted with the carriage. needs must where poverty and the devil drives! but they still had a little phaeton, and in this the old man and his niece enjoyed many a delightful drive. he would take her to concerts, too, and to the theatre also, so that, on the whole, life was by no means a galling load to anyone. but a very frequent visitor at mcleod cottage was laird fletcher. not only so, but he took the old man and annie frequently out by train. his carriage would be waiting at the station, and in this they drove away to his beautiful home. the house itself was modern, but the grounds, under the sweet joy of june, looked beautiful indeed. it was at some considerable distance from the main road, and so in the gardens all was delightfully still, save for the music of happy song-birds or the purr of the turtle-dove, sounding low from the spreading cedars. "a pleasing land of drowsyhead it was, of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; and of gay castles in the clouds that pass, for ever flushing round a summer sky. there eke the soft delights, that witchingly instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, and the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; but whate'er smacked of 'noyance or unrest was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest." through these lovely rose-gardens and tree-shaded lawns frequently now wandered annie, alone with fletcher. he was so gentle, winning, and true that she had come to like him. mind, i say nothing of love. and she innocently and frankly told him so as they sat together in a natural bower beneath a spreading deodar cedar. he was happy, but he would not risk his chance by being too precipitate. another day in the same arbour, after a moment or two of silence, she said: "oh, i wish you were my uncle!" fletcher winced a little, but summoned up courage to say: "ah, annie, could we not be united by a dearer tie than that? believe me, i love you more than life itself. whether that life be long or short depends upon you, annie." but she only bent her head and cried, childlike. "ah, mr fletcher," she said at last, "i have no heart to give away. it lies at the bottom of the sea." "but love would come." "we will go to the house now, i think," and she rose. fletcher, poor fellow, silently, almost broken-heartedly, followed, and, of course, the great dane was there. -----------------------------------------------------------------------that night she told her uncle all. he said not a word. she told her maid in the bedroom. "oh, miss annie," said jeanie, "i think you are very, very foolish. you refuse to marry this honest and faithful man, but your mourning will not, cannot restore the dead. reginald grahame is happier, a thousand, million times more happy, than anyone can ever be on this earth. besides, dear, there is another way of looking at the matter. your poor uncle mcleod is miles and miles from the pines, from the heath and the heather. he may not complain, but the artificial life of a city is telling on him. what a quiet and delightful life he would have at laird fletcher's!" annie was dumb. she was thinking. should she sacrifice her young life for the sake of her dear uncle? ah, well, what did life signify to her now? _he_ was dead and gone. thus she spoke: "you do not think my uncle is ill, jeannie?" "i do not say he is _ill_, but i do say that he feels his present life irksome at times, and you may not have him long, miss annie. now go to sleep like a baby and dream of it." and i think annie cried herself asleep that night. -----------------------------------------------------------------------"it becomes not a maiden descended from the noble clan mcleod to be otherwise than brave," she told herself next morning. "oh, for dear uncle's sake i feel i could--" but she said no more to herself just then. fletcher called that very day, and took them away again to his bonnie highland home. it was a day that angels would have delighted in. and just on that same seat beneath the same green-branched cedar fletcher renewed his wooing. but he, this time, alluded to the artificial city life that the old laird had to lead, he who never before during his old age had been out of sight of the waving pines and the bonnie blooming heather. fletcher was very eloquent to-day. love makes one so. yet his wooing was strangely like that of auld robin grey, especially when he finished plaintively, appealingly, with the words: "oh, annie, for his sake will you not marry me?" annie o' the banks o' dee wept just a little, then she wiped her tears away. he took her hand, and she half-whispered: "what must be _must_--'tis fate." chapter eleven. the "wolverine" puts out to sea. with the exception of the _sunbeam_, probably no more handsome steam yacht ever left southampton harbour than the _wolverine_. she was all that a sailor's fancy could paint. quite a crowd of people were on the quay to witness her departure on her very long and venturesome cruise. venturesome for this reason, that, though rigged as a steam barque, she was but little over four hundred tons register. seamen on shore, as they glanced at her from stem to stem, alow and aloft, criticised her freely. but jack's opinion was on the whole well embodied in a sentence spoken by a man-o'-wars-man, as he hitched up his nether garments and turned his quid in his mouth: "my eyes, bill and elizabeth martin, she is a natty little craft! i've been trying to find a flaw in her, or a hole, so to speak, but there's ne'er a one, bill--above water, anyhow. without the steam she reminds me of the old aberdeen clippers. look at her bilge, her lines, her bows, her jibboom, with its smart and business-like curve. ah, bill, how different to sail in a yacht like that from living cooped up in a blooming iron tank, as we are in our newest-fashioned man-o'-war teakettles! heigho! blowed if i wouldn't like to go on board of her! why, here is the doctor--splendid young fellow!--coming along the pier now. i'll overhaul him and hail him. come on, bill!" reginald grahame was coming somewhat slowly towards them. it was just a day or two before the discovery of craig nicol's murder and the finding of his body in the wood. reginald was thinking of bilberry hall and annie o' the banks o' dee. sorrow was depicted in every lineament of his handsome but mobile and somewhat nervous countenance. was he thinking also of the cold, stiff body of his quondam friend craig, hidden there under the dark spruce trees, the tell-tale knife beside him? who can say what the innermost workings of his mind were? some of the most bloodthirsty pirates of old were the handsomest men that ever trod the deck of a ship. we can judge no man's heart from his countenance. and no woman's either. there be she-devils who bear the sweet and winning features of saints. our scottish queen mary was beautiful, and as graceful as beautiful. "if to her share some human errors fall, look in her face, and you'll forget them all." "beggin' yer pardon, sir," said jack, touching his hat and scraping a bit, like a horse with a loose shoe, "we're only just two blooming bluejackets, but we've been a-admiring of your craft--outside like. d'ye think, sir, they'd let us on board for a squint?" "come with me, my lads. i'll take you on board." next minute, in company with reginald--who was now called _dr._-grahame, they were walking the ivory-white decks. those two honest man-o'-war sailors were delighted beyond measure with all they saw. "why," said jack--he was chief spokesman, for bill was mute--"why, doctor, you have _sailors_ on board!--and mind you, sir, you don't find real sailors nowadays anywhere else except in the merchant service. we bluejackets are just like our ships--fighting machines. we ain't hearts of oak any longer, sir." "no," said the doctor, "but you are hearts of iron. ha! here comes the postman, with a letter for me, too. thank you, postie." he gave him sixpence, and tore the letter open, his hand shaking somewhat. yes, it was from annie. he simply hurriedly scanned it at present, but he heaved a sigh of relief as he placed it in his bosom. then he rejoined the bluejackets. "well, sir, we won't hinder you. i see you've got the blue peter up. but never did i see cleaner white decks; every rope's end coiled, too. the capstan itself is a thing o' beauty; all the brasswork looks like gold, all the polished woodwork like ebony; and, blow me, bill, just look at that binnacle! blest if it wouldn't be a beautiful ornament for a young lady's boodwar (boudoir)! well, sir, we wishes you a pleasant, happy voyage and a safe return. god bless you, says jack, and good-bye." "good-bye to you, lads; and when you go to war, may you send the foe to the bottom of the ocean. there,"--he handed jack a coin as he spoke--"drink _bon voyage_ to us." "ah, that will we!" the sailors once more scraped and bowed, and reginald hurried below to read annie's letter. it was just a lover's letter--just such a letter as many of my readers have had in their day--so i need not describe it. reginald sat in his little cabin--it was only six feet square--with his elbow leaning on his bunk, his hand under his chin, thinking, thinking, thinking. then an idea struck him. the skipper of the yacht--called "captain" by courtesy--and reginald were already the best of friends. indeed, dickson--for that was his name--was but six or seven years older than reginald. "rat-tat-tat!" at the captain's door. his cabin was pretty large, and right astern, on what in a frigate would be called "the fighting deck." this cabin was of course right abaft the main saloon, and had a private staircase, or companion, that led to the upper deck. "hullo, doctor, my boy!" "well, just call me grahame, _mon ami_." "if you'll call me dickson, that'll square it." "well, then, dickson, i'm terribly anxious to get out and away to sea. if not soon, i feel i may run off--back to my lady love. when do we sail for sure?" the captain got up and tapped the glass. "our passengers come on board this afternoon, bag and baggage, and to-morrow morning early we loose off, and steam out to sea--if it be a day on which gulls can fly." "thanks, a thousand times. and now i won't hinder you." "have a drop of rum before you go, and take a cigar with you." reginald's heart needed keeping up, so he did both. "when i am on the sea," he said, "i shall feel more happy. ay, but annie, i never can forget you." more cheerily now, he walked briskly off to the hotel to meet his patients. there were two, mr and mrs hall, wealthy americans; besides, there were, as before mentioned, miss hall and the child matty. they were all very glad to see reginald. "you are very young," said mr hall, offering him a cigar. "i think," he answered, "i am very fit and fresh, and you will find me very attentive." "i'm sure of it," said mrs hall. little matty took his hand shyly between her own two tiny ones. "and matty's su'e too," she said, looking up into his face. they say that american children are thirteen years of age when born. i know they are precocious, and i like them all the better for it. this child was very winning, very pert and pretty, but less chubby, and more intellectual-looking than most british children. for the life of him reginald could not help lifting her high above his head and kissing her wee red lips as he lowered her into his arms. "you and i are going to be good friends always, aren't we?" "oh, yes, doc," she answered gaily; "and of torse the dleat (great) big, big dog." "yes, and you may ride round the decks on him sometimes." matty clapped her hands with joy. "what a boo'ful moustache you has!" she said. "you little flatterer!" he replied, as he set her down. "ah! you have all a woman's wiles." -----------------------------------------------------------------------everything was on board, and the _wolverine_ was ready to sail that night. but the captain must go on shore to see his friends and bid them adieu first. the night closed in early, but the sky was studded with stars, and a three-days'-old moon shone high in the west like a scimitar of gold. this gave reginald heart. still, it might blow big guns before morning, and although he sat up pretty late, to be initiated by mr hall into the game of poker, he went often to the glass and tapped it. the glass was steadily and moderately high. reginald turned into his bunk at last, but slept but little, and that little was dream-perturbed. early in the morning he was awakened by the roar of steam getting up. his heart leaped for joy. it is at best a wearisome thing, this being idle in harbour before sailing. but at earliest dawn there was much shouting and giving of orders; the men running fore and aft on deck; other men on shore casting off hawsers. then the great screw began slowly to churn up the murky water astern. the captain himself was on the bridge, the man at the wheel standing by to obey his slightest command. and so the _wolverine_ departed, with many a cheer from the shore--ay, and many a blessing. as she went out they passed a man-o'-war, in which the captain had many friends. early as it was, the commander had the band up, and sweetly across the water came the music of that dear old song i myself have often heard, when standing out to sea, "good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." by eventide they were standing well down towards the bay of biscay, which they would leave on their port quarter. they would merely skirt it, bearing up for madeira. but a delightful breeze had sprung up; the white sails were set, and she was running before it, right saucily, too, bobbing and curtseying to each rippling wavelet very prettily, as much as to say: "ah! you dear old sea, we have been together before now. you will never lose your temper with me, will you?" it is well, indeed, that sailors do not know what is before them. the dinner-hour was seven. mr and mrs hall were seated on chairs on the quarter-deck. neither was over-well, but ilda and reginald were pacing briskly up and down the quarter-deck, chatting pleasantly. i think, though, that ilda had more to say than he. american girls are born that way. wee matty was making love to oscar, the splendid and good-natured newfoundland. nobody more happy than bonnie matty, bonnie and gay, for her happiness, indeed, was a species of merry madness. only no one could have heard her childish, gleesome and silvery laugh without laughing with her. the bell at last! reginald took ilda down below, then hurried on deck to help his patients. matty and oscar seemed to come tumbling down. and so the evening passed away, the stars once more glittering like crystal gems, the great star sirius shining in ever-changing rays of crimson and blue. it was indeed a goodly night, and reginald slept to-night. the incubus love had fled away. chapter twelve. "i say, cap," said mr hall, "i should maroon a fellow like that!" while the whole countryside--ay, and the granite city itself--were thrilled with awe and horror at the brutal murder of poor unoffending craig nicol, the _wolverine_ was making her way on the wings of a delightful ten-knot breeze to the isle of madeira. reginald had ascertained that there was nothing very serious the matter with mr and mrs hall. they were run down, however, very much with the gaieties of paris and london, to say nothing of new york, and thought rightly that a long sea voyage would be the best thing to restore them. madeira at last! the beach, with its boulders or round sea-smoothed stones, was a difficult one to land upon. the waves or breakers hurled these stones forward with a hurtling sound that could be heard miles and miles away, then as quickly sucked them back again. nevertheless, the boat was safely beached, and there were men with willing hands and broad shoulder to carry mr and mrs hall and daughter safely on to dry land. reginald was sure of foot, and lifting matty in his arms as she crowed with delight, he bore her safe on shore. the great newfoundland despised a boat, and hardly was she well off the yacht ere he leaped overboard with a splash. and he also landed, shaking himself free of gallons of water, which made rainbows and halos around him. he drenched his master pretty severely. but it was a fine joke to oscar, so, grinning and laughing as only this breed can, he went tearing along the beach and back again at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. when he did come back, he licked his master's hand and little matty's face. "nothing like a good race," he seemed to say, "to set the blood in motion after a long bath." -----------------------------------------------------------------------while the party sit in the piazza of a beautiful tree-shaded hotel, sipping iced sherbet, let me say a word about the nature of the _wolverine's_ voyage. the yacht did not belong to the halls. she was lent them for the cruise round the horn to the south pacific, and many a beautiful island they meant to visit, and see many a strange and wondrous sight. for hitherto all their travelling experiences had been confined to europe. but your true american wants to see all the world when he can afford it. it was health the halls were in search of, combined with pleasure if possible; but they meant to collect all the curios they could get, and they also felt certain--so mrs hall said--that they would find the south sea savages very interesting persons indeed. so have i myself found them, especially when their spears were whisking over my boat and they were dancing in warlike frenzy on the beach. in such cases, however, a shot or two from a good revolver has a wonderfully persuasive and calmative effect on even somali indians. we british have called scotland and england an isle of beauty, but i question very much if it can cope with madeira. here not only have we splendid mountains, clad in all the beauty of tropical and sub-tropical shrubs and trees, tremendous cliffs and gorges, raging torrents and cataracts, with many a bosky dell, lovely even as those birchen glades in scotia, but in this heavenly isle there is the sunshine that overspreads all and sparkles on the sea. and that sea, too!--who could describe the splendour of its blue on a calm day, patched here and there towards the shore with browns, seagreens, and opals? no wonder that after making several visits and picnics in shore and high among the mountains, borne there by sturdy portuguese in hammocks, mrs hall should declare that she felt better already. it was with some reluctance that mr hall ordered the anchor to be got up at last, and all sail made for the canaries. near sunset was it when they sailed slowly away, a sunset of indescribable beauty. a great grey misty bank of cloud was hanging many degrees above the mountains, but beneath it was more clear and streaked with long trailing cloudlets of crimson, light yellow, and purple, the rifts between being of the deepest sea-green. but over the hills hung a shadow or mist of smoky blue. then descended the sun, sinking in the waters far to the west, a ball of crimson fire with a pathway of blood 'twixt the horizon and the yacht. then night fell, with but a brief twilight. there was going to be a change, however. the mate, a sturdy, red-faced, weather-beaten, but comely fellow, sought the captain's cabin and reported a rapidly-falling glass, and the gradual obliteration of the stars, that erst had shone so sweetly. how swiftly comes a squall at times in these seas! a huge bank of blackest darkness was seen rapidly advancing towards the ship, and before sail could be taken in or steam got up she was in the grasp of that merciless demon squall. for a minute or two she fled before it and the terrible waves, quivering the while from stem to stern like a dying deer. then high above the roaring of the wind, and booming and hissing of the waves, great guns were heard. it seemed so, at least, but it was but the bursting of the bellying sails, and platoon-firing next, as the rent ribbons of canvas crackled and rattled in the gale. to lie to was impossible now. with the little sail they had left they must fly on and on. men staggered about trying to batten down, but for a time in vain. then came a huge pooping wave, that all but swept the decks. it smashed the bulwarks, it carried away a boat, and, alas! one poor fellow found a watery grave. he must have been killed before being swept overboard. anyhow, he was seen no more. everything movable was carried forward with tremendous force. even the winch was unshipped, and stood partly on end. the man at the wheel and the men battening down were carried away on the current, but though several were badly bruised, they were otherwise unhurt. sturdy captain dickson had rushed to the wheel, else would the _wolverine_ have broached to and sunk in a few minutes. the water had poured down the companions like cataracts, and it drowned out the half-lit fires. mr hall and party had shut themselves up in their state-rooms, but everything in the saloon was floating in water two feet deep. however, this storm passed away almost as quickly as it had come, and once more the seas calmed down, and sky and waters became brightly, ineffably blue. the ship was baled out, and, as the wind had now gone down, fires were got up, and the _wolverine_ steamed away for the canaries and the marvellous peak of teneriffe. but poor bill stevens's death had cast a general gloom throughout the ship. he was a great favourite fore and aft, always merry, always laughing or singing, and a right good sailor as well. so next morning, when red and rosy the sun rose over the sea, orders were sent forward for the men to "lay aft" at nine o'clock for prayers. then it was "wash and scrub decks, polish the wood, and shine the brasswork." right rapidly did the sun dry the decks, so that when mrs hall, who had received a bad shock, was helped on deck by reginald, everything 'twixt fo'c'sle and wheel looked clean and nice. the winch had not been badly damaged, and was soon set to rights. i should not forget to mention that the only one not really alarmed during the terrible black squall was that busy, merry wee body matty. when she saw the cataract of waters coming surging in, she speedily mounted the table. the fiddles had been put on, and to these she held fast; and she told reginald all this next morning, adding, "and, oh, doc, it was so nice--dust (just) like a swinging-rope!" but she had had a companion; for, after swimming several times round the table, as if in search of dry land, the beautiful dog clambered up on the table beside matty. to be sure, he shook himself, but matty shut her eyes, and wiped her face, and on the whole was very glad of his company. how solemn was that prayer of mr hall for the dead. granted that he was what is so foolishly called "a dissenter" in england, his heart was in the right place, and he prayed right from that even his slight nasal twang in no way detracted from the solemnity of that prayer. ilda hall had her handkerchief to her face, but poor little cabin-boy ralph williams wept audibly. for the drowned sailor had ever been kind to him. the captain was certainly a gentleman, and an excellent sailor, but he had sea ways with him, and now he ordered the main-brace to be spliced; so all the jacks on board soon forgot their grief. "his body has gone to davy jones," said one, "but his soul has gone aloft." "amen," said others. they stayed at orotava long enough to see the sights, and reginald himself and a sailor got high up the peak. he was on board in time for dinner, but confessed to being tired. he had not forgotten to bring a splendid basket of fruit with him, however, nor wildflowers rich and rare. a long lonely voyage was now before them--south-west and away to rio de janeiro--so ere long everyone on board had settled quietly down to a sea life. i must mention here that it was the first mate that had chosen the crew. he had done so somewhat hastily, i fear, and when i say that there were two or three spaniards among them, and more than one finn, need i add that the devil was there also? one finn in particular i must mention. he was tall to awkwardness. somewhat ungainly all over, but his countenance was altogether forbidding. he had an ugly beard, that grew only on his throat, but curled up over his chin--certainly not adding to his beauty. christian norman was his name; his temper was vile, and more than once had he floored poor boy williams, and even cut his head. he smoked as often as he had the chance, and would have drunk himself to insensibility if supplied with vile alcohol. "i don't like him," said the captain one evening at dinner. "nor i," said reginald. "i say, cap," said mr hall, "i'd maroon a fellow like that! if you don't, mark my words, he will give us trouble yet." and he did, as the sequel will show. chapter thirteen. the breakdown--savages! captain dickson was just as kind to norman, the finn, as he was to anyone else. perhaps more so. not that he dreaded him. dickson would have shot him with as little compunction as shooting a panther had he given him even a mutinous answer. but he often let him have double allowance of rum. "you're a big man," he would say; "you need a little more than the little ones." norman would smile grimly, but swallow it. he would even buy the men's, for he seemed to have plenty of money. when half-seas-over norman would swagger and rant and sing, and with little provocation he would have fought. the other finns and the spaniard, besides an englishman or two, always took norman's side in an argument. so things went on until rio was reached. what a splendid harbour--ships of all nations here; what a romantic city as seen from the sea, and the surroundings how romantic, rivalling even edinburgh itself in beauty! it was early summer here, too. they had left autumn and the coming winter far away in the dreary north. i shall make no attempt to describe the floral grandeur of the country here. i have done so before. but not only reginald, but all the halls, and matty as well, were able to walk round and admire the tropical vegetation and the gorgeous flowers in the gardens; and in the town itself the fish-market and fruit-market were duly wondered at, for everything was new and strange to the visitors. further out into the country they drove all among the peaked and marvellous mountains and the foliaged glens, and matty, who sat on reginald's knee, clapped her hands with delight to see the wee, wee humming-birds buzzing from flower to flower "like chips of rainbows," as ilda phrased it, and the great butterflies as big as fans that floated in seeming idleness here, there, and everywhere. a whole week was spent here, and every day afforded fresh enjoyments. but they must sail away at last. the captain had half-thought of leaving the finn norman here, but the man seemed to have turned over a new leaf, so he relented. south now, with still a little west in it. the good ship encountered more bad weather. yet so taut and true was she, and so strong withal, that with the exception of the waves that dashed inboards--some of them great green seas that rolled aft like breakers on a stormy beach--she never leaked a pint. captain dickson and his mate paid good attention to the glass, and never failed to shorten sail and even batten down in time, and before the approach of danger. but all went well and the ship kept healthy. indeed, hardly was there a sick man among the crew. little matty was the life and soul of the yacht. surely never on board ship before was there such a merry little child! had anyone been in the saloon as early as four, or even three, bells in the morning watch, they might have heard her lightsome laugh proceeding from her maid's cabin; for matty was usually awake long before the break of day, and it is to be presumed that maggie, the maid, got little sleep or rest after that. reginald used to be on deck at seven bells, and it was not long before he was joined by matty. prettily dressed the wee thing was, in white, with ribbons of blue or crimson, her bonnie hair trailing over her back just as wild and free as she herself was. then up would come oscar, the great newfoundland. hitherto it might have been all babyish love-making between reginald and matty. "i loves 'oo," she told him one morning, "and when i'se old eno' i'se doin' (going) to mally 'oo." reginald kissed her and set her down on the deck. but the advent of the grand dog altered matters considerably. he came on deck with a dash and a spring, laughing, apparently, all down both sides. "you can't catch me," he would say, or appear to say, to matty. "i tan tatch 'oo, twick!" she would cry, and off went the dog forward at the gallop, matty, screaming with laughter, taking up the running, though far in the rear. smaller dogs on board ship are content to carry and toss and play with a wooden marlin-spike. oscar despised so puny an object. he would not have felt it in his huge mouth. but he helped himself to a capstan bar, and that is of great length and very heavy. nevertheless, he would not drop it, and there was honest pride in his beaming eye as he swung off with it. he had to hold his head high to balance it. but round and round the decks he flew, and if a sailor happened to cross his hawse the bar went whack! across his shins or knees, and he was left rubbing and lamenting. matty tried to take all sorts of cross-cuts between the masts or boats that lay upside down on the deck, but all in vain. but oscar would tire at last, and let the child catch him. "now i'se tatched 'oo fairly!" she would cry, seizing him by the shaggy mane. oscar was very serious now, and licked the child's cheek and ear in the most affectionate manner, well knowing she was but a baby. "woa, horsie, woa!" it was all she could do to scramble up and on to oscar's broad back. stride-legs she rode, but sometimes, by way of practical joke, after she had mounted the dog would suddenly sit down, and away slid matty, falling on her back, laughing and sprawling, all legs and arms, white teeth, and merry, twinkling eyes of blue. "mind," she would tell oscar, after getting up from deck and preparing to remount, "if 'oo sits down adain, 'oo shall be whipped and put into the black hole till the bow-mannie (an evil spirit) tomes and takes 'oo away!" oscar would now ride solemnly aft, 'bout ship and forward as far as the fo'c's'le, and so round and round the deck a dozen times at least. when dog and child were tired of playing together, the dog went in search of breakfast down below, to the cook's galley. there was always the stockpot, and as every man-jack loved the faithful fellow he didn't come badly off. but even norman the finn was a favourite of matty's, and he loved the child. she would run to him of a morning, when his tall form appeared emerging from the fore-hatch. he used to set her on the capstan, from which she could easily mount astride on his shoulders, grasping his hair to steady herself. how she laughed and crowed, to be sure, as he went capering round the deck, sometimes pretending to rear and jib, like a very wicked horse indeed, sometimes actually bucking, which only made matty laugh the more. ring, ding, ding!--the breakfast bell; and the child was landed on the capstan once more and taken down--now by her devoted sweetheart, reginald grahame. the ship was well found. certainly they had not much fresh meat, but tinned was excellent, and when a sea-bank was anywhere near, as known from the colour of the water, dickson called away a boat and all hands, and had fish for two days at least. fowls and piggies were kept forward. well, on the whole she was a very happy ship, till trouble came at last. it was mr hall's wish to go round the stormy and usually ice-bound horn. the cold he felt certain would brace up both himself and his wife. but he wished to see something of the romantic scenery of magellan's straits first, and the wild and savage grandeur of tierra del fuego, or the land of fire. they did so, bearing far to the south for this purpose. the weather was sunny and pleasant, the sky blue by day and star-studded by night, while high above shone that wondrous constellation called the southern cross. indeed, all the stars seemed different from what they were used to in their own far northern land. now, there dwells in this fierce land a race of the most implacable savages on earth. little is known of them except that they are cannibals, and that their hands are against everyone. but they live almost entirely in boats, and never hesitate to attack a sailing ship if in distress. hall and dickson were standing well abaft on the quarter-deck smoking huge cigars, mr hall doing the "yarning," dickson doing the laughing, when suddenly a harsh grating sound caused both to start and listen. next minute the vessel had stopped. there she lay, not a great way off the shore, in a calm and placid sea, with not as much wind as would lift a feather, "as idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean." in a few minutes' time the scotch engineer, looking rather pale, came hurrying aft. "well, mr mcdonald, what is the extent of the damage? shaft broken?" "oh, no, sir, and i think that myself and men can put it all to rights in four days, if not sooner, and she'll be just as strong as ever." "thank you, mr mcdonald; so set to work as soon as possible, for mind you, we are lying here becalmed off an ugly coast. the yacht would make very nice pickings for these land of fire savages." "yes, i know, sir; and so would we." and the worthy engineer departed, with a grim smile on his face. he came back in a few minutes to beg for the loan of a hand or two. "choose your men, my good fellow, and take as many as you please." both hall and dickson watched the shore with some degree of anxiety. it was evident that the yacht was being swept perilously near to it. the tide had begun to flow, too, and this made matters worse. nor could anyone tell what shoal water might lie ahead of them. there was only one thing to be done, and dickson did it. he called away every boat, and by means of hawsers to each the _wolverine_ was finally moved further away by nearly a mile. the sailors were now recalled, and the boats hoisted. the men were thoroughly exhausted, so the doctor begged the captain to splice the main-brace, and soon the stewardess was seen marching forward with "black jack." black jack wasn't a man, nor a boy either, but simply a huge can with a spout to it, that held half a gallon of rum at the very least. the men began to sing after this, for your true sailor never neglects an opportunity of being merry when he can. some of them could sing charmingly, and they were accompanied by the carpenter on his violin. that grand old song, "the bay of biscay," as given by a bass-voiced sailor, was delightful to listen to. as the notes rose and fell one seemed to hear the shrieking of the wind in the rigging, the wild turmoil of the dashing waters, and the deep rolling of the thunder that shook the doomed ship from stem to stern. "hullo?" cried hall, looking shorewards. "see yonder--a little black fleet of canoes, their crews like devils incarnate!" "ha!" said dickson. "come they in peace or come they in war, we shall be ready. lay aft here, lads. get your rifles. load with ball cartridge, and get our two little guns ready and loaded with grape." the savages were indeed coming on as swift as the wind, with wild shouts and cries, meant perhaps only to hurry the paddle-men, but startling enough in all conscience. chapter fourteen. against fearful odds. hardly a heart on board that did not throb with anxiety, if not with fear, as that fiendish-looking cannibal fleet drew swiftly nigh. armed with bows and arrows and spears were they, and dickson could see also the glitter of ugly creases in the bottom of each canoe. not tall men were any of them; all nearly naked, however, broad-shouldered, fierce, and grim. the yacht was now stern on to the shore, but at a safe distance. nevertheless, by the soundings they could tell that the water just here was not so deep as that further in; so both anchors were let go, the chains rattling like platoon-firing as these safeguards sank to the bottom. there was no fear about matty. to the astonishment of all she had clambered up into the dinghy that hung from davits abaft the binnacle. "hillo!" she was shouting, as she waved a wee red flag. "hillo! 'oo bootiful neglos! tome twick, matty wants to buy some-fink!" these dark boats and their savage crews were soon swarming round the _wolverine_, but they had come to barter skins for tobacco, rum, and bread, not to fight, it seemed. peaceful enough they appeared in all conscience. yet dickson would not permit them to board. but both he and hall made splendid deals. a dozen boxes of matches bought half-a-dozen splendid and well-cured otter skins, worth much fine gold; tobacco bought beautiful large guanaca skins; bread fetched foxes' skins and those of the tuen-tuen, a charming little rodent; skins, also well-cured, of owls, hawks, rock-rabbits, and those of many a beautiful sea-bird. the barter, or nicker, as the yankee called it, pleased both sides, and the savages left rejoicing, all the more so in that, although the skipper would give them no rum to carry away with them, he spliced a kind of savage main-brace, and everyone swallowed a glass of that rosy fluid as a baby swallows its mother's milk. "the moon will be shining to-night, hall," said the captain, "and we'll have a visit from these fire-fiends of another description. glad we have got her anchored, anyhow." soon after sunset the moon sailed majestically through the little fleecy clouds lying low on the horizon. she soon lost her rosy hue, and then one could have seen to pick up pins and needles on the quarter-deck. she made an immense silver triangular track from ship to shore. matty was then on deck with oscar, both merry as ever. but reginald now took her in his arms and carried her below for bed. both dickson and hall went below to console and hearten the ladies. "those fire savages will pay us a visit," said hall, "but you are not to be afraid. we will wipe them off the face of the creation world. won't we, skipper?" "that will we!" nodded dickson. but neither mrs hall nor ilda could be persuaded to retire. if a battle was to be fought they would sit with fear and trembling till all was over. -----------------------------------------------------------------------out from under the dark shadows of the terrible snow-peaked mountain, that fell far over the water, just before eight bells in the first watch--the midnight hour--crept a fleet of canoes, silently--oh, so silently! but presently they got into that track of moonlit sea, so that they could be counted. thirteen! ominous number--but ominous for whom? in twenty minutes the plash of the paddles could be distinctly heard, and the warriors could be seen, armed with spear and bow and deadly crease. "standoff! standoff!" it was a shout from dickson. but it was answered by a wilder shout of defiance and rage, and a cloud of arrows flew inboards. "now then, lads!" cried the captain, "give them fits! quick is the word!" the six-pounder armstrong was trained on the foremost boat, with terrible effect. "bang!" went the gun. heavens! what a sight! no less than three canoes went down, with the dead and the shrieking wounded. the others but sped onwards the faster, however. a rifle volley now. then the other gun was fired almost straight down among them, with awful results so far as the savages were concerned. hall was coolly emptying his revolvers as soon as his fingers could fill them. had it been daylight his practice would have been better; as it was, there was nothing to be ashamed of. but now the canoes were close under the ship's bows and sides. they would attempt to board. they did, and partly succeeded, cutting through the netting easily with their knives. the sailors fought like true british tars, repelling the fiends with revolvers, with the butts of their rifles, and smashing many a chest and skull even with capstan bars. the officers defended the bows. no less than six savages managed to get inboards. the newfoundland was slightly wounded; then he was like a wild beast. he downed one savage, and, horrible to say, seizing him by the windpipe, drew it clean away from the lungs. the others were seen to by the sailors, and their bodies tossed overboard. the fire-fiends had had enough of it, and prepared to retire. grape was once more brought to bear on them, and two more canoes were sunk. the loss to the _wolverine_ was one man killed and three wounded, but not severely. as long as a canoe was visible, a determined rifle fire was kept up, and many must have fallen. when hall and reginald went below to report the victory, they found the ladies somewhat nervous, and there was little matty on the table-top, barefooted and in her night-dress. the strange little yankee maiden wouldn't stop in her state-room, and even when the battle was raging fiercest she had actually tried to reach the deck! then oscar came down, laughing and gasping, and matty quickly lowered herself down to hug her darling horsie, as she called him. "oh, look, auntie!" she cried, after she had thrown her little arms around his great neck and kissed him over and over again, "my pinny is all bluggy!" the night-dress was indeed "bluggy," for poor oscar had an ugly spear wound in his shoulder. but the doctor soon stitched it, the faithful fellow never even wincing. then he licked the doctors red hands and matty's ear, and then went off on deck to bed. -----------------------------------------------------------------------next morning broke bright and crisp and clear, but it was cold, for autumn reigned in this dreary land. once more a service for the dead, and as the body sank into the deep the poor sailor's messmates turned sadly away, and more than one brought his arm to bear across his eyes. as another attack was to be feared, it was determined to punish the islanders--to carry the war on shore, in fact--and so the four large boats were called away, only a few men being left on board to defend the ship. the guns were too heavy to take, but every man had a rifle, two revolvers and a cutlass. for so small a vessel, the _wolverine_ was heavily manned, for from the beginning captain dickson had expected grim fighting. this attack was more than the natives had calculated on. they did not stand the onset an instant, but fled from their village helter-skelter to the almost inaccessible mountains beyond, dropping their spears and bows to accelerate their flight. but the fire which was poured on them was a withering one, and brought many to the ground. emboldened by their success, hall, with dickson and his brave fellows, made a journey of several miles into the interior. the mountains were everywhere rugged and stern, and covered on their summits with snow that no doubt was perpetual. but in the valleys beneath, which were quite uninhabited except by wild beasts and birds, were beautiful forests of dark waving cypresses, lofty pines, and beeches, their leaves tinted now with rose and yellow. very silent and solemn were these woods; but for the savages that even now might be hidden in their dark depths, they seemed to woo one to that peace that only a forest can give. a stream was meandering through the valley here, and many a glad fish leaped up from the pools, his scales shining like a rainbow in the sunlight. all haste was now made to regain the shore, where but a few sailors had been left to guard the boats. only just in time, for the savages were gathering for another attack, and coming down the hillsides in streams. a hot volley or two dispersed them, however, and they once more hid behind the rocks. here in the village was evidence that these fire-fiends had been sitting down to a terrible feast of roasted human flesh! doubtless they had killed the wounded and cooked them. it is a terrible thing to think of, but i have proof that a woman will eat of the dead body of either husband or brother, and the children too will ravenously partake. i dare not tell in a story like this the horrors of savage life that i have witnessed. i wish to interest, but not to horrify, my readers. this village was probably one of the largest in the islands which constitute the tierra del fuego group. it consisted of nearly nine hundred huts in all, some well-built and comparatively comfortable. first and foremost it was looted, a large cargo of precious skins being secured. some bows and arrows, spears, etc, were taken as curios; then, just as the sun was sinking red behind the sea, every hut and house was fired. the blaze was tremendous; and back to the ship, by means of its light, the boats were steered. a breeze having sprung up increased the magnificence of the conflagration, and the sparks, like showers of golden snow, were carried far inland and up the mountain sides. no wonder that matty was clapping her wee hands and crowing with delight at the beauty of the "bonfire," as she called it. happy indeed were the adventurers when the breeze waxed steadier and stronger. it blew from the west, too. the anchors were quickly hoisted, the ship's head turned to the east, and before two days had fled she had wormed her way out once more into the open ocean. the engines had by this time been repaired, but were not now needed, for the breeze, though abeam, was steady, and good progress was made. a few days more, and the wind having died down, clear sky by day, star-studded at night, and with sharp frost, the _wolverine_ was once more under steam and forcing her way round the storm-tormented horn. for the waves are ofttimes houses high here when no wind is blowing, and they break and toss their white spray far over the green and glittering sides of the snow-clad bergs. "and now there came both mist and snow, and it grew wondrous cold; and ice mast-high came floating by, as green as emerald. "the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around; it cracked and growled, and roared and howled, like noises in a swound." but at this time a greater danger than that from the ice was threatening, for norman the finn was hatching mutiny. verily a curse seemed to follow the ship wherever she went. chapter fifteen. mutiny--the coming storm. nobody would have credited williams, the cabin-boy, with very much 'cuteness. we never know the hidden depths of even a young lad's mind. the finn norman had in his two countrymen and in the spaniards five men willing to do anything. to put it plainly, for gold they would use their knives against their dearest friends, and rejoice in it too. norman had not only a body of fearful physical strength, but a winning and persuasive tongue, and he wheedled over no less than three englishmen, or rather scotsmen, to join his forces. late one night a half-whispered conversation was held near to the winch. the finn had been here before--that is, up in the south pacific--and he could guide them to an island of gold. and what was it that gold could not purchase in this world? he added. "everyone of you shall be wealthy. we shall then scrape the vessel from stem to stern, alter her name and rigging, and after loading up with gold, sail for distant australia. there we shall sell the ship and, going to the diggings for a time, to avoid suspicion, will in a few months return to sidney or melbourne as lucky miners. then hurrah for home!" "we will join," said the scotsman, "on one condition." "and that is?" "there must be no murder." "your request is granted. we will rise suddenly, batten down the men below, then rushing aft we shall secure the officers in the saloon. the vessel will then be ours. but we shall maroon the men on the nearest land, with biscuits and a few arms. the women will be best on board," he grinned. "bah!" said a spaniard, drawing his ugly knife. "let us throat them. dead men tell no tales, you know. take my advice." but the marooning was finally decided on, and the mutineers retired to their bunks or to their duty. little did they know that the cabin-boy, with listening ears, though almost frightened out of his life, was hiding behind the winch and had heard every word they had said. as soon as it was possible he escaped, and going at once aft, he reported in a frightened whisper all the details of the terrible plot. "horrible!" said dickson. "strikes me," said hall, "that there must be a jonah on board, or a murderer. let us draw for him, putting all names in a hat, and then lynch the fellow!" "if," said dickson, "there be a murderer on board, the fellow is that finn." "seize the scoundrel at once, then," cried hall, "and throw him to the sharks or put him in irons." "no, i'll wait, and williams shall be our spy." nearly all the mutineers were in the same watch, only one good man and true being among them. norman played his game well. he knew that if suspected at all, they would be watched by night, so he chose broad daylight for the awful _denouement_. while the men were below at dinner, those in the cabin all having luncheon, then norman suddenly gave the preconcerted signal. the hatches were thrown on in a moment, and screwed down by two men, while the main band rushed aft and secured the saloon door. "if you value your lives in there," savagely shouted the finn down through the skylight, as that too was being fastened securely down, "you'll keep quiet." hall had both his revolvers out in a trice, and fired; but the skylights were closed, and no harm or good was done. next the mutineers threw open the fore-hatch, and at pistol point ordered every man into the half-deck cabin abaft the galley and abaft the sailors' sleeping bunks. "i'll shoot the first man dead," cried norman, "who does not look active!" the communication door was then secured, and all was deemed safe. they would bear north now, and make for the nearest island. the rum store was near the foot of the stair, or companion, and close to the stewardess's pantry. the key hung there, so more than a gallon of rum was got up and taken forward. the engineers were told that if they did not crack on, they would be had on deck and made to walk the plank. the finn had not meant that any orgie should take place; but take place it did, and a fearful one too. the man at the wheel kept on for fear of death, and so did the engineers. by twelve o'clock, or eight bells, in the first watch, the fellows were helplessly drunk and lying about in the galley in all directions. little williams, the cabin-boy, had been overlooked. wise he was indeed, for now he very quietly hauled on the fore-hatch--ay, and screwed it down. then he went quickly aft and succeeded in releasing the officers. the men were next set free, and the door between secured aft. in ten minutes' time every mutineer in the ship was in irons. surely no mutiny was ever before quelled in so speedy and bloodless a manner! "i knew," said hall, "that we had a jonah on board, and that jonah is the double-dyed villain christian norman. say, captain dickson, is it going to be a hanging match?" "i am almost tempted to hang the ringleader," replied dickson, "but this would be far too tragical, especially with ladies on board. remember that, be his heart what it may, there is just one little good spot in his character. he dearly loved little matty, and she loved him." "well, sir, what are you going to do about it? i'd like to know that." "this. i cannot pardon any single one of these villains. the scotsmen, indeed, are worse in a manner of speaking than the finns or cowardly spaniards. i shall mete out to them the same punishment, though in a lesser degree, that they would have meted out to us. not on the inhospitable snow-clad shores of the tierra del fuego islands shall they be placed, but on the most solitary isle i can find in some of the south pacific groups." now things went on more pleasantly for a time. the prisoners were not only in leg-irons, but manacled, and with sentries placed over them watch and watch by night and by day. these men had orders to shoot at once any man who made the slightest attempt to escape. it was about a week after this, the _wolverine_ had safely rounded the stormy cape, and was now in the broad pacific. a sailor of the name of robertson had just gone on sentry, when, without a word of warning, norman the finn suddenly raised himself to his feet and felled him with his manacled hands. the strength of the fellow was enormous. but the ring of a rifle was heard next minute, and norman fell on his face, shot through the heart. he was thrown overboard that same evening with scant ceremony. "i feel happier now," said hall, "that even our jonah is no more. now shall our voyage be more lucky and pleasant." ah! but was it? the _wolverine_ was purposely kept well out of the ordinary track of ships coming or going from either china or australia. and luck or not luck, after ten days' steaming westward and north, they sighted an island unknown to the navigator, unknown to any chart. it was small, but cocoa-nuts waved from the summit of its lofty hills. here, at all events, there must be fruit in abundance, with probably edible rodents, and fish in the sea. and here the mutineers were marooned. not without fishing gear were they left, nor without a small supply of biscuits, and just three fowling pieces and ammunition, with some axes and carpenter's tools. they deserved a worse fate, but dickson was kind at heart. well, at any rate, they pass out of our story. on that island they probably are until this day. -----------------------------------------------------------------------everyone on the _wolverine_ seemed to breathe more freely now, and the vessel was once more headed eastwards to regain her direct route to california and san francisco. for a whole week the breeze blew so pleasantly and steadily that fires were bunked and all sail set. the very ship herself seemed to have regained cheerfulness and confidence, and to go dancing over the sunlit sea, under her white wing-like studding sails, as if she were of a verity a thing of life. those on board soon forgot all their trials and misery. the mutineers were themselves forgotten. matty and oscar (who had recovered from his spear wound) resumed their romps on deck, and surely never did sea-going yacht look more snug and clean than did the _wolverine_ at this time. she was still far out of the usual track of ships, however, though now bearing more to the nor'ard. so far north were they, indeed, that the twilight at morn or even was very short indeed. in the tropics, it is not figurative language, but fact, to say that, the red sun seemed to leap from behind the clear horizon. but a few minutes before this one might have seen, high in the east, purple streaks of clouds, changing quickly to crimson or scarlet, then the sun, like a huge blood orange, dyeing the rippling sea. at night the descent was just as sudden, but my pen would fail did i try to describe the evanescent beauty of those glorious sunsets. light and sunshine are ever lovely; so is colour; but here was light and colour co-mingled in a transformation scene so grand, so vast, that it struck the heart of the beholder with a species of wonder not unmixed with awe. and the beholders were usually silent. then all night long in the west played the silent lightning, bringing into shape and form many a rock-like, tower-like cloud. it was behind these clouds of the night that this tropical lightning played and danced and shimmered. then at times they came into a sea of phosphorescent light. it was seen all around, but brighter where the vessel raised ripples along the quarter. it dropped like fire from her bows, ay, and even great fishes could be seen--sharks in all probability--sinking down, down, down into the sea's dark depths, like fishes of fire, till at last they were visible only like little balls of light, speedily to be extinguished. about this latitude flying gurnets leapt on board by the score on some nights, and a delightful addition indeed did they prove to the matutinal _menu_. sometimes a huge octopus would be seen in the phosphorescent sea. it is the devil-fish of the tropics, and, with his awful head and arms, so abhorrent and nightmarish was the sight that it could not be beheld without a shudder. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the pacific ocean! yes, truly, very often pacific enough; so much so that with ordinary luck one might sail across its waters in a dinghy boat. but there are times when some portions of it are swept by terrific circular storms. ah! happy is the ship that, overtaken by one of these, can manage to keep well out and away from its vortex. one evening the sun went down amidst a chaos of dark and threatening clouds, from which thunder was occasionally heard like the sound of distant artillery, but muttering, and more prolonged. the glass went tumbling down. captain dickson had never seen it so low. the wind too had failed, and before sunset the sea lay all around them, a greasy glitter on its surface like mercury, with here and there the fin of a basking shark appearing on the surface. even the air was stifling, sickening almost, as if the foetus of the ocean's slimy depths had been stirred up and risen to the surface. all sail was speedily taken in, and by the aid of oil, the fires were quickly roaring hot beneath the boilers. higher and higher rose that bank of clouds, darkening the sky. then- "the upper air burst into life! and a hundred fire flags sheen; to and fro they were hurried about, and to and fro, and in and out, the wan stars danced between." chapter sixteen. shipwreck--the white queen of the isle of flowers. to and fro, to and fro, on the quarter-deck walked the imperturbable yankee, mr hall, quietly pulling at his huge cigar. he had seen the ladies, and had told them straight that it was to be a fearful storm, and now he would wait to see what fate had in store for them. but more impatient far was captain dickson. would steam never be got up? he had an idea which way the storm would come, and he wanted to steam southwards, and as much out of its track as possible. at last the steam begins to roar, and now the screw revolves, and the good ship cleaves its way through the darkness of sky and sea. dickson is somewhat relieved. he puts two men to the wheel, and sailors lash them to it. well dickson knows that the storm will be a fearful one. who is this fluttering up along the deck? a little dot all in white-nothing on but a night-dress. matty, of course. "i lunned away," she explained, "and tomed (came up) to see the lightnin's flash." "oh, my darling!" cried reginald, "you must come with me at once!" he picked the little fairy up, and quickly had her safely below again. the men were busy battening down when he returned to deck. here and there along the bulwarks loose ropes were left that the men, if needful, might lash themselves to the rigging. but now the rain began to come down, first in scattered drops, then in a hot and awful torrent. louder and louder roared the thunder, brighter and still more vivid flashed the lightning. the thunder-claps followed the lightning so quickly that dickson knew it was very near. "lash yourselves, lads!" the skipper roared through the speaking-trumpet. "she is coming!" ah! come she did. and no shoreman can ever tell what the vehemence of a circular hurricane like this sweeping across the ocean is like in strength and vehemence. dickson had just time to shout, "the first shock will be the strongest, boys," when the terrible storm burst upon the doomed ship with a violence indescribable, and a noise like a hundred great guns fired at once. thrown at first almost on her beam-ends, she soon righted, and now she was tossed about like a cork. high up on a mighty wave at one moment, down in a dark gulf the next. the foam of the breaking waters and the incessant lightning was the only light they had, and in this glare the faces of the crew looked blue and ghastly. bravely did the men stick to the wheel. hall himself had gone early below to comfort the ladies. yet, although the waves and spray were making a clean breach over the ship, luckily she was well battened down, and it was dry below. the seas that tumbled inboard were hot and seething. mr hall prevailed upon his wife and daughter to lie down on the lockers, or couches, and to these he did his best to lash them; but so great was the uncertain motion, that he had to clutch with one hand to the table while he did so. the air down below was as hot as the waters on deck; hot and sulphurous, so that the perspiration stood on the brows of all below. it was indeed a fearful storm. but it lulled at last, though two men had been called to their account-swept overboard in the clutches of a great green sea. it lulled; but the intensity of the pitchy darkness still continued. it was no longer a circular storm, but a gale, settling down to less than half a gale towards the commencement of the morning watch. but the binnacle had been washed away, and the men were steering only by blind chance. just as daylight, grey and gloomy, began to appear in the east, an awful tell-tale rasping was heard beneath the keel of the _wolverine_, and almost at once two of her masts went by the board. "axes, men!" cried dickson--"axes, and clear away the wreck!" it was a dangerous and difficult task, with every now and then a huge sea rushing in from astern, and all but sweeping the decks. daylight came in quickly now, though clouds seemingly a mile in depth obscured the sun, and the horizon was close on board of them all around. but yonder, looming through the mist, was a coral shore, with huge rugged, and apparently volcanic, mountains rising behind it. fearing she would soon break up, captain dickson determined to lower a boat at all hazards, manned by four of his strongest and best sailors. in this hall begged that his wife might go with the maid, and the request was granted. mr hall watched that boat as she rose and fell on the troubled waters with the greatest anxiety and dread. suddenly he staggered and clutched the rigging, and his eyes seemed starting from his head. "oh, my god! my god!" he cried. "my wife! my wife!" for a bigger wave than any, a huge breaker or bore, in fact came rushing from seawards and engulfed the unfortunate boat. and she was never seen, nor anyone who had gone in her. the crew and poor mrs hall, with her maid, now- "lie where pearls lie deep, yet none o'er their low bed may weep." mr hall was led below by the kind-hearted captain himself, and threw himself on a couch in an agony of grief. dickson forced him to take a large stimulant, and put a man to watch him, fearing he might rush on deck and pitch himself into the sea. as to their whereabouts, or the latitude and longitude of that strange, wild island, dickson knew nothing. he had many times and oft sailed these seas, and was certain he had never seen those lofty peaks and rugged hills before. although the wind continued, and the keel was breaking up, although she was fast making water below, he determined to hang on to her as long as possible, for there was a probability that the storm might soon die away. some of the crew, however, grew impatient at last, and, in spite of threats, lowered another boat, into which crowded six men. alas! they, too, went down before they were many yards from the wreck. but see these figures now flitting up and down on the coral sands! and, strangest sight of all, there is among those dusky, almost naked savages, the tall and commanding figure of a white woman, dressed in skins. the savages are evidently obeying her slightest behest, for a queen she is. with ropes of grass they are stoutly binding together three large canoes, flanked by outriggers, thus forming a kind of wide raft. then these are launched, and right rapidly do the paddles flash and drip and ply, as the triple craft nears the ship. the raft seems to come through the seas rather than over them, but busy hands are baling, and, by the time this strange construction arrives on the lee bow, the canoes are free of water. the _wolverine_ has but few on board her now, only eight men of the crew, with the officers, little matty, hall, and miss hall. these latter are lowered first, with three men. they are safely landed through the surf, and dickson can see the strange white woman advance towards them with outstretched arms. the raft comes back again, and all on board are now taken off, captain dickson being the last to leave the doomed ship. oscar, the grand newfoundland, prefers to swim. no terrors have the waves or surf for him, and he is on shore barking joyfully as he races up and down the beach long before the raft rasps upon the silver sands. the strange, skin-dressed lady met them. she was english, and dubbed herself queen of the isle of flowers. "for ten long years," she told captain dickson, "i have been here, and yours is the first ship i have seen. but come to my house behind the hills, and i will tell you my strange story later on." though drenched to the skin, they all most gladly followed the queen, up glens, and by zigzag paths, and over wild hills, till at last they came to one of the wildest and most beautiful valleys these adventurers had ever beheld. now they could understand how the queen had named it the isle of flowers. a beautiful stream went meandering through the valley with every species of tropical or semi-tropical flowering trees it is possible to imagine growing on its banks. no wonder that matty, whom reginald carried in his strong arms, cried: "oh, doc, dear, zis (this) is surely fairyland! oh, doc, i'se dizzy wi' beauty!" "hurry on," said the queen; "a keen wind is blowing on this hilltop." in the midst of a forest of magnolias that scented the air all around, they found the road that led to the queen's palace. a long, low building it was, and seemingly comfortable; but the path that led to it was bordered on each side with human skulls placed upon poles. noticing dickson's look of horror, she smiled. "these are the skulls of our enemies--a tribe that in war canoes visited our island a few years ago, but never found their way back. my people insisted on placing those horrid relics there. had i refused my permission, i should have been deposed, probably even slain." into one room she showed the ladies, the officers and few remaining men into another. here were couches all around, with comfortable mats of grass, and on these, tired and weary, everyone lay and many slept, till their garments were dried in the sun by the queen's servants. it was afternoon now, but the wind had lulled, and soon it was night, clear and starry. the vessel had gone on shore at low tide, but some time during the middle watch a great wave had lifted her and thrown her on her beam-ends high up on the coral sands. next morning, when dickson and reginald went over the hills, after a hearty breakfast of roast yams and delicious fish, they found that the sea had receded so far that they could walk around the wreck on the dry sand. that day was spent--with the assistance of the queen's special servants--in saving from the vessel everything of value, especially stores, and the ship's instruments. casks of rum and flour, casks of beans, and even butter, with nearly all the bedding and clothes. these latter were spread on the beach to dry. inland, to the queen's mansion, everything else was borne on litters. but the greatest "save" of all was the arms and ammunition, to say nothing of tools of every description, and canvas wherewith good tents might be built later on. when all was secured that could be secured, and the remainder of the crew had joined them-"men," said dickson, "let us pray." down on the coral strand knelt the shipwrecked men, while, with eyes streaming with tears, captain dickson prayed as perhaps he had never prayed before, to that heavenly father who had spared the lives of those before him. the natives stood aside wonderingly, but they listened intently and earnestly when, led by their captain, the mariners sang a portion of that beautiful psalm: "god is our refuge and our strength, in straits a present aid; therefore, although the earth remove, we will not be afraid." chapter seventeen. crusoes on the island of flowers--a threatened armada. for weeks and weeks mourned poor hall for his wife; for weeks and weeks mourned he. he was like rachel weeping for her children, who would not be comforted "because they were not." but the anguish of his grief toned down at last. his sorrow was deep still, but he could listen now to the consolations that dickson never forgot to give him morn, noon, and night. "ah, well," he said at last, "i shall meet her again in the bright beyond, where farewells are never said, where partings are unknown. that thought must be my solace." and this thought did console both him and ilda, his daughter. as for matty, she was too young to know what grief really was, and romped with reginald's dog in the queen's beautiful gardens, just as she had done on board the unfortunate yacht--now, alas! a yacht no more. but busy weeks these had been for the shipwrecked mariners. yet far from unhappy. they were crusoes now to all intents and purposes, and acting like crusoes, having saved all the interior stores, etc, that they could, knowing well that the very next storm would not leave a timber of the poor _wolverine_. so at every low tide they laboured at breaking her up. at high tide they worked equally energetically in building a wooden house on a bit of tableland, that was easy of access, and could not be reached by a tide, however high. the house was very strong, for the very best wood in the ship was used. moreover, its back was close to the straight and beetling mountain cliff. the six men of the crew that were saved worked like new hollanders, as sailors say. the house had sturdy doors, and the vessel's windows were transhipped. but this wooden house did not actually touch the ground, but was built on two-foot high stone supports. soot could be strewn around them, and the white ants thus kept at bay. stone, or rather scoria, steps led up to the dwelling, one end of which was to be not only the sleeping-place of the men, but a kind of recreation-room as well, for dickson had succeeded in saving even the piano and violins. the other room to the right was not so large, but, being furnished from the saloon of the _wolverine_, was almost elegant, and when complete was always decorated and gay with lovely wildflowers. indeed, all the flowers here were wild. the queen had begged that miss hall and wee matty might sleep at the palace. this was agreed to; but to luncheon not only they but the queen herself came over every fine day, and the days were nearly all fine. one day a big storm blew and howled around the rocky mountain peaks. it increased in violence towards evening, and raged all night. next day scarcely a timber of the wrecked yacht was to be seen, save a few spars that the tempest had cast up on the white and coralline beach. -----------------------------------------------------------------------captain dickson was far indeed from being selfish, and quite a quantity of saloon and cabin furniture saved from the wreck was carried on the backs of the natives over the mountain tracks to the beautiful valley of flowers, to furnish and decorate the house of the queen. her majesty was delighted, and when her rooms were complete she gave a great dinner-party, or rather banquet. she had much taste, and the table was certainly most tastefully decorated. the _menu_ was a small one. there was fish, however, excellently cooked. "i taught my cook myself," said her majesty, smiling. this was followed by the _piece de resistance_, a roast sucking-pig. the _entree_ was strange, namely, fillets of a species of iguana lizard. the huge and terrible-looking iguana lizard, as found on the coast of africa, crawling on the trees, is very excellent eating, and so were these fillets. but the fruits were the most delicious anyone around the festive board had ever tasted. there were, strangely enough, not only blushing pine-apples, but guavas, which eat like strawberries smothered in cream; mangoes, and many other fragrant fruits no one there could name. dickson had supplied the wine, but very little was used. goats' milk and excellent coffee supplied its place. poor hall was still a patient of reginald's, and the latter compelled him to take a little wine for his grief's sake. just a word or two about queen bertha. though but twenty and five, her dark hair was already mixed with threads of silver. she was tall for a woman, very beautiful and very commanding. she never stirred abroad in her picturesque dress of skins without having in her hand a tall staff, much higher than herself. it was ornamented--resplendent, in fact--with gold, silver, precious stones and pearls. "this is my sceptre," she said, "and all my people respect it." she smiled as she added: "i make them do so. i can hypnotise a man with a touch of it; but if a fellow is fractious, i have a strong arm, and he feels the weight of it across his shins. he must fling himself at my feet before i forgive him. my history, gentlemen, is a very brief one, though somewhat sad and romantic. i am the daughter of a wealthy english merchant, who had a strange longing to visit in one of his own ships the shores of africa and the south sea islands. he did so eventually, accompanied by my dear mother and myself, then little more than a child, for i was only fifteen; also an elder brother. alas! we were driven far out of our way by a gale, or rather hurricane, of wind, and wrecked on this island. my father's last act was to tie me to a spar. that spar was carried away by the tide, and in the _debris_ of the wreck i was washed up on shore. every soul on board perished except myself. the superstitious natives looked upon the dark-haired maiden as some strange being from another world, and i was revered and made much of from the first. i soon had proof enough that the islanders were cannibals, for they built great fires on the beach and roasted the bodies of the sailors that were washed up. there were, indeed, but few, for the sharks had first choice, and out yonder in that blue and sunlit sea the sharks are often in shoals and schools. some devoured the human flesh raw, believing that thus they would gain extra strength and bravery in the day of battle." "are there many battles, then?" asked reginald. "hitherto, doctor, my people have been the invaders of a larger island lying to the east of us. thither they go in their war canoes, and so far fortune has favoured them. they bring home heads and human flesh. the flesh they eat, the heads they place on the beach till cleaned and whitened by crabs and ants; then they are stuck on poles in my somewhat ghastly avenue. i have tried, but all in vain, to change the cannibalistic ways of my people. they come to hear me preach salvation on sundays, and they join in the hymns i sing; but human flesh they will have. yes, on the whole i am very happy, and would not change my lot with victoria of britain herself. my people do love me, mind, and i would rather be somebody in this savage though beautiful island than nobody in the vortex of london society. "but i have one thing else to tell you. the red-stripe savages of the isle we have so often conquered are gathering in force, and are determined to carry the war into our country; with what results i cannot even imagine, for they are far stronger numerically than we are, though not so brave. these savages are also cannibals; not only so, but they put their prisoners to tortures too dreadful even to think of. it will be many months before they arrive, but come they will. i myself shall lead my army. this will inspire my people with pluck and from the hilltops i hope you will see us repel the armada in beautiful style." she laughed right merrily as she finished her narrative. "but my dear queen," said dickson, "do you imagine that myself and my brave fellows saved from the wreck will be contented to act as mere spectators from the hills, like the `gods' in a theatre gallery, looking down on a play? nay, we must be beside you, or near you, actors in the same drama or tragedy. lucky it is, doctor, that we managed to save our two six-pounders, our rifles, and nearly all our ammunition. why are they called the red-stripe savages, your majesty?" "because, though almost naked, their bodies when prepared for war are all barred over with red paint. the face is hideous, for an eye is painted on the forehead, and a kind of cap with the pricked ears of the wild fox, which is half a wolf, worn on the head. their arms are bows, spears, shields of great size, which quite cover them, and terrible black knives." "our shrapnel, believe me, lady, will go through all that, and their heads as well." "though loth to seek your assistance," said queen bertha, "in this case i shall be glad of it. for if they succeed in conquering us the massacre would be awful. not a man, woman or child would be left alive on our beautiful island." "assuredly we shall conquer them," said dickson. "the very sound of our guns and crack of our rifles will astonish and demoralise them. not a boat shall return of their invincible armada; perhaps not a savage will be left alive to tell the tale hereafter." "that would indeed be a blessing to us. and my people have half-promised not to make war on them again. we should therefore live in peace, and fear no more armadas." -----------------------------------------------------------------------mr hall was now brightening up again, and all the survivors of the unfortunate _wolverine_, having something to engage their attention, became quite jolly and happy. i scarce need mention matty. the child was happy under all circumstances. ilda, too, was contented. perhaps never more so than when taking long walks with reginald up the lovely valley, gathering wildflowers, or fishing in the winding river. ilda was really beautiful. her beauty was almost of the classical type, and her voice was sweet to listen to. so thought reginald. "how charmingly brown the sun has made you, dear ilda," said reginald, as she leant on his arm by the riverside. he touched her lightly on the cheek as he spoke. her head fell lightly on his shoulder just then, as if she were tired, and he noticed that there were tears in her eyes. "no, not tired," she answered, looking up into his face. redder, sweeter lips surely no girl ever possessed. for just a moment he drew her to his breast and kissed those lips. ah, well, reginald grahame was only a man. i fear that ilda was only a woman, and that she really loved the handsome, brown-faced and manly doctor. they had now been one year and two months away from scotland, and at this very moment the laird fletcher was paying all the attention in his power to annie o' the banks o' dee. he was really a modern "auld robin grey." "my mither she fell sick, an' my jamie at the sea; then aold robin grey came a-courting me." chapter eighteen. a cannibal brewer and cannibal beer. queen bertha of the isle of flowers had industriously laboured among her people. it gave her pleasure to do so. she even taught them english, which all could now speak after a fashion. well, while dickson and hall were drilling a small company of blacks as soldiers, and trying to make them experts in the use of the rifle--for they had over a score of these to spare--reginald spent much of his time on the hills with his gun, shooting small wild pigs, rock-rabbits, tuen-tuens, etc. he was always accompanied by ilda, merry matty, and oscar the newfoundland. no matter where a wild bird fell, in river or lake, or in the bush, oscar found it, and laid it at his master's feet. but one day reginald, while shooting, made a singular discovery indeed. far up in the hills they came upon the grass hut of a very peculiar old man indeed. before reaching the place quite, they met three natives, and they were evidently intoxicated, staggering, laughing, singing and dancing. the old man was seated in his doorway. around his hut were at least a dozen huge clay jars, with clay lids, and these contained beer of some sort. he was the most hideous old wretch that reginald had yet clapped eyes on. even matty was terrified, and hugged the great dog round the neck as she gazed on that awful-looking and repulsive creature. "these jars," said reginald, "evidently contain some intoxicating drink. and the old brewer doesn't look a beauty, nor a saint either!" nor did he. here he is, as i myself have seen him more than once. squatting tailor-fashion outside the door of his dark and windowless hut, a man with a mop of rough silvery hair, thin lips, drawn back into a grin, so that one could see all his awful teeth--tusks they really seemed to be, each one filed into a pointed triangle, the better to tear human flesh. they were stained red. his eyes were red also, and like those of some scared wild beast and cheeks and brow were covered with symmetrical scars. but he was a brewer, and very busy plying his trade. beside him were open cocoa-nuts and bunches of fragrant herbs. "go on," said reginald; "don't let us interfere with business, pray." the horrid creature put a huge lump of cocoa-nut into his mouth, then some herbs, and chewed the lot together; then taking a mouthful of water from a chatty, he spat the whole mass into a jar and proceeded as before. this awful mess of chewed cocoa-nut, herbs, and saliva ferments into a kind of spirit. this is poured off and mixed with water, and lo! the beer of the cannibal islanders! reginald, noticing a strange-looking chain hanging across the old man's scarred and tattooed chest, begged to examine it. to his astonishment, it consisted entirely of beautiful pearls and small nuggets of gold. "where did this come from, my man?" "ugh! i catchee he plenty twick. plenty mo'. ver' mooch plenty." reginald considered for a moment. money was no good to an old wretch like this, but he wore around his waist a beautiful crimson sash. this he divested himself of, and held it up before the cannibal brewer. "i will give you this for your chain," he said, "and another as good to-morrow, if you will come now and show us where you find these things." the old man at once threw the chain at reginald's feet, and seized the scarf delightedly. "i come quick--dis moment!" he cried. and he was as good as his word. it was a long walk, and a wild one. sometimes reginald carried matty; sometimes she rode on the great dog. but they arrived at last at the entrance to a gloomy defile, and here in the hillsides were openings innumerable, evidently not made by hands of man. here, however, was an el dorado. caves of gold! for numerous small nuggets were found on the floors and shining in the white walls around them. it was evident enough that it only needed digging and a little hard work to make a pile from any single one of these caves. next about the pearls. the old savage took the party to the riverside. he waded in, and in five minutes had thrown on shore at least a hundred pearl oysters. these, on coming to bank, he opened one by one, and ten large and beautiful white pearls were found, with ever so many half-faced ones. strange and wondrous indeed was the story that reginald grahame had to relate in private to mr hall and captain dickson on his return to his home by the sea. at present the trio kept the secret to themselves. that gold was to be had for the gathering was evident enough. but to share it with six men was another question. it might be better, at all events, if they were first and foremost to make their own pile. anyhow, the men's services might be required; in that case they could choose their own claims, unless reginald claimed the whole ravine. this he was entitled to do, but he was very far indeed from being mean and greedy. but so intricate was the way to the ravine of gold that without a guide no one could possibly find it. for six whole weeks no gold digging was thought about. matters of even greater import occupied the minds of the white men. the company of blacks was beautifully drilled by this time, and made fairly good marksmen with the rifle. they were, indeed, the boldest and bravest on the island, and many of them the queen's own bodyguards. well, the bay enclosed by the reefs on one of which the _wolverine_ had struck was the only landing-place in the whole island. every other part of the shore was guarded by precipitous rocks a thousand feet high at least, rising sheer and black out of the ocean. the armada must come here, then, if anywhere; and, moreover, the bay faced the enemy's own island, although, with the exception of a mountain peak or two, seen above the horizon, it was far too distant to be visible. a grass watch-tower was built on the brow of a hill, and a sentry occupied this by night as well as by day. only keen-eyed blacks were chosen for this important duty, and they were told that if any suspicious sign was observed they must communicate immediately with captain dickson. and now, facing the sea, a strong palisaded fort was built, and completely clayed over, so as to be almost invisible from the sea. it was roofed over with timber, as a protection against the enemy's arrows; it was also loop-holed for rifles, and here, moreover, were mounted the two six-pounders. plenty of ammunition for both rifles and guns was placed at a safe distance from the ports. one evening the sentry ran below to report that, seeing a glare in the sky, he had climbed high up the mountain side, and by aid of the night-glass could see that fires were lighted on the brow of every low hill on the enemy's island, and that savages in rings were wildly dancing around them. the sentry had no doubt that the attack on the isle of flowers would soon follow this. dickson thanked the man heartily for his attention, gave him coffee and biscuit, and sent him back to the sentry hut. so kind was the captain, and so interested in the welfare of the blacks, that any one of those he had trained would have fought at fearful odds for him. for kindness towards, a savage soon wins his heart, and his respect as well. three days more passed by--oh, so slowly and wearily! for a cloud hovered over the camp that the white men tried in vain to dispel. there was this fearful armada to face and to fight, and the anxiety born of thinking about it was harder to bear than the actual battle itself would be. dickson was a strictly pious man. never a morning and never an evening passed without his summoning his men to prayers, and in true scottish fashion reading a portion from the little bible which, like general gordon, he never failed to carry in his bosom. i think he did good. i think he made converts. mind, without any preaching. he simply led these darkened intellects to the light, the glorious light of revealed religion. the portion of the fort where the guns were placed was so fashioned as to be able to cover a wide space of sea on both sides, and from this arrangement dickson expected great results. a whole week had worn away since the first fires had been seen from the hilltop; but every night those fires had blazed. it was evident enough the enemy was endeavouring to propitiate their gods before sailing. for by day, on climbing a mountain, dickson, by means of his large telescope, could see on the beach that human sacrifices were being offered up. it was fearful to behold. men, or perhaps women, were chained to stakes on the beach, and pyres of wood built around them. as the fire curled up through the smoke in tongues, he could see the wretches writhing in agony, while round them danced the spear-armed savages. reginald had little to do at present, and would have but little to do until summoned to tight. so he was often at the queen's palace, and a very delightful conversationalist she proved herself to be. she had avowed her intention of being at the great battle herself. her presence, and the sway of her pole-like sceptre, she assured the doctor, would give her people confidence, and mayhap be the turning point which would lead to victory. many a ramble together had reginald and ilda, nearly always followed by sweet wee matty and her canine favourite oscar. one day, however, matty was at the seaside camp, and reginald went out with ilda alone to collect bouquets for the queen's table. the day was a hot one, but both were young, and when they zigzagged up a mountain side they found not only shade on a green mound beneath some spreading trees, but coolness as well. all this morning reginald had been thinking sorrowfully about his lost love, as he now called annie, and of the country he never expected again to see, because never did ships visit this unknown island unless driven hither by storm or tempest. but now there was the soft and dreamy light of love in ilda's eyes, if ever there were in a woman's. reginald was very far indeed from being unfaithful at heart to his betrothed, but--well, he could not help thinking how strangely beautiful ilda was. when she leant towards him and gave one coy glance into his face, it might have been but passion--i cannot say; it might be budding love. at all events, he drew her to his breast and kissed those red lips over and over again, she blushing, but unresisting as before. what he might have said i do not know. but at that moment a half-naked armed savage burst hurriedly in upon the scene. "come, sah, come; de capatin he sendee me. de bad black mans' war canoes dey is coming, too. plenty big boat, plenty spear and bow." reginald thought no more of love just then. his scottish blood was on fire, and when he had seen ilda safe in the palace he bade her an affectionate but hurried farewell, and hurried away to the front. the armada was coming in deadly earnest, and no one in the isle of flowers could even guess how matters might end. chapter nineteen. gold and pearls--jack carousing. no confusion here in the fort. the men were all in, the other spear-armed corps of at least five hundred were hidden in the bush at the base of the mountain side. inside everything was being conducted as quietly and regularly as--as--well, as a marriage in church. but looking seaward, even without the aid of a glass, the great armada could be seen approaching. huge black many-paddled war canoes, forty in all, and probably with fifty men in each, or nearly a thousand altogether. nearer and nearer they swept with many a wild or warlike shout that was meant to strike terror into the hearts of the flower islanders. they were soon so near that the rattling of their spears as they struck them against their big shields could be distinctly heard. so near now that with a small opera-glass which the doctor carried, he could see their painted skins and faces, and the red and horrible streaks. and now it was time to fire the first gun. a shot or shell would have carried much further, but grape would be ever so much more demoralising. dickson himself trained that gun on the foremost or leading boat. the surprise of the enemy was indeed great. never had they seen a gun fired before, nor heard the roar of one. but yonder on shore and in front of the barricaded fort they could see a balloon of white smoke, with a stream of red fire in the centre. then the roar of that piece of ordnance was appalling. next moment the crowded boat or war canoe was filled with corpses and the shrieking, bleeding wounded. but she was in splinters, and quickly filled and sank. the other boats lay on their paddles for a minute, uncertain what to do. meanwhile, and just as reginald was quickly sponging out the gun previous to reloading, and all was silent for a time, a curious thing occurred. in at the tiny back door of the fort, which had not yet been closed, rushed a tiny, laughing figure, all in white and barefooted. it was matty, and in jumped honest oscar next. she was laughing merrily. "oh!" she cried, clapping her hands with glee. "they put me to bed, but i dot up again and runned away twickly, and i'se come to 'ssist!" "oh, my darling!" cried reginald, in great concern, "why did you come?" "i can tally (carry) tartridges and powder." "no, no, no, dear. you must obey me. here, there is my coat, and in that corner you must sit till all the fight is over." matty said: "tiss me, then." he kissed her, and down she sat with the dog beside her, and looked very demure indeed, with that one wee forefinger in her mouth. strange to say, she soon fell fast asleep, with her head pillowed on the dog's back, one hand clutching his mane. the battle now became general all along the line. for the riflemen in the back, as well as those within the fort, began to fire. and now slowly down the hill came bertha, the island queen, sceptre-pole in hand, and dressed in skins of dazzling white. a very imposing figure she looked. but her presence gave extra courage to her people. the officers in almost every boat were picked off easily, so short was now the range. it must be admitted that the enemy showed no lack of courage, though boat after boat was sunk to the number of six, and rifles rang out from the bush and fort in a series of independent but incessant firing, and well did the foe understand that their main safety now consisted in landing as soon as they possibly could. they knew that in a hand-to-hand fight the "fire-sticks," as savages call our rifles, would be of little avail. the guns were worked with splendid results, however, and by the time the war canoes were beached only about four hundred men were left to fight. but these cannibals knew no fear. one more telling volley from the bush, one more shot from a six-pounder, then from behind a bush rushed the white queen waving aloft her sceptre, and instantly from their cover, spear-armed, now rushed the flower islanders, one thousand strong at least the fight was a fearful one. dickson, hall, with reginald and the men in the fort, joined with revolver and cutlass. the queen was in the front. no, she fought not, but her presence there was like that of joan of arc. many of the invaded fell dead and wounded; but even the fierce foe was forced to yield at last, and the miserable remnant of them tried once more to reach their boats. they never did. it was a war of extermination, and the invaders were utterly and completely wiped out never a boat, never a man returned home to their distant island to tell the fearful tale. the flower islanders expected now a grand feast. here was flesh--human flesh. the queen forbade it, and dickson himself gave orders that every body-the wounded had been stabbed--should be rowed out to sea and thrown overboard to feed the sharks. they demurred. dickson was determined and stern. if not obeyed instantly, he should turn the guns on the would-be cannibals. reginald suggested as a kind of compromise that each man who had been fighting should receive a large biscuit and a glass of rum. it was a happy thought, and after this the work was set about merrily. the sea-burial occupied all the afternoon till within an hour of sunset. then the canoes returned. all was over. the armada was no more. but around him now dickson gathered the flower island army, and offered up a prayer of thanks to the god of battle, who had fought on their side, and the islanders seemed much impressed. the enemy would probably never attempt invasion again--in our heroes' time, at all events. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the queen gave a banquet that night, she herself presiding. of course, nothing was talked about except the incidents of the recent terrible battle. matty came in for a share of praise, but was told she really must not run away again. and she promised, only adding that she thought she could "'ssist the poor dear doc." the banquet lasted till late. the queen had not forgotten how to play and sing. dickson and reginald were both good musicians, and one or two blacks gave inimitable performances, partly gesture, partly song; which would assuredly have brought down the house if given in a london music-hall. -----------------------------------------------------------------------being freed now for a time from any fear of further invasion, attention was turned to the gold mines and to the pearl-fishing. at a meeting on the hillside it was resolved that the men--they were all honest fellows--should be admitted to the secret. to have shut them out would hardly have been fair, so thought all. well, naturally enough, reginald chose what he considered the best two claims; then came dickson's choice; then mr hall's, and after these the six white sailors, and they were willing to dig like heroes. they divided the work of the day into two parts. one was spent at the gold mines, the other in fishing for pearls. they were remarkably successful with the latter, but for nine months at least the gold came but slowly in, and this was disheartening. nevertheless, they continued to dig and dig, assisted by native labour. the savages often found nuggets among the _debris_ that had been overlooked by the white men, and these they dutifully presented to the owners of the claims. it must be admitted that the men were most energetic, for while their officers were always at the queen's palace by five o'clock, and ready for dinner, the men often worked by moonlight, or even by the glimmer of lanterns. they were slowly accumulating wealth. success crowned reginald's efforts at last, though. for, to his extreme wonderment and delight, he struck a splendid pocket. it was deep down at the far end of the cave, and the mould was of a sandy nature, much of it apparently powdered quartz, broken, perhaps, by the awful pressure of the mountain above. but the very first nugget he pulled from here was as large as a pineapple, and many more followed, though none so large. no wonder his heart palpitated with joy and excitement, or that his comrades crowded round to shake his hand and congratulate him. but that cave had already made reginald a fairly wealthy man. his success, moreover, encouraged the others to dig all the harder, and not without excellent results. it seemed, indeed, that not only was this island a flowery land, but an isle of gold. and the further they dug into the hill the more gold did they find. the men were very happy. "oh, bill," said one to his pal one night at supper, "if ever we does get a ship home from this blessed isle, won't my polly be glad to see me just!" "ay, jack, she will; but i ain't in any particular hurry to go yet, you know." "well, it's two years come monday since we sailed away from the beautiful clyde. heigho! i shouldn't wonder if polly has given me up for good and all, and married some counter-jumping land-lubber of a draper or grocer." "never mind, jack; there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it yet. pass the rum. this is saturday night, and it was just real good of captain dickson to send us an extra drop of the rosy. fill your glasses, gentlemen, for a toast and a song. that digging has made me a mighty deal too tired to think of dancing to the sweetest jig e'er a fiddler could scrape out." "well, give us your toast, bill. we're all primed and waiting." "my toast ain't a very short one, but here it goes: `may the next year be our very last in this 'ere blessed island; may we all go home with bags of gold, and find our sweethearts true and faithful.'" "hear, hear!" and every glass was drained to the bottom. "now for the song." "oh, only an old ditty o' dibdin's, and i'd rather be on the heavin' ocean when i sings it. there is no accompaniment to a song so fetching as that which the boom and the wash of the waves make. them's my sentiments, boys. "wives and sweethearts. "'tis said we ve't'rous diehards, when we leave the shore, our friends should mourn, lest we return to bless their sight no more; but this is all a notion bold jack can't understand, some die upon the ocean, and some die on the land. then since 'tis clear, howe'er we steer, no man's life's under his command; let tempests howl and billows roll, and dangers press; in spite of these there are some joys us jolly tars to bless, for saturday night still comes, my boys, to drink to poll and bess. "hurrah!" but just at this moment a strange and ominous sound, like distant thunder, put a sudden stop to the sailors' saturday night. all started to their feet to listen. chapter twenty. "oh, awful! what can it be?" cried reginald. i do not hesitate to say that the possession of unprotected wealth maketh cowards of most people. the anxiety connected therewith may keep one awake at night, and bring on a state of nervousness that shall end in a break-up of the general health. but no thought of ever losing the precious nuggets and pearls that had cost him so much hard work came into the mind of reginald grahame, until an event took place which proved that gold may tempt even those we trust the most. harry jenkins was a bright little sailor, the pet of his mess. he was always singing when at work in the diggings, and he generally managed to keep his comrades in excellent humour, and laughing all the time. in their messroom of an evening they were all frank and free, and hid nothing one from the other. for each believed in his pal's honesty. "i have a thousand pounds' worth of nuggets at least!" said harry one evening. "and i," said bill johnson, "have half as much again." they showed each other their gold, comparing nuggets, their very eyes glittering with joy as they thought of how happy they should be when they returned once more to their own country. then they each stowed away their wealth of nuggets and pearls, placed in tiny canvas bags inside their small sea-chests. this was about a week after that pleasant saturday night which was so suddenly broken up by the muttering of subterranean thunder and the trembling of the earth. but earthquakes were frequent in the island, though as yet not severe. the queen was by no means alarmed, but ilda was--terribly so. "oh," she cried, "i wish i were away and away from this terrible island!" the queen comforted her all she could. "i have a presentiment," replied the poor girl, "that this is not the last nor the worst." but when days and days passed away, and there were no more signs of earth-tremor, she regained courage, and was once more the same happy girl she had been before. then the occurrence took place that made reginald suspicious of the honesty of some of those british sailors. one morning harry was missing. they sought him high, they sought him low, but all in vain. then it occurred to johnson to look into his box. the box, with all his gold and pearls, was gone! harry's box had been left open, and it was found to be empty. no one else had lost anything. however, this was a clue, and the officers set themselves to unravel the mystery at once. nor was it long before they did so. not only was one of the largest canoes missing, with a sail that had been rigged on her, but two of the strongest natives and best boatmen. it was sadly evident that harry was a thief, and that he had bribed these two savages to set out to sea with him. there was a favouring breeze for the west, and harry no doubt hoped that, after probably a week's sailing, he would reach some of the more civilised of the polynesian islands, and find his way in a ship back to britain. whether he did so may never be known, but the fact that the breeze increased to over half a gale about three days after he had fled, makes it rather more than probable that the big canoe was swamped, and that she foundered, going down with the crew and the ill-gotten gold as well. only a proof that the wicked do not always prosper in this world. poor johnson's grief was sad to witness. "on my little store," he told his messmates, wringing his hands, and with the tears flowing over his cheeks, "i placed all my future happiness. i care not now what happens. one thing alone i know: life to me has no more charms, and i can never face poor mary again." he went to the diggings again in a halfhearted kind of way, and for a day or two was fairly successful; but it was evident that his heart was almost broken, and that if something were not done he might some evening throw himself over a cliff, and so end a life that had become distasteful to him. -----------------------------------------------------------------------so one morning reginald had an interview with his messmates. "i myself," he said, "must have already collected over twenty thousand pounds in nuggets and pearls, and will willingly give of this my store five hundred pounds worth of gold by weight, if you, captain dickson, and you, hall, will do the same. thus shall we restore reason and happiness to a fellow-creature, and one of the best-hearted sailors that ever lived and sailed the salt, salt seas." both dickson and hall must need shake hands with reginald, and, while the tears stood in his eyes, the former said: "that will we, my dear boy, and god will bless your riches, and restore you all your desires whenever we reach our british shores again." and so that very night there was no more happy man than johnson. another saturday night in the men's mess. dickson willingly spliced the main-brace twice over, and the night passed pleasantly on with yarn and song till midnight. but the thief harry was never mentioned. it was better thus. already, perhaps, the man had met his doom, and so they forgave him. yet somehow this incident rankled in reginald's bosom, and made him very uneasy. "i say," he said to dickson one day, "i confess that the flight of harry jenkins with poor johnson's gold has made me suspicious." "and me so as well," said dickson. "i mean," said reginald, "to bury my treasure, and i have already selected a spot." "you have? then i shall bury mine near yours. i have ever liked you, doctor, since first we met, and we have been as brothers." they shook hands. appealed to, mr hall said straight: "i am a wealthy man, and, if ever i reach america, i shall have more than i can spend. i shall leave mine in the box where it is. i admit," he added, "that if there be one thief among six men, there may be two, and gold is a great temptation. but i'll go with you at the dead of night, and help to carry, and help you to bury your treasure." they thanked him heartily, and accepted his kindly assistance. the spot at which reginald had chosen to hide his gold and treasure was called lone tree hill. it was on a bare, bluff mountain side. here stood one huge eucalyptus tree, that might have been used as a landmark for ships at sea had it been in the track of vessels. but this island, as i have already said, was not so. strangely enough, all around this tree the hill was supposed to be haunted by an evil spirit, and there was not a native who would go anywhere near it, even in broad daylight. the spirit took many forms, sometimes rushing down in the shape of a fox, or even wild pig, and scaring the natives into convulsions, but more often, and always before an earthquake, the spirit was seen in the shape of a round ball of flame on the very top of the tree. this was likely enough. i myself have seen a mysterious flame of this kind on the truck or highest portion of a ship's mast, and we sailors call it saint elmo's fire. i have known sailors, who would not have been afraid to bear the brunt of battle in a man-o'-war, tremble with superstitious dread as they beheld that mysterious quivering flame at the mast-head. some evil, they would tell you, was sure to happen. a storm invariably followed. well, generally a gale wind did, owing to the electric conditions of the atmosphere. -----------------------------------------------------------------------a bright scimitar of moon was shining at midnight when dickson and reginald, assisted by hall, stole silently out and away to the hills to bury their treasure. there were few sounds to be heard to-night on the island. far out in the bay there was at times the splash of a shark or the strange cooing of a porpoise, and in the valley the yapping of foxes in pursuit of their prey. the mournful hooting of great owls sounded from the woods, with now and then the cry of a night bird, or shriek of wounded bird. it was a long and stiff walk to lone tree hill; but arrived there, they set to work at once to dig at the eucalyptus root. the holes made-dickson's to the east, reginald's to the west--the nuggets, enclosed in strong tarpaulin bags, were laid in, and next the pearls, in small cash-boxes, were placed above these. the earth was now filled in, and the sods replaced so carefully and neatly that no one could have told that the earth had ever been broken or the sods upturned. then, breathing a prayer for the safety of their treasure, on which so much might depend in future, they walked silently down the hill and back to the camp. -----------------------------------------------------------------------but that very night--or rather towards morning--an event took place that alarmed all hands. the earth shook and trembled, and finally heaved; and it felt as if the house were a ship in the doldrums crossing the line. everyone was dashed on to the floor, and for a time lay there almost stunned, giddy, and even sick. it passed off. but in an hour's time a worse shock followed, and all hands rushed into the open air to seek for safety. outside it was not only hot and stifling--for not a breath of wind was blowing--but the air had a strange and almost suffocating sulphurous odour. and this was soon accounted for. now, not far from lone tree mountain was a high and conical hill. from this, to the great astonishment of all, smoke and flames were now seen issuing. the flames leapt in marvellous tongues high up through the smoke. there was the whitest of steam mingling with the smoke, and anon showers of dust, scorai, and stones began to fall. for a minute or two the sight quite demoralised the trio. but the men, too, had run out, and all had thrown themselves face down on the ground while the heaving of the earth continued. it was a new experience, and a terrible one. dickson went towards them now. "i do not think, boys, that the danger is very extreme," he said. "but i advise you to keep out of doors as much as possible, in case of a greater shock, which may bring down our humble dwelling. and now, hall, and you, reginald," he added, "the ladies at the palace will, i fear, be in great terror. it is our duty to go to them. our presence may help to cheer them up." daylight was beginning to dawn, though from rolling clouds of smoke in the far east the sun could only be seen like a red-hot iron shot. it was evident enough to our heroes when they had climbed the highest intervening hill, that the island from which the armada had come was far more severely stricken than this isle of flowers was. but as they still gazed eastward at the three or four blazing mountains on that island, they started and clung together with something akin to terror in every heart. "oh, awful! what can it be?" cried reginald. chapter twenty one. a terrible time. never until the crack of doom might they hear such another report as that which now fell upon their ears. at almost the same moment, in a comminglement of smoke and fire, a huge dark object was seen to be carried high into the air, probably even a mile high. it then took a westerly direction, and came towards the isle of flowers, getting larger every second, till it descended into the sea, end on, and not two miles away. it was seen to be a gigantic rock, perhaps many, many acres in extent. the waters now rose on every side, the noise was deafening; then in, landwards, sped a huge bore, breaker, or wave, call it what you please, but darkness almost enveloped it, and from this thunders roared and zigzag lightning flashed as it dashed onwards to the island shore. the men they had left behind had speedily climbed the rocks behind the camp, for although the wave did not reach so high, the spray itself would have suffocated them, had they not looked out for safety. it was an awful moment. but the wave receded at last, and the sea was once more calm. only a new island had been formed by the fall of the rock into the ocean's coral depths, and for a time the thunder and lightning ceased. not the volcanic eruptions, however. and but for the blaze and lurid light of these the enemy's isle, as it was called, must have been in total darkness. truly a terrible sight! but our heroes hurried on. just as they had expected, when they reached the queen's palace they found poor miss hall, and even little matty--with all her innocent courage--in a state of great terror. the queen alone was self-possessed. she had seen a volcanic eruption before. ilda was lying on the couch with her arms round matty's waist matty standing by her side. the child was now seven years of age, and could talk and think better. reginald, after kissing ilda's brow, sat down beside them, and matty clambered on his knee. meanwhile, the darkness had increased so much that the queen called upon her dusky attendants to light the great oil lamp that swung from the roof. the queen continued self-possessed, and tried to comfort her guests. "it will soon be over," she said. "i am assured of that. my experience is great." but matty refused all consolation. "i'se never been a very great sinner, has i?" she innocently asked reginald, as she clung round his neck. "oh, no, darling," he said; "you are too young to be much of a sinner." "you think god won't be angry, and will take you and me and ilda and queen bertha straight up to heaven, clothes and all?" "my child," said reginald, "what has put all this into your head?" "oh," she answered, "because i know the day of judgment has come." well, there was some excuse for the little innocent thinking so. without the thickest darkness reigned. dickson and hall went to the door, but did not venture out. scoria was falling, and destroying all the shrubs and flowers in the beautiful valley. the river was mixed with boiling lava, and the noise therefrom was like a thousand engines blowing off steam at one and the same time. surely never was such loud and terrible thunder heard before; and the lightning was so vivid and so incessant that not only did the island itself seem all ablaze, but even the distant sea. crimson and blue fire appeared to lick its surface in all directions. but the burning mountain itself was the most wondrous sight eyes of man could look upon. the smoke and steam rose and rolled amidst the play of lightning miles high apparently. the peak of the mountain itself shot up a continuous stream of orange-yellow flame, in which here and there small black spots could be seen--rocks and stones, without a doubt. but the cone of the great hill itself was marvellously beautiful. for rivers of lava--dickson counted nine in all--were rushing down its sides in a straight course, and these were streams of coloured fire, almost every one a different hue--deep crimson, green, and blue, and even orange. were it not for the terror of the sight, our heroes would have enjoyed it. reginald carried matty to the door to see the beauty of the burning mountain. she took one brief glance, then shudderingly held closer to reginald's neck. "take me back, take me back!" she cried in an agony of fear. "that is the bad place! oh, when will god come and take us away?" all that fearful day and all the following night scoria and ashes continued to fall, the thunder never ceased, and the lightning was still incessant. there was no chance now of getting back to camp, and they trembled to think of what might have taken place. towards morning, however, a wondrous change took place. the sky got clearer, a star or two shone through the rifts of heavy, overhanging clouds. the fire no longer rose from the mountain, only a thick balloon-shaped white cloud lay over it. then the rain began to fall, and, strangely enough, mingled with the rain, which felt warm, were gigantic hailstones and pieces of ice as large as six-pound shells. then up rose the glorious sun. like a red ball of fire he certainly was; but oh, what a welcome sight! that forenoon, all being now peace and quiet, dickson and his comrades determined to march back to camp and ease their minds. after a long and toilsome journey over the hills, many of which were covered with ashes, they reached camp, and were glad to find the men alive, and the house intact. a rampart had been built around the barracks, as hall called it, and inside was a large drill-yard. dickson served out rum to the men, and they soon were cheerful enough once more. the guns had been mounted on the walls, and all rifles were stowed away inside. this was at a suggestion from hall. "you never can trust those niggers," he said quietly, shaking his head. and well it was, as it turned out, that dickson had taken mr hall's advice. that same afternoon, about two o'clock, the same savages who had fought with rifles from the bush against the invaders came hurriedly and somewhat excitedly into camp. the spokesman, a tall and splendid-looking native, gesticulated wildly, as he almost shouted in the officers' ears: "to-mollow molning dey come! all dis island rise! dey come to kill and eat!" the officers were astonished. what had they done to deserve so terrible a fate? "dey blame you for all. oh, be plepared to fight. gib us guns, and we too will fight plenty much. foh true!" a very uneasy night was passed, but the yard and guns had been cleared of cinders and scoria, the bulwarks strengthened, and before the sun once more shone red over the sea dickson was prepared for either battle or siege. everyone had been assigned his quarters. the day was still, hot, and somewhat sultry. luckily the little garrison was well provisioned, and the water would last a week or even longer. low muttering thunders were still heard in the direction of the volcano, and sometimes the earth shook and trembled somewhat, but it was evident that the subterranean fires had burnt themselves out, and it might be a score of years before another eruption occurred. it was evident that the savages did not think so. for as long as the cloud hung over the peak they did not consider themselves safe. about twelve o'clock that day distant shouts and cries were heard in the nearest glen, and presently an undisciplined mob of nearly a thousand howling savages, armed with bows and spears and broad black knives, appeared on the sands, in their war-paint. it was evidently their intention to storm the position, and determinedly too. they halted, however, and seemed to have a hasty consultation. then a chief boldly advanced to the ramparts to hold a parley. his speech was a curious one, and he himself, dressed partly in skins and leaning on a spear like a weaver's beam, was a strangely wild and romantic figure. the officers appeared above the ramparts to look and to listen. "hear, o white men!" cried the savage chief, in fairly good english; "'tis you who brought dis evil on us. we now do starve. de rice and de fruit and de rats and most all wild beasts dey kill or hide demselves. in de sea all round de fish he die. we soon starve. but we not wish to fight. you and your men saved us from the foe that came in der big black war canoe. den you try to teach us god and good. but we all same as before now. we must fight, eat and live, if you do not leave the island. plenty big canoe take you off. den de grass and trees and fruit will grow again, and we shall be happy and flee onct mo'." "an end to this!" cried dickson angrily. "fight as you please, and as soon as you please. but mind, you will have a devilish hot reception, and few of you will return to your glens to tell the tale. away!" as soon as the chief had returned and communicated to his men the result of the interview, they shrieked and shouted and danced like demons. they brandished their spears aloft and rattled them against their shields. then, with one continuous maddened howl, they dashed onwards to scale the ramparts. "blood! blood!" was their battle cry. well knowing that if once they got inside the little garrison would soon be butchered, dickson immediately had both guns trained on them. he himself did so. "bang! bang!" they went, and the grape made fearful havoc in the close and serried ranks of the cannibals. the rifles kept up a withering fire. again, and quickly too, the guns were loaded and run out, and just as the enemy had scaled the brae they were once more met by the terrible fire, and positively hewn down before it. not even savages could stand this. they became demoralised, and fled incontinently. and they soon disappeared, carrying many of their dead with them. far along the beach went they, and as stakes were placed in the ground, large fires built around them, and one or more of the dead thrown on each, it was evident that they had made up their minds not to starve. one of the blacks was now sent out from the fort to make a circuit round the hills, and then, mingling with the savages, to find out out what was their intention. he returned in a few hours, and while the awful feast was still going on. a night attack was determined on, and they believed they would inherit strength and bravery by eating their dead comrades. that was the scout's report. chapter twenty two. more fearful fighting--golden gulch--"a ship! a ship!" forewarned is, or ought to be, forearmed. nevertheless, it must be confessed that dickson and the others greatly dreaded an attack by savages under cover of the moonless darkness of a tropical night. all was done that could be done to repel the fury of the onslaught. but come it must and would. just as the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, amidst lurid and threatening clouds, a happy thought occurred to one of the sailors. "sir," he said to dickson, "the darkness will be our greatest foe, will it not?" "certainly. if these demon cannibals would but show front in daylight we could easily disperse them, as we did before. have you any plans, mcgregor?" "i'm only a humble sailor," said mcgregor, "but my advice is this. we can trust the honest blacks we have here within the fort?" "yes." "well, let them throw up a bit of sand cover for themselves down here on the beach and by the sea. each man should wear a bit of white cotton around his arm, that we may be able to distinguish friend from foe. do you follow me, sir?" "good, mcgregor. go on." "well, captain, the cannibals are certain to make direct for the barracks and attempt to scale as they did before. i will go in command of our twenty black soldiers, and just as you pour in your withering grape and rifle bullets we shall attack from the rear, or flank, rather, and thus i do not doubt we shall once more beat them off." "good again, my lad; but remember we cannot aim in the darkness." "that can be provided against. we have plenty of tarry wood here, and we can cut down the still standing brush, and making two huge bonfires, deluge the whole with kerosene when we hear the beggars coming and near at hand. thus shall you have light to fight." "mcgregor, my lad, i think you have saved the fort and our lives. get ready your men and proceed to duty. or, stay. while they still are at their terrible feast and dancing round the fires, you may remain inside." "thanks, sir, thanks." the men had supper at eleven o'clock and a modicum of rum each. the british sailor needs no dutch courage on the day of battle. the distant fires burnt on till midnight. then, by means of his night-glass, dickson could see the tall chieftain was mustering his men for the charge. -----------------------------------------------------------------------half an hour later they came on with fiendish shouts and howling. then brave mcgregor and his men left the barracks and hid in the darkling to the left and low down on the sands. the enemy advanced from the right. their chief was evidently a poor soldier, or he would have caused them to steal as silently as panthers upon the fort. when within a hundred yards, dickson at one side and reginald at the other, each accompanied by a man carrying a keg of kerosene, issued forth at the back door. in three minutes more the flames sprang up as if by magic. they leaped in great white tongues of fire up the rock sides, from which the rays were reflected, so that all round the camp was as bright as day. the astonished savages, however, came on like a whirlwind, till within twenty yards of the brae on which stood the fort. then mr hall, the brave and imperturbable yankee, "gave them fits," as he termed it. he trained a gun on them and fired it point-blank. the yells and awful howlings of rage and pain told how well the grape had done its deadly work, and that many had fallen never to rise again. the tall, skin-clad chief now waved his spear aloft, and shouted to his men, pointing at the fort. that dark cloud was a mass of frenzied savages now. they leaped quickly over their dead and wounded, and rushed for the hill. but they were an easy mark, and once again both guns riddled their ranks. they would not be denied even yet. but lo! while still but half-way up the hill, to their astonishment and general demoralisation, they were attacked by a terrible rifle fire from the flank. again and again those rifles cracked, and at so close a range that the attacking party fell dead in twos and threes. but not until two more shots were fired from the fort, not until the giant chief was seen to throw up his arms and fall dead in his tracks, did they hurriedly rush back helter-skelter, and seek safety in flight. the black riflemen had no mercy on their brother-islanders. their blood was up. so was mcgregor's, and they pursued the enemy, pouring in volley after volley until the darkness swallowed them up. the slaughter had been immense. the camp was molested no more. but at daybreak it was observed that no cloud hung any longer on the volcanic peak. the savages were still grouped in hundreds around their now relighted fires, and it was evident a new feast was in preparation. but something still more strange now happened. accompanied by two gigantic spear-armed men of the guard, the queen herself was seen to issue from the glen, and boldly approach the rebels. what she said may never be known. but, while her guard stood like two statues, she was seen to be haranguing the cannibals, sometimes striking her sceptre-pole against the hard white sand, sometimes pointing with it towards the volcanic mountain. but see! another chief approaches her, and is apparently defying her. next moment there is a little puff of white smoke, and the man falls, shot through the head. and now the brave and romantic queen nods to her guards, and with their spears far and near the fires are dispersed and put out. this was all very interesting, as well as wonderful, to the onlookers at the fort, but when the queen was seen approaching the little garrison, a little white flag waving from her pole, and followed by all the natives, astonishment was at its height. humbly enough they approached now, for the queen in their eyes was a goddess. with a wave of her sceptre she stopped them under the brae, or hill, and dickson and reginald hurried down to meet her floral majesty. "had i only known sooner," she said sympathisingly, "that my people had rebelled and attempted to murder you, i should have been here long, long before now. these, however, are but the black sheep of my island, and now at my command they have come to sue for pardon." "and they will lay down their arms?" "yes, every spear and bow and crease." "then," said dickson, "let them go in single file and heap them on the still smouldering fire up yonder." queen bertha said something to them in their own language, and she was instantly obeyed. the fire so strangely replenished took heart and blazed up once more, and soon the arms were reduced to ashes, and the very knives bent or melted with the fierce heat. "go home now to your wives and children," she cried imperiously. "for a time you shall remain in disgrace. but if you behave well i will gladly receive you once more into my favour. disperse! be off!" all now quietly dispersed, thankfully enough, too, for they had expected decapitation. but ten were retained to dig deep graves near the sea and bury the dead. there were no wounded. this done, peace was restored once more on the island of flowers. -----------------------------------------------------------------------three weeks of incessant rain followed. it fell in torrents, and the river itself overflowed its banks, the fords being no longer of any use, so that the men were confined to their barracks. it was a long and a dreary time. very much indeed reginald would have liked to visit the palace, to romp with little matty, and listen to the music of ilda's sweet voice. "as for annie--she must have given me up for dead long ere now," he said to himself. "why, it is two years and nine months since i left home. yes, something tells me that annie is married, and married to--to--my old rival the laird. do i love ilda? i dare not ask myself the question. bar annie herself, with sweet, baby, innocent face, i have never known a girl that so endeared herself to me as ilda has done. and--well, yes, why deny it?--i long to see her." one day the rain ceased, and the sun shone out bright and clear once more. the torrents from the mountains were dried up, and the river rapidly went down. this was an island of surprises, and when, three days after this, reginald, accompanied by hall and dickson, went over the mountains, they marvelled to find that the incessant downpour of rain had entirely washed the ashes from the valley, and that it was once more smiling green with bud and bourgeon. in a week's time the flowers would burst forth in all their glory. the ford was now easily negotiable, and soon they were at the queen's palace. need i say that they received a hearty welcome from her majesty and ilda? nor did it take matty a minute to ensconce herself on reginald's knee. "oh," she whispered, "i'se so glad you's come back again! me and ilda cried ourselves to sleep every, every night, 'cause we think the bad black men kill you." ilda crying for him! probably praying for him! the thought gave him joy. then, indeed, she loved him. no wonder that he once again asked himself how it would all end. the weather now grew charming. even the hills grew green again, for the ashes and _debris_ from the fire-hill, as the natives called it, had fertilised the ground. and now, accompanied by ilda and matty, who would not be left behind, an expedition started for the valley of gold. the road would be rough, and so a hammock had been sent for from the camp, and two sturdy natives attached it to a long bamboo pole. matty, laughing with delight, was thus borne along, and she averred that it was just like flying. alas! the earthquake had been very destructive in golden gulch. our heroes hardly knew it. indeed, it was a glen no longer, but filled entirely up with fallen rocks, lava, and scoria. they sighed, and commenced the return journey. but first a visit must be paid to lone tree mountain. for reginald's heart lay there. "from that elevation," said reginald, "we shall be able to see the beautiful ocean far and near." the tree at last! it was with joy indeed they beheld it. though damaged by the falling scoria, it was once more green; but the grave in which the gold and pearls lay was covered three feet deep in lava and small stones. the treasure, then, was safe! they were about to return, when ilda suddenly grasped reginald's arm convulsively. "look! look!" she cried, pointing seawards. "the ship! the ship! we are saved! we are saved!" chapter twenty three. "she threw herself on the sofa in an agony of grief." nearer and nearer drew that ship, and bigger and bigger she seemed to grow, evidently with the intention of landing on the island. even with the naked eye they soon could see that her bulwarks were badly battered, and that her fore-topmast had been carried away. back they now hurried to leave ilda and matty at the palace. then camp-wards with all speed; and just as they reached the barracks they could hear the rattling of the chains as both anchors were being let go in the bay. a boat now left the vessel's side, and our three heroes hurried down to meet it. the captain was a red-faced, white-haired, hale old man, and one's very _beau-ideal_ of a sailor. he was invited at once up to the barracks, and rum and ship biscuits placed before him. then yarns were interchanged, captain cleaver being the first to tell the story of his adventures. very briefly, though, as seafarers mostly do talk. "left rio three months ago, bound for san francisco. fine weather for a time, and until we had cleared the straits. then--oh, man! may i never see the like again! i've been to sea off and on for forty years and five, but never before have i met with such storms. one after another, too; and here we are at last. in the quiet of your bay, i hope to make good some repairs, then hurry on our voyage. and you?" he added. "ah," said dickson, "we came infinitely worse off than you. wrecked, and nearly all our brave crew drowned. six men only saved, with us three, mr hall's daughter and a child. the latter are now with the white queen of this island. we managed to save our guns and provisions from our unhappy yacht and that was all." "well, you shall all sail to california with me. i'll make room, for i am but lightly loaded. but i have not yet heard the name of your craft, nor have you introduced me to your companions." "a sailor's mistake," laughed dickson; "but this is mr hall, who was a passenger; and this is dr reginald grahame. our vessel's name was the _wolverine_." "and she sailed from glasgow nearly three years ago?" captain cleaver bent eagerly over towards dickson as he put the question. "that is so, sir." "why, you are long since supposed to have foundered with all hands, and the insurance has been paid to your owners." "well, that is right; the ship is gone, but _we_ are alive, and our adventures have been very strange and terrible indeed. after dinner i will tell you all. but now," he added, with a smile, "if you will only take us as far as 'frisco, we shall find our way to our homes." captain cleaver's face was very pale now, and he bit his lips, as he replied: "i can take you, captain dickson, your six men, mr hall and the ladies, but i cannot sail with this young fellow." he pointed to reginald. "it may be mere superstition on my part," he continued, "but i am an old sailor, you know, and old sailors have whims." "i cannot see why i should be debarred from a passage home," said reginald. "i am a plain man," said cleaver, "and i shall certainly speak out, if you pretend you do not know." "i do _not_ know, and i command you to speak out." "then i will. in britain there is a price set upon your head, sir, and you are branded as a _murderer_!" dickson and hall almost started from their seats, but reginald was quiet, though deathly white. "and--and," he said, in a husky voice, "whom am i accused of murdering?" "your quondam friend, sir, and rival in love, the farmer craig nicol." "i deny it _in toto_!" cried reginald. "young man, i am not your judge. i can only state facts, and tell you that your knife was found bloodstained and black by the murdered man's side. the odds are all against you." "this is truly terrible!" said reginald, getting red and white by turns, as he rapidly paced the floor. "what can it mean?" "captain dickson," he said at last, "do you believe, judging from all you have seen of me, that i could be guilty of so dastardly a deed, or that i could play and romp with the innocent child matty with, figuratively speaking, blood between my fingers, and darkest guilt at my heart? can you believe it?" dickson held out his hand, and reginald grasped it, almost in despair. "things look black against you," he said, "but i do _not_ believe you guilty." "nor do i," said hall; "but i must take the opportunity of sailing with captain cleaver, i and my daughter and little matty." reginald clasped his hand to his heart. "my heart will break!" he said bitterly. -----------------------------------------------------------------------in a few days' time cleaver's ship was repaired, and ready for sea. so was hall, and just two of the men. the other four, as well as dickson himself, elected to stay. there was still water to be laid in, however, and so the ship was detained for forty-eight hours. one morning his messmates missed reginald from his bed. it was cold, and evidently had not been slept in for many hours. "well, well," said dickson, "perhaps it is best thus, but i doubt not that the poor unhappy fellow has thrown himself over a cliff, and by this time all his sorrows are ended for ay." but reginald had had no such intention. while the stars were yet shining, and the beautiful southern cross mirrored in the river's depth, he found himself by the ford, and soon after sunrise he was at the palace. ilda was an early riser and so, too, was wee matty. both were surprised but happy to see him. he took the child in his arms, and as he kissed her the tears rose to his eyes, and all was a mist. "dear matty," he said, "run out, now; i would speak with ilda alone." half-crying herself, and wondering all the while, matty retired obediently enough. "oh," cried ilda earnestly, and drawing her chair close to his, "you are in grief. what can have happened?" "do not sit near me, ilda. oh, would that the grief would but kill me! the captain of the ship which now lies in the bay has brought me terrible news. i am branded with murder! accused of slaying my quondam friend and rival in the affections of her about whom i have often spoken to you--annie lane." ilda was stricken dumb. she sat dazed and mute, gazing on the face of him she loved above all men on earth. "but--oh, you are not--_could_ not--be guilty! reginald--my own reginald!" she cried. "things are terribly black against me, but i will say no more now. only the body was not found until two days after i sailed, and it is believed that i was a fugitive from justice. that makes matters worse. ilda, i could have loved you, but, ah! i fear this will be our last interview on earth. your father is sailing by this ship, and taking you and my little love matty with him." she threw herself in his arms now, and wept till it verily seemed her heart would break. then he kissed her tenderly, and led her back to her seat. "brighter times may come," he said. "there is ever sunshine behind the clouds. good-bye, darling, good-bye--and may every blessing fall on your life and make you happy. say good-bye to the child for me; i dare not see her again." she half rose and held out her arms towards him, but he was gone. the door was closed, and she threw herself now on the sofa in an agony of grief. the ship sailed next day. reginald could not see her depart. he and one man had gone to the distant hill. they had taken luncheon with them, and the sun had almost set before they returned to camp. "have they gone?" was the first question when he entered the barrack-hall. "they have gone." that was all that dickson said. "but come, my friend, cheer up. no one here believes you guilty. all are friends around you, and if, as i believe you to be, you are innocent, my advice is this: pray to the father; pray without ceasing, and he will bend down his ear and take you out of your troubles. remember those beautiful lines you have oftentimes heard me sing: "`god is our comfort and our strength, in straits a present aid; therefore although the earth remove, we will not be afraid.' "and these: "`he took me from a fearful pit, and from the miry clay; and on a rock he set my feet, establishing my way.'" "god bless you for your consolation. but at present my grief is all so fresh, and it came upon me like a bolt from the blue. in a few days i may recover. i do not know. i may fail and die. it may be better if i do." dickson tried to smile. "nonsense, lad. i tell you all will yet come right, and you will see." the men who acted as servants now came in to lay the supper. the table was a rough one indeed, and tablecloth there was none. yet many a hearty meal they had made off the bare boards. "i have no appetite, dickson." "perhaps not; but inasmuch as life is worth living, and especially a young life like yours, eat you must, and we must endeavour to coax it." as he spoke he placed a bottle of old rum on the table. he took a little himself, as if to encourage his patient, and then filled out half a tumblerful and pushed it towards reginald. reginald took a sip or two, and finally finished it by degrees, but reluctantly. dickson filled him out more. "nay, nay," reginald remonstrated. "do you see that couch yonder?" said his companion, smiling. "yes." "well, as soon as you have had supper, on that you must go to bed, and i will cover you with a light rug. sleep will revive you, and things to-morrow morning will not look quite so dark and gloomy." "i shall do all you tell me." "good boy! but mind, i have even solomon's authority for asking you to drink a little. `give,' he says, `strong drink to him who is ready to perish... let him drink... and remember his misery no more.' and our irrepressible bard burns must needs paraphrase these words in verse: "`give him strong drink, until he wink, that's sinking in despair; and liquor good to fire his blood, that's pressed wi' grief and care. there let him bouse and deep carouse wi' bumpers flowing o'er; till he forgets his loves or debts, an' minds his griefs no more.'" chapter twenty four. "oh, merciful father! they are here." well, it seemed there was very little chance of poor reginald (if we dare extend pity to him) forgetting either his loves or the terrible incubus that pressed like a millstone on heart and brain. captain dickson was now doctor instead of grahame, and the latter was his patient. two things he knew right well: first, that in three or four months at the least a ship of some kind would arrive, and reginald be taken prisoner back to england; secondly, that if he could not get him to work, and thus keep his thoughts away from the awful grief, he might sink and die. he determined, therefore, to institute a fresh prospecting party. perhaps, he told the men, the gold was not so much buried but that they might find their way to it. "that is just what we think, sir, and that is why we stayed in the island with you and dr grahame instead of going home in the _erebus_. now, sir," continued the man, "why not employ native labour? we have plenty of tools, and those twenty stalwart blacks that fought so well for us would do anything to help us. shall i speak to them, captain?" "very well, mcgregor; you seem to have the knack of giving good advice. it shall be as you say." after a visit to the queen, who received them both with great cordiality, and endeavoured all she could to keep up poor reginald's heart, they took their departure, and bore up for the hills, accompanied by their black labourers, who were as merry as crickets. much of the lava, or ashes, had been washed away from the golden mount, as they termed it, and they could thus prospect with more ease in the gulch below. in the most likely part, a place where crushed or powdered quartz abound, work was commenced in downright earnest. "here alone have we any chance, men," said captain dickson cheerily. "ah, sir," said mcgregor, "you have been at the diggings before, and so have i." "you are right, my good fellow; i made my pile in california when little more than a boy. i thought that this fortune was going to last me for ever, and there was no extravagance in new york i did not go in for. well, my pile just vanished like mist before the morning sun, and i had to take a situation as a man before the mast, and so worked myself up to what i am now, a british master mariner." "well, sir," said mac, "you have seen the world, anyhow, and gained experience, and no doubt that your having been yourself a common sailor accounts for much of your kindness to and sympathy for us poor jacks." "perhaps." mining work was now carried on all day long, and a shaft bored into the mountain side. this was their only chance. timber was cut down and sawn into beams and supports, and for many weeks everything went on with the regularity of clock-work; but it was not till after a month that fortune favoured the brave. then small nuggets began to be found, and to these succeeded larger ones; and it was evident to all that a well-lined pocket was found. in this case both the officers and men worked together, and the gold was equally divided between them. they were indeed a little republic, but right well the men deserved their share, for well and faithfully did they work. two months had passed away since the departure of the _erebus_, and soon the detectives must come. reginald's heart gave a painful throb of anxiety when he thought of it. another month and he should be a prisoner, and perhaps confined in a hot and stuffy cell on board ship. oh! it was terrible to think of! but work had kept him up. soon, however, the mine gave out, and was reluctantly deserted. every night now, however, both dickson and reginald dined and slept at the palace of queen bertha. with her reginald left his nuggets. "if i should be condemned to death," he said,--"and fate points to that probability--the gold and all the rest is yours, dickson." "come, sir, come," said the queen, "keep up your heart. you say you are not guilty." they were sitting at table enjoying wine and fruit, though the latter felt like sawdust in reginald's hot and nerve-fevered mouth. "i do not myself believe i am guilty, my dear lady," he answered. "you do not _believe_?" "listen, and i will tell you. the knife found--it was mine--by the side of poor craig nicol is damning evidence against me, and this is my greatest fear. listen again. all my life i have been a sleep-walker or somnambulist." the queen was interested now, and leaned more towards him as he spoke. "you couldn't surely--" she began. "all i remember of that night is this--and i feel the cold sweat of terror on my brow as i relate it--i had been to aberdeen. i dined with friends--dined, not wisely, perhaps, but too well. i remember feeling dazed when i left the train at--station. i had many miles still to walk, but before i had gone there a stupor seemed to come over me, and i laid me down on the sward thinking a little sleep would perfectly refresh me. i remember but little more, only that i fell asleep, thinking how much i would give only to have craig nicol once more as my friend. strange, was it not? i seemed to awake in the same place where i had lain down, but cannot recollect that i had any dreams which might have led to somnambulism. but, oh, queen bertha, my stocking knife was gone! i looked at my hands. `good god!' i cried, for they were smeared with blood! and i fainted away. i have no more to say," he added, "no more to tell. i will tell the same story to my solicitor alone, and will be guided by all he advises. if i have done this deed, even in my sleep, i deserve my fate, whate'er it may be, and, oh, queen bertha, the suspense and my present terrible anxiety is worse to bear than death itself could be." "from my very inmost heart i pity you," said the queen. "and i too," said dickson. -----------------------------------------------------------------------it was now well-nigh three months since the _erebus_ had left, and no other vessel had yet arrived or appeared in sight. but one evening the queen, with reginald and dickson, sat out of doors in the verandah. they were drinking little cups of black coffee and smoking native cigarettes, rolled round with withered palm leaves in lieu of paper. it was so still to-night that the slightest sound could be heard: even leaves rustling in the distant woods, even the whisk of the bats' wings as they flew hither and thither moth-hunting. it was, too, as bright as day almost, for a round moon rode high in the clear sky, and even the brilliant southern cross looked pale in her dazzling rays. there had been a lull in the conversation for a few minutes, but suddenly the silence was broken in a most unexpected way. from seaward, over the hills, came the long-drawn and mournful shriek of a steamer's whistle. "o, merciful father!" cried reginald, half-rising from his seat, but sinking helplessly back again--"they are here!" alas! it was only too true. -----------------------------------------------------------------------when the _erebus_ left the island, with, as passengers, mr hall and poor, grief-stricken ilda, she had a good passage as far as the line, and here was becalmed only a week, and made a quick voyage afterwards to the golden horn. here mr hall determined to stay for many months, to recruit his daughter's health. all the remedies of san francisco were at her command. she went wherever her father pleased, but every pleasure appeared to pall upon her. doctors were consulted, and pronounced the poor girl in a rapid decline. there was a complete collapse of the whole nervous system, they said, and she must have received some terrible shock. mr hall admitted it, asking at the same time if the case were hopeless, and what he could do. "it is the last thing a medical man should do," replied the physician, "to take hope away. i do not say she may not recover with care, but--i am bound to tell you, sir--the chances of her living a year are somewhat remote." poor mr hall was silent and sad. he would soon be a lonely man indeed, with none to comfort him save little matty, and she would grow up and leave him too. shortly after the arrival of the _erebus_ at california, a sensational heading to a scotch newspaper caught the eye of the old laird mcleod, as he sat with his daughter one morning at breakfast: "remarkable discovery. the supposed murderer of craig nicol found on a cannibal island." the rest of the paragraph was but brief, and detailed only what we already know. but annie too had seen it, and almost fainted. and this very forenoon, too, laird fletcher was coming to mcleod cottage to ask her hand formally from her father. already, as i have previously stated, she had given a half-willing consent. but now her mind was made up. she would tell fletcher everything, and trust to his generosity. she mentioned to jeannie, her maid, what her intentions were. "i would not utterly throw over fletcher," said jeannie. "you never know what may happen." jeannie was nothing if not canny. well, fletcher did call that forenoon, and she saw him before he could speak to her old uncle--saw him alone. she showed him the paper and telegram. then she boldly told him that while her betrothed, whom she believed entirely innocent of the crime laid at his door, was in grief and trouble, all thoughts of marriage were out of the question entirely. "and you love this young man still?" "ay, fletcher," she said, "and will love him till all the seas run dry." the laird gave her his hand, and with tears running down her cheeks, she took it. "we still shall be friends," he said. "yes," she cried; "and, oh, forgive me if i have caused you grief. i am a poor, unhappy girl!" "every cloud," said fletcher, "has a silver lining." then he touched her hand lightly with his lips, and next moment he was gone. chapter twenty five. the cruise of the "vulcan." the next news concerning what was called the terrible deeside murder was that a detective and two policemen had started for new york, that thence they would journey overland to san francisco, and there interview the captain of the _erebus_ in order to get the latitude and longitude of the isle of flowers. they would then charter a small steamer and bring the accused home for trial--and for justice. it is a long and somewhat weary journey, this crossing america by train, but the detective and his companions were excited by the adventure they were engaged on, and did not mind the length of the way. the _vulcan_, which they finally chartered at 'frisco, was a small, but clean and pretty steamer, that was used for taking passengers (a few select ones only) to view the beauties of the fiji islands. many a voyage had she made, but was as sturdy and strong as ever. it must be confessed, however, that master mariner neaves did not half-like his present commission, but the liberality of the pay prevailed, and so he gave in. his wife and her maid, who acted also as stewardess, had always accompanied him to sea, and she refused to be left on this expedition. so away they sailed at last, and soon were far off in the blue pacific, steering southwards with a little west in it. and now a very strange discovery was brought to light. they had been about a day and a half at sea, when, thinking he heard a slight noise in the store-room, captain neaves opened it. to his intense surprise, out walked a beautiful little girl of about seven. she carried in her hand a grip-sack, and as she looked up innocently in neaves's face, she said naively: "oh, dear, i is so glad we are off at last. i'se been so very lonely." "but, my charming little stowaway, who on earth are you, and how did you come here?" "oh," she answered, "i am matty. i just runned away, and i'se goin' south with you to see poor regie grahame. that's all, you know." "well, well, well!" said neaves wonderingly. "a stranger thing than this surely never happened on board the saucy _vulcan_, from the day she first was launched!" then he took matty by the hand, and laughing in spite of himself, gave her into the charge of his wife. "we can't turn back," he explained; "that would be unlucky. she must go with us." "of course," said matty, nodding her wise wee head. "you mustn't go back." and so it was settled. but matty became the sunshine and life of all on board. even the detective caught the infection, and the somewhat solemn-looking and important policeman as well. all were in love with matty in less than a week. if neaves was master of the _vulcan_, matty was mistress. -----------------------------------------------------------------------well, when that ominous whistle was heard in the bay of flower island, although utterly shaken and demoralised for a time, reginald soon recovered. poor oscar, the newfoundland, had laid his great head on his master's knees and was gazing up wonderingly but pityingly into his face. "oh, queen bertha," said reginald sadly, as he placed a hand on the dog's great head, "will--will you keep my faithful friend till all is over?" "that i shall, and willingly. nothing shall ever come over him; and mind," she said, "i feel certain you will return to bring him away." next morning broke sunny and delightful. all the earth in the valley was carpeted with flowers; the trees were in their glory. reginald alone was unhappy. at eight o'clock, guided by two natives, the detectives and policemen were seen fording the river, on their way to the palace. reginald had already said good-bye to the queen and his beautiful brown-eyed dog. "be good, dear boy, and love your mistress. i will come back again in spirit if not in body. good-bye, my pet, good-bye." then he and dickson went quietly down to meet the police. the detective stopped and said "good-morning" in a kindly, sympathetic tone. "good-morning," said reginald sadly. "i am your prisoner." the policeman now pulled out the handcuffs. the detective held up his hand. "if you, grahame," he said, "will assure me on your oath that you will make no attempt to escape or to commit suicide, you shall have freedom on board--no irons, no chains." the prisoner held up his hand, and turned his eyes heavenwards. "as god is my last judge, sir," he said, "i swear before him i shall give you not the slightest trouble. i know my fate, and can now face it." "amen," said the detective. "and now we shall go on board." reginald took one last longing, lingering look back at the palace; the queen was there, and waved him farewell; then, though the tears were silently coursing down his cheeks, he strode on bravely by dickson's side. -----------------------------------------------------------------------arrived on board, to his intense surprise, matty was the first to greet him. she fairly rushed into his arms, and he kissed her over and over again. then she told him all her own little story. now the men came off with their boxes, and dickson with his traps. the _vulcan_ stayed not two hours altogether after all were on board. steam was got up, and away she headed back once more for 'frisco, under full steam. i think that reginald was happier now than he had been for months. the bitterness of death seemed to be already past, and all he longed for was rest, even should that rest be in the grave. moreover, he was to all intents and purposes on parole. though he took his meals in his own cabin, and though a sentry was placed at the door every night, he was permitted to walk the deck by day, and go wherever he liked, and even to play with matty. "i cannot believe that the poor young fellow is guilty of the terrible crime laid to his charge," said mrs neaves to her husband one day. "nor i either, my dear; but we must go by the evidence against him, and i do not believe he has the slightest chance of life." "terrible!" yet mrs neaves talked kindly to him for all that when she met him on the quarter-deck; but she never alluded to the dark cloud that hung so threateningly over his life. the more she talked to him, the more she believed in his innocence, and the more she liked him, although she tried hard not to. matty was reginald's almost constant companion, and many an otherwise lonely hour she helped to cheer and shorten. he had another companion, however--his bible. all hope for this world had fled, and he endeavoured now to make his peace with the god whom he had so often offended and sinned against. captain dickson and he often sat together amidships or on the quarter-deck, and the good skipper of the unfortunate _wolverine_ used to talk about all they should do together when the cloud dissolved into thin air, and reginald was once more free. "but, ah, dickson," said the prisoner, "that cloud will not dissolve. it is closed aboard of me now, but it will come lower and lower, and then--it will burst, and i shall be no more. no, no, dear friend, i appreciate the kindness of your motives in trying to cheer me, but my hopes of happiness are now centred in the far beyond." if a man in his terrible position could ever be said to experience pleasure at all, reginald did when the four honest sailors came to see him, as they never failed to do, daily. theirs was heart-felt pity. their remarks might have been a little rough, but they were kindly meant, and the consolation they tried to give was from the heart. "how is it with you by this time?" mcgregor said one day. "you mustn't mope, ye know." "dear mac," replied reginald, "there is no change, except that the voyage will soon be at an end, just as my voyage of life will." "now, sir, i won't have that at all. me and my mates here have made up our minds, and we believe you ain't guilty at all, and that they dursn't string you up on the evidence that will go before the jury." "i fear not death, anyhow, mac. indeed, i am not sure that i might not say with job of old, `i prefer strangling rather than life.'" "keep up your pecker, sir; never say die; and don't you think about it. we'll come and see you to-morrow again. adoo." -----------------------------------------------------------------------yes, the voyage was coming to a close, and a very uneventful one it had been. when the mountains of california at last hove in sight, and skipper neaves informed reginald that they would get in to-morrow night, he was rather pleased than otherwise. but matty was now in deepest grief. this strange child clung around his neck and cried at the thoughts of it. "oh, i shall miss you, i shall miss you!" she said. "and you can't take poor matty with you?" and now, to console her, he was obliged to tell her what might have been called a white lie, for which he hoped to be forgiven. "but matty must not mourn; we shall meet again," he said. "and perhaps i may take matty with me on a long cruise, and we shall see the queen of the isle of flowers once more, and you and dear oscar, your beautiful newfoundland, shall play together, and romp just as in the happy days of yore. won't it be delightful, dear?" matty smiled through her tears, only drawing closer to reginald's breast as she did. "poor dear doggy oscar?" she said. "he will miss you so much?" "yes, darling; his wistful, half-wondering glance i never can forget. he seemed to refuse to believe that i could possibly leave him, and the glance of love and sorrow in the depths of his soft brown eyes i shall remember as long as i live." -----------------------------------------------------------------------the first to come on board when the vessel got in was mr hall himself and ilda. the girl was changed in features, somewhat thinner, paler, and infinitely more sad-looking. but with loving abandon she threw herself into reginald's arms and wept. "oh, dear," she cried, "how sadly it has all ended!" then she brightened up a little. "we--that is, father and i--are going to italy for the winter, and i may get well, and we may meet again. god in heaven bless you, reginald!" -----------------------------------------------------------------------then the sad partings. i refuse to describe them. i would rather my story were joyful than otherwise, and so i refrain. it was a long, weary journey that to new york, but it ended at last, and reginald found himself a prisoner on board the _b--castle_ bound for britain's far-off shores. chapter twenty six. meeting and parting. reginald was infinitely more lonely now and altogether more of a prisoner too. neither captain dickson nor the four sailors returned by the same ship, so, with the exception of the detective, who really was a kind-hearted and feeling man, he had no one to converse with. he was permitted to come up twice a day and walk the deck forward by way of exercise, but a policeman always hovered near. if the truth must be told, he would have preferred staying below. the passengers were chiefly yankees on their way to london paris, and the riviera, but as soon as he appeared there was an eager rush forward as far as midships, and as he rapidly paced the deck, the prisoner was as cruelly criticised as if he had been some show animal or wild beast. it hurt reginald not a little, and more than once during his exercise hour his cheeks would burn and tingle with shame. when he walked forward as far as the winch, he turned and walked aft again, and it almost broke his heart--for he dearly loved children--to see those on the quarter-deck clutch their mothers' skirts, or hide behind them screaming. "oh, ma, he's coming--the awful man is coming?" "he isn't so terrible-looking, is he, auntie?" said a beautiful young girl one day, quite aloud, too. "ah, child, but remember what he has done. even a tiger can look soft and pleasant and beautiful at times." "well," said another lady, "he will hang as high as haman, anyhow!" "and richly deserves it," exclaimed a sour-looking, scraggy old maid. "i'm sure i should dearly like to see him strung. he won't walk so boldly along the scaffold, i know, and his face will be a trifle whiter then!" "woman!" cried an old white-haired gentleman, "you ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, talking in that manner in the hearing of that unfortunate man; a person of your age might know just a little better!" the old maid tossed her yellow face. "and let me add, madam, that but for god's grace and mercy you might occupy a position similar to his. good-day, miss!" there was a barrier about the spot where the quarter-deck and midships joined. thus far might steerage passengers walk aft, but no farther. to this barrier reginald now walked boldly up, and, while the ladies for the most part backed away, as if he had been a python, and the children rushed screaming away, the old gentleman kept where he was. "god bless you, sir," said reginald, loud enough for all to hear, "for defending me. the remarks those unfeeling women make in my hearing pierce me to the core." "and god bless you, young man, and have mercy on your soul." he held out his hand, and reginald shook it heartily. "i advise you, mr grahame, to make your peace with god, for i cannot see a chance for you. i am myself a new york solicitor, and have studied your case over and over again." "i care not how soon death comes. my hopes are yonder," said reginald. he pointed skywards as he spoke. "that's good. and remember: "`while the lamp holds out to burn, the greatest sinner may return.' "i'll come and see you to-morrow." "a thousand thanks, sir. good-day." mr scratchley, the old solicitor, was as good as his word, and the two sat down together to smoke a couple of beautiful havana cigars, very large and odorous. the tobacco seemed to soothe the young man, and he told scratchley his story from beginning to end, and especially did he enlarge on the theory of somnambulism. this, he believed, was his only hope. but scratchley cut him short. "see here, young man; take the advice of one who has spent his life at the bar. mind, i myself am a believer in spiritualism, but keep that somnambulism story to yourself. i must speak plainly. it will be looked upon by judge and jury as cock-and-bull, and it will assuredly do you more harm than good. heigho!" he continued. "from the bottom of my heart i pity you. so young, so handsome. might have been so happy and hopeful, too! well, good-bye. i'll come again." -----------------------------------------------------------------------mr scratchley was really a comfort to reginald. but now the voyage was drawing near its close. they had passed the isles of bute and arran, and had entered on the wild, romantic beauties of the clyde. it was with a feeling of utter sadness and gloom, however, that the prisoner beheld them. time was when they would have delighted his heart. those days were gone, and the darkness was all ahead. the glad sunshine sparkled in the wavelets, and, wheeling hither and thither, with half-hysterical screams of joy, were the white-winged, free, and happy gulls; but in his present condition of mind things the most beautiful saddened him the most. -----------------------------------------------------------------------two days are past and gone, and reginald is now immured in gaol to await his trial. it was lightsome and comfortable, and he had books to read, and a small, cheerful fire. he had exercise also in the yard, and even the gaolers talked kindly enough to him; but all the same he was a prisoner. his greatest trial had yet to come--the meeting with--ah! yes, and the parting from--annie--his annie--annie o' the banks o' dee. one day came a letter from her, which, though it had been opened and read by the authorities, was indeed a sweet boon to him. he read it over and over again, lover-like. it burned with affection and love, a love that time and absence had failed to quench. but she was coming to see him, "she and her maid, jeannie lee," she continued. her uncle was well and hearty, but they were no longer owners of the dear old house and lands of bilberry. she would tell him all her story when she saw him. and the letter ended: "with unalterable love, your _own_ annie." the ordeal of such a meeting was one from which reginald naturally shrank; but this over, he would devote himself entirely to communion with heaven. only heavenly hopes could now keep up his heart. the day came, and annie, with jeannie, her maid, arrived at the prison. he held annie at arms' length for a few seconds. not one whit altered was she. her childlike and innocent beauty was as fresh now, and her smile as sweet, though somewhat more chastened, as when he had parted with her in sorrow and tears more than three years ago. he folded her in his arms. at this moment, after a preliminary knock at the door, the gaoler entered. "the doctor says," he explained, "that your interview may last an hour, and that, fearing it may be too much for you, he sends you this. and a kindly-hearted gent he is." he placed a large glass of brandy and water before reginald as he spoke. "what! must i drink all this?" "yes--and right off, too. it is the doctor's orders." the prisoner obeyed, though somewhat reluctantly. even now he needed no dutch courage. then, while jeannie took a book and seated herself at some little distance, the lovers had it all to themselves, and after a time annie felt strong enough to tell her story. we already know it. "yes, dear, innocent reginald, we were indeed sorry to leave bonnie bilberry hall, and live in so small a cottage. and though he has kept up wonderfully well, still, i know he longs at times for a sight of the heather. he is not young now, darling, and yet he may live for very many years. but you were reported as lost, dear, and even the figurehead of the _wolverine_ and a boat was found far away in the pacific. then after that, dearest, all hope fled. i could never love another. the new heir of bilberry hall and land proposed to me. my uncle could not like him, and i had no love to spare. my heart was in heaven with you, for i firmly believed you drowned and gone before. then came laird fletcher. oh, he was very, very kind to us, and often took uncle and myself away in his carriage to see once more the bonnie highland hills. and i used to notice the tears standing in dear uncle's eyes when he beheld the glory and romance of his own dear land, and the heather. and then i used to pity poor uncle, for often after he came home from a little trip like this he used to look so forlornly at all his humble surroundings. well, dear, from kindness of every kind fletcher's feelings for me seemed to merge into love. yes, true love, reginald. but i could not love him in return. my uncle even pleaded a little for fletcher. his place is in the centre of the deeside highlands, and, oh, the hills are high, and the purple heather and crimson heath, surrounded by dark pine forests, are a sight to see in autumn. well, you were dead, reginald, and uncle seemed pining away; and so when one day fletcher pleaded more earnestly than ever, crying pathetically as he tried to take my hand, `oh, annie, my love, my life, i am unworthy of even your regard, but for sake of your dear old uncle won't you marry me?' then, reginald, i gave a half-consent, but a wholly unwilling one. can you forgive me?" he pressed her closer to his heart by way of answer. how quickly that hour sped away lovers only know. but it ended all too soon. the parting? ay, ay; let this too be left to the imagination of him or her who knows what true love is. after annie had gone, for the first time since his incarceration reginald collapsed. he threw himself on his bed and sobbed until verily he thought his heart would break. then the gaoler entered. "come, come, my dear lad," said the man, walking up to the prisoner and laying a kindly and sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "keep up, my boy, keep up. we have all to die. god is love, lad, and won't forsake you." "oh," cried the prisoner, "it is not death i fear. i mourn but for those i leave behind." a few more weeks, and reginald's case came on for trial. it was short, perhaps, but one of the most sensational ever held in the granite city, as the next chapter will prove. chapter twenty seven. a sensational murder trial. the good people of aberdeen--yclept the granite city--are as fond of display and show as even the londoners, and the coming of the lords, who are the judges that try the principal cases, is quite an event of the year, and looked forward to with longing, especially by the young people. ah! little they think of or care for the poor wretches that, in charge of warders or policemen, or both, are brought up from their cells, to stand pale and trembling before the judge. the three weeks that intervened between the departure of poor, unhappy annie from his cell and the coming of the lords were the longest that reginald ever spent in life--or appeared to be, for every hour was like a day, every day seemed like a month. the gaoler was still kind to him. he had children of his own, and in his heart he pitied the poor young fellow, around whose neck the halter would apparently soon be placed. he had even--although i believe this was against the rules--given reginald some idea as to the day his trial would commence. "god grant," said reginald, "they may not keep me long. death itself is preferable to the anxiety and awful suspense of a trial." but the three weeks passed away at last, and some days to that, and still the lords came not. the prisoner's barred window was so positioned that he could see down union street with some craning of the neck. one morning, shortly after he had sent away his untouched breakfast, he was startled by hearing a great commotion in the street, and the hum of many voices. the pavements were lined with a sea of human beings. shortly after this he heard martial music, and saw men on the march with nodding plumes and fixed bayonets. among them, guarded on each side, walked lords in their wigs and gowns. reginald was brave, but his heart sank to zero now with terror and dread. he felt that his hour had come. shortly the gaoler entered. "your case is to be the first," he said. "prepare yourself. it will come off almost immediately." he went away, and the prisoner sank on his knees and prayed as surely he never prayed before. the perspiration stood in great drops on his forehead. another weary hour passed by, and this time the door was opened to his advocate. his last words were these: "all you have got to do is to plead `not guilty'; then keep silent. if a question is put to you, glance at me before you answer. i will nod if you must answer, and shake my head if you need not." "a thousand thanks for all your kindness, sir. i'm sure you will do your best." "i will." once more the gaoler entered. "the doctor sends you this," he said. "and drink it you must, or you may faint in the dock, and the case be delayed." at last the move was made. dazed and dizzy, reginald hardly knew whither he was being led, until he found himself in the dock confronting the solemn and sorrowful-looking judge. he looked just once around the court, which was crowded to excess. he half-expected, i think, to see annie there, and was relieved to find she was not in court. but yonder was captain dickson and the four sailors who had remained behind to prosecute the gold digging. dickson smiled cheerfully and nodded. then one of the policemen whispered attention, and the unhappy prisoner at once confronted the judge. "reginald grahame," said the latter after some legal formalities were gone through, "you are accused of the wilful murder of craig nicol, farmer on deeside, by stabbing him to the heart with a dirk or _skean dhu_. are you guilty or not guilty?" "not guilty, my lord." this in a firm voice, without shake or tremolo. "call the witnesses." the first to be examined was craig's old housekeeper. she shed tears profusely, and in a faint tone testified to the departure of her master for aberdeen with the avowed intention of drawing money to purchase stock withal. she was speedily allowed to stand down. the little boys who had found the body beneath the dark spruce-fir in the lonely plantation were next interrogated, and answered plainly enough in their shrill treble. then came the police who had been called, and the detective, who all gave their evidence in succinct but straightforward sentences. all this time there was not a sound in the court, only that sea of faces was bent eagerly forward, so that not a word might escape them. the excitement was intense. now came the chief witness against reginald; and the bloodstained dirk was handed to shufflin' sandie. "look at that, and say if you have seen it before?" said the judge. "as plain as the nose on your lordship's face!" said sandie, smiling. that particular nose was big, bulbous, and red. sandie's reply, therefore, caused a titter to run through the court. the judge frowned, and the prosecution proceeded. "where did you last see it?" "stained with blood, sir; it was found beneath the dead man's body." on being questioned, sandie also repeated his evidence as given at the coroner's inquest, and presently was allowed to stand down. then the prisoner was hissed by the people. the judge lost his temper. he had not quite got over sandie's allusion to his nose. "if," he cried, "there is the slightest approach to a repetition of that unseemly noise, i will instantly clear the court?" the doctor who had examined the body was examined. "might not the farmer have committed suicide?" he was asked. "everything is against that theory," the doctor replied, "for the knife belonged to grahame; besides, the deed was done on the road, and from the appearance of the deceased's coat, he had evidently been hauled through the gateway on his back, bleeding all the while, and so hidden under the darkling spruce pine." "so that _felo de se_ is quite out of the question?" "utterly so, my lord." "stand down, doctor." i am giving the evidence only in the briefest epitome, for it occupied hours. the advocate for the prosecution made a telling speech, to which the prisoner's solicitor replied in one quite as good. he spoke almost ironically, and laughed as he did so, especially when he came to the evidence of the knife. his client at the time of the murder was lying sound asleep at a hedge-foot. what could hinder a tramp, one of the many who swarm on the deeside road, to have stolen the knife, followed craig nicol, stabbed him, robbed and hidden the body, and left the knife there to turn suspicion on the sleeping man? "is it likely," he added, "that reginald--had he indeed murdered his quondam friend--would have been so great a fool as to have left the knife there?" he ended by saying that there was not a jot of trustworthy evidence on which the jury could bring in a verdict of guilty. but, alas! for reginald. the judge in his summing up--and a long and eloquent speech it was--destroyed all the good effects of the solicitor's speech. "he could not help," he said, "pointing out to the jury that guilt or suspicion could rest on no one else save grahame. as testified by a witness, he had quarrelled with nicol, and had made use of the remarkable expression that `the quarrel would end in blood.' the night of the murder grahame was not sober, but lying where he was, in the shade of the hedge, nicol must have passed him without seeing him, and then no doubt grahame had followed and done that awful deed which in cool blood he might not even have thought about again, grahame was poor, and was engaged to be married. the gold and notes would be an incentive undoubtedly to the crime, and when he sailed away in the _wolverine_ he was undoubtedly a fugitive from justice, and in his opinion the jury had but one course. they might now retire." they were about to rise, and his lordship was about to withdraw, when a loud voice exclaimed: "hold! i desire to give evidence." a tall, bold-looking seafarer stepped up, and was sworn. "i have but this moment returned from a cruise around africa," he said. "i am bo's'n's mate in h.m.s. _hurricane_. we have been out for three years. but, my lord, i have some of the notes here that the bank of scotland can prove were paid to craig nicol, and on the very day after the murder must have taken place i received these notes, for value given, from the hands of sandie yonder, usually called shufflin' sandie. i knew nothing about the murder then, nor until the ship was paid off; but being hurried away, i had no time to cash the paper, and here are three of them now, my lord." they were handed to the jury. "they were smeared with blood when i got them. sandie laughed when i pointed this out to him. he said that he had cut his finger, but that the blood would bring me luck." (great sensation in court.) sandie was at once recalled to the witness-box. his knees trembled so that he had to be supported. his voice shook, and his face was pale to ghastliness. "where did you obtain those notes?" said the judge sternly. for a moment emotion choked the wretch's utterance. but he found words at last. "oh, my lord my lord, i alone am the murderer! i killed one man--craig nicol--i cannot let another die for my crime! i wanted money, my lord, to help to pay for my new house, and set me up in life, and i dodged nicol for miles. i found mr grahame asleep under a hedge, and i stole the stocking knife and left it near the man i had murdered. when i returned to the sleeping man, i had with me--oh, awful!--some of the blood of my victim that i had caught in a tiny bottle as it flowed from his side,"--murmurs of horror--"and with this i smeared grahame's hands." here sandie collapsed in a dead faint, and was borne from the court. "gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, "this evidence and confession puts an entirely new complexion on this terrible case. the man who has just fainted is undoubtedly the murderer." the jury agreed. "the present prisoner is discharged, but must appear to-morrow, when the wretched dwarf shall take his place in the dock." and so it was. even the bloodstained clothes that sandie had worn on the night of the murder had been found. the jury returned a verdict of guilty against him without even leaving the box. the judge assumed the black cap, and amidst a silence that could be felt, condemned him to death. -----------------------------------------------------------------------reginald grahame was a free man, and once more happy. the court even apologised to him, and wished him all the future joys that life could give. but the wretched culprit forestalled justice, and managed to strangle himself in his cell. and thus the awful tragedy ended. -----------------------------------------------------------------------"i knew it, i knew it!" cried annie, as a morning or two after his exculpation reginald presented himself at mcleod cottage. and the welcome he received left nothing to be desired. chapter twenty eight. the last cruise to the island of flowers. in quite a ship-shape form was poor reginald's release from prison, and from the very jaws of death. met at the door by his friends and old shipmates. dickson was there, with his four brave sailors, and many was the fellow-student who stretched out his hands to shake reginald's, as pale and weakly he came down the steps. then the students formed themselves into procession--many who read these lines may remember it-and, headed by a brass band, marched with dickson and the sailors, who bore reginald aloft in an armchair, marched to the other end of union street, then back as far as a large hotel. here, after many a ringing cheer, they dismissed themselves. but many returned at eventide and partook of a sumptuous banquet in honour of reginald, and this feast was paid for by dickson himself. the common sailors were there also, and not a few strange tales they had to tell, their memories being refreshed by generous wine. -----------------------------------------------------------------------and now our story takes a leap of many months, and we find the _highland mary_, a most beautiful yacht, somewhat of the _wolverine_ type, far, far at sea, considerable to nor'ard of the line, however, but bounding on under a spread of whitest canvas, over just such a sea as the sailor loves. no big waves here, but wavelets of the darkest steel-blue, and each one wrinkled and dimpled with the warm, delightful breeze, kissed by the sunlight, and reflecting the glory in millions of broken rays, as if the sea were besprinkled with precious stones and diamonds of purest ray serene. let us take a look on deck. we cannot but be struck with the neatness and brightness of everything our eyes fall upon. the fires are out. there is no roaring steam, no clouds of dark, dense smoke, no grind and grind of machinery, and no fall of black and sooty hailstones from the funnel. ill indeed would this have accorded with the ivory whiteness of the quarter-deck, with the snow-white table linen, which one can catch a glimpse of down through the open skylight. but worst of all would it accord with the dainty dresses of the ladies, or the snowy sailor garb of the officers. the ladies are but two in reality, annie herself--now mrs reginald grahame--and daft, pretty wee matty. but there is annie's maid, jeannie lee, looking as modest and sweet as she ever did. annie is seated in a cushioned chair, and, just as of old, matty is on reginald's knee. if annie is not jealous of her, she certainly is not jealous of annie. in her simple, guileless young heart, she believes that she comes first in reginald's affections, and that annie has merely second place. i daresay it is the bracing breeze and the sunshine that makes matty feel so happy and merry to-day. well, sad indeed would be the heart that rejoiced not on such a day as this! why, to breathe is joy itself; the air seems to fill one with exhilaration, like gladsome, sparkling wine. here is captain dickson. he never did look jollier, with his rosy, laughing face, his gilt-bound cap and his jacket of blue, than he does now. he is half-sitting, half-standing on the edge of the skylight, and keeping up an animated conversation with annie. poor annie, her troubles and trials seem over now, and she looks quietly, serenely happy; her bonnie face--set off by that tiny flower-bedecked bride's bonnet--is radiant with smiles. but matty wriggles down from reginald's knee at last, and is off to have a game of romps with sigmund, the splendid dane. sigmund is four-and-thirty inches high at the shoulder, shaped in body somewhat like a well-built pointer, but in head like a long-faced bull-terrier. his coat is short, and of a slatey-blue; his tail is as straight and strong as a capstan bar. at any time he has only to switch it across matty's waist, when down she rolls on the ivory-white decks. then sigmund bends down, and gives her cheek just one loving lick, to show there is no bad feeling; but so tickled is he at the situation, that with lips drawn back and pearly teeth showing in a broad smile, he must set out on a wild and reckless rush round and round the decks from winch to binnacle. if a sailor happens to get in his way, he is flung right into the air by the collision, and is still on his back when sigmund returns. but the dog bounds over the fallen man, and continues his mad gallop until, fairly exhausted, he comes back to lie down beside matty, with panting breath, and about a yard, more or less, of a red-ribbon of tongue depending from one side of his mouth. matty loves sigmund, but she loves oscar more, and wonders if she will ever see him once again; and she wonders, too, if sigmund and oscar will agree, or if they will fight, which would be truly terrible to think of. -----------------------------------------------------------------------yonder is mcgregor. he is elevated to the rank of bo's'n, and the three other sailors that came home in the _vulcan_ are here too. with the pile in gold and pearls they made on the isle of flowers, they needn't have been now serving before the mast. this would probably be their last voyage, for they meant to go into business on shore. but they loved the sea, and they loved reginald and dickson too. so here they were, and many more tars also; and when the main-brace was spliced of a saturday night, it would have been good for anyone to have come forward to the bows and listened to the songs sung and the tales told by honest jack. but how came matty on board? the story is soon told, and it is a sad one. a few weeks after his marriage, being in london, and dropping into the savoy hotel on the now beautiful embankment, reginald found mr hall standing languid and lonely by the bar with a little glass of green liquor in his hand. "delighted to see you! what a pleasant chance meeting to be sure!" then matty ran up for her share of the pleasure, and was warmly greeted. ah! but mr hall had a sad story to tell. "i am now a lonely, childless man," he said. "what!" cried reginald--"is ilda--" "she is dead and gone. lived but a week in italy--just one short week. faded like a flower, and--ah, well, her grave is very green now, and all her troubles are over. but, i say, grahame, we have all to die, and if there is a heaven, you know, i daresay we shall be all very happy, and there won't be any more partings nor sad farewells." reginald had to turn away his head to hide the rising tears, and there was a ball in his throat that almost choked him, and quite forbade any attempt at speaking. the two old friends stayed long together, and it was finally arranged that mr hall should pay a long visit to the old laird mcleod, and that reginald should have the loan of his little favourite matty in a voyage to the south sea island. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the cruise of the _highland mary_ was a long but most pleasant and propitious one. they steamed through the straits of magellan, and were delighted when the yacht, under, a favouring breeze, went stretching west and away out into the blue and beautiful pacific ocean. dickson had taken his bearings well, and at last they found themselves at anchor in the bay off the isle of flowers, opposite the snow-white coralline beach and the barracks and fort where they had not so long ago seen so much fighting and bloodshed. was there anyone happier, i wonder, at seeing her guests, her dear old friends, than queen bertha? well, if there was, it was honest oscar on meeting his long-lost master. indeed, the poor dog hardly knew what to do with joy. he whined, he cried, he kissed and caressed his master, and scolded him in turns. then he stood a little way off and barked at him. "how could you have left your poor oscar so long?" he seemed to say. then advancing more quietly, he once more placed a paw on each of his master's shoulders and licked his ear. "i love you still," he said. after this he welcomed matty, but in a manner far more gentle, for he ever looked upon her as a baby--his own baby, as it were. and there she was, her arms around his massive neck, kissing his bonnie broad brow-just a baby still. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the isle of flowers was very lovely now, and the valley-"oh?" cried annie, in raptures, as she gazed down the verdant strath. "surely this is fairyland itself!" the ladies, and jeannie as well, were the guests of the queen during the long, happy month they stayed on the island. there was no more gold-seeking or pearl-fishing to any great extent. only one day they all went up the valley and had a delightful picnic by the winding river and under the shade of the magnolia trees. reginald and dickson both waded into the river, and were lucky enough, when they came out with their bags full of oysters, to find some rare and beautiful pearls. they were as pure as any scotch ever taken from the tay, and had a pretty pinkish hue. but now jeannie lee herself must bare her shapely legs and feet and try her luck. she wanted one big pearl for her dear mistress, she said, and three wee ones for a ring for somebody. yes, and she was most successful, and annie is wearing that large pearl now as i write. and the three smaller? well, i may as well tell it here and be done with it. mcgregor, the handsome, bold sailor, had asked jeannie to be his wife, and she had consented. the ring was for mac. -----------------------------------------------------------------------on lone tree mountain, assisted by the men, dickson and reginald soon set to digging, and found all their gold and pearls safe and sound. and now parting time came, and farewells were said, the queen saying she should live in hopes of seeing them back again. "god bless you all, my children." "and god bless you, queen bertha." with ringing british cheers, the little band playing "good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye," the _highland mary_ sailed slowly, and, it appeared, reluctantly, away from the isle of flowers. at sunset it was seen but as a little blue cloud low down on the western horizon. -----------------------------------------------------------------------to matty's surprise the two great dogs made friends with each other at once, and every day during that long voyage homewards they romped and played together, with merry matty as their constant companion, and never quarrelled even once. british shores and the snow-white steeples and spires of bonnie aberdeen at last! the first thing that reginald did was to hire a carriage, and, accompanied by annie and the honest dog oscar, drive straight to mcleod's cottage. to their surprise and alarm they found the house empty and the windows boarded up. "oh, annie!" cried reginald. "i fear the worst. your poor uncle has gone." annie had already placed her handkerchief to her eyes. "beg pardon," said the jarvey, "but is it laird mcleod you're a-talking about? oh, yes; he's gone this six months! man! i knew the old man well. used to drive him most every day of his life. but haven't you heard, sir?" "no, my good fellow; we have not been on shore two hours. tell us." "there isn't much to tell, sir, though it was sad enough. for the young laird o' bilberry hall shot himself one morning by accident while out after birds. well, of course, that dear soul, the old laird, is gone back to his estate, and such rejoicings as there was you never did see." "and he is not dead, then?" "dead! he is just as lively as a five-year-old!" this was indeed good news. they were driven back to the ship, and that same afternoon, accompanied by matty, after telegraphing for the carriage to meet them, they started by train up deeside. yes, the carriage was there, and not only the laird, but mr hall as well. i leave anyone who reads these lines to imagine what that happy reunion was like, and how pleasantly spent was that first evening, with so much to say, so much to tell. but a house was built for mr hall on the estate, and beautiful gardens surrounded it, and here he meant to settle down. jeannie was married in due course, but she and mcgregor took a small farm near to bilberry hall, and on the estate, while reginald and his wife lived in the mansion itself. -----------------------------------------------------------------------many years have passed away since the events i have related in this "ower-true" tale. matty is a tall girl now, and her uncle's constant companion. reginald and annie are lovers still--"happy, though married." the heather still blooms bonnie on the hills; dark wave the pine trees in the forests around; the purring of the dove is heard mournfully sounding from the thickets of spruce, and the wildflowers grow on every bank and brae; but--the auld laird has worn away. his home is under the long green grass and the daisies; yet even when the snow-clads that grave in a white cocoon, annie never forgets to visit it, and rich and rare are the flowers that lie at its head. and so my story ends, so drops the curtain down. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the end. white lilac, by amy walton ________________________________________________________________ mrs white had had several children before the birth of this one, but they had all died. this makes her quite determined to make sure that this one survives. she was telling a visitor that she thought of calling the baby annie, in honour of the visitor, but she had just been saying how much she loved white lilacs, and her husband had brought a branch of it over from a nearby village. so the visitor said, call her lilac white, as there were already too many annie whites in the village. unfortunately the father dies shortly after, and the mother has to bring the child up on her own. now she is twelve, and a pretty child. a visiting artist asks if he may put her in one of his pictures. lilac goes off with her cousin agnetta, who believes she needs a new hair-do. needless to say, the result is not attractive to the artist, who now refuses to put her in the picture. other characters in the story are uncle joshua, who is a good and well-loved man, and peter, probably in his late teens, who is a farm worker, well-intentioned but clumsy. a big event in the village is may day, and there is rivalry among the girls about which of them shall be queen of the may. it is lilac. yet that very day her mother is taken ill and dies. she is taken to their home by a farmer and his wife, and taught the dairymaid arts such as butter and cheese making. in those days a girl such as lilac would hope to be taken into domestic service and trained up to such high levels as house-keeper or cook. lilac has some opportunities--will she or won't she take them up? a lovely book that takes us back to long-gone days in the pastoral england of the 1850s. nh ________________________________________________________________ white lilac, by amy walton chapter one. a bunch of lilac. "what's in a name?"--_shakespeare_. mrs james white stood at her cottage door casting anxious glances up at the sky, and down the hill towards the village. if it were fine the rector's wife had promised to come and see the baby, "and certainly," thought mrs white, shading her eyes with her hand, "you might call it fine--for april." there were sharp showers now and then, to be sure, but the sun shone between whiles, and sudden rays darted through her little window strong enough to light up the whole room. their searching glances disclosed nothing she was ashamed of, for they showed that the kitchen was neat and well ordered, with bits of good substantial furniture in it, such as a long-bodied clock, table, and dresser of dark oak. these polished surfaces smiled back again cheerfully as the light touched them, and the row of pewter plates on the high mantelshelf glistened so brightly that they were as good as so many little mirrors. but beside these useful objects the sunlight found out two other things in the room, at which it pointed its bright finger with special interest. one of these was a large bunch of pure white lilac which stood on the window sill in a brown mug, and the other was a wicker cradle in which lay something very much covered up in blankets. after a last lingering look down the hill, where no one was in sight, mrs white shut her door and settled herself to work, with the lilac at her elbow, and the cradle at her foot. she rocked this gently while she sewed, and turned her head now and then, when her needle wanted threading, to smell the delicate fragrance of the flowers. her face was grave, with a patient and rather sad expression, as though her memories were not all happy ones; but by degrees, as she sat there working and rocking, some pleasant thought brought a smile to her lips and softened her eyes. this became so absorbing that presently she did not see a figure pass the window, and when a knock at the door followed, she sprang up startled to open it for her expected visitor. "i'd most given you up, ma'am," she said as the lady entered, "but i'm very glad to see you." it was not want of cordiality but want of breath which caused a beaming smile to be the only reply to this welcome. the hill was steep, the day was mild, and mrs leigh was rather stout. she at once dropped with a sigh of relief, but still smiling, into a chair, and cast a glance full of interest at the cradle, which mrs white understood as well as words. bending over it she peeped cautiously in amongst the folds of flannel. "she's so fast, it's a sin to take her up, ma'am," she murmured, "but i _would_ like you to see her." mrs leigh had now recovered her power of speech. "don't disturb her for the world," she said, "i'm not going away yet. i shall be glad to rest a little. she'll wake presently, i dare say. what is it," she continued, looking round the room, "that smells so delicious? oh, what lovely lilac!" as her eye rested on the flowers in the window. mrs white had taken up her sewing again. "i always liked the laylocks myself, ma'am," she said, "partic'ler the white ones. it were a common bush in the part i lived as a gal, but there's not much hereabouts." "where did you get it?" asked mrs leigh, leaning forward to smell the pure-white blossoms; "i thought there was only the blue in the village." "why, no more there is," said mrs white with a half-ashamed smile; "but jem, he knows i'm a bit silly over them, and he got 'em at cuddingham t'other day. you see, the day i said i'd marry him he gave me a bunch of white laylocks--and that's ten years ago. sitting still so much more than i'm used lately, with the baby, puts all sorts of foolishness into my head, and when you knocked just now it gave me quite a start, for the smell of the laylocks took me right back to the days when we were sweetheartin'." "how _is_ jem?" asked mrs leigh, glancing at a gun which stood in the chimney corner. "he's _well_, ma'am, thank you, but out early and home late. there's bin poaching in the woods lately, and the keepers have a lot of trouble with 'em." "none of _our_ people, i _hope_?" said the rector's wife anxiously. "oh dear, no, ma'am! a gipsy lot--a cruel wild set, to be sure, from what jem says, and fight desperate." there was a stir amongst the blankets in the cradle just then, and presently a little cry. the baby was _awake_. very soon she was in mrs leigh's arms, who examined the tiny face with great interest, while the mother stood by, silent, but eager for the first expression of admiration. "what a beautifully fair child!" exclaimed mrs leigh. "everyone says that as sees her," said mrs white with quiet triumph. "she features my mother's family--they all had such wonderful white skins. but," anxiously, "you don't think she looks weakly, do you, ma'am?" "oh, no," answered mrs leigh in rather a doubtful tone. she stood up and weighed the child in her arms, moving nearer the window. "she's a little thing, but i dare say she's not the less strong for that." "it makes me naturally a bit fearsome over her," said mrs white; "for, as you know, ma'am, i've buried three children since we've bin here. ne'er a one of 'em all left me. it seems when i look at this little un as how i _must_ keep her. i don't seem as if i _could_ let her go too." "oh, she'll grow up and be a comfort to you, i don't doubt," said mrs leigh cheerfully. "fair-complexioned children are very often wonderfully healthy and strong. but really," she continued, looking closely at the baby's face, "i never saw such a skin in my life. why, she's as white as milk, or snow, or a lily, or--" she paused for a comparison, and suddenly added, as her eye fell on the flowers, "or that bunch of lilac." "you're right, ma'am," agreed mrs white with a smile of intense gratification. "and if i were you," continued mrs leigh, her good-natured face beaming all over with a happy idea, "i should call her `lilac'. that would be a beautiful name for her. lilac white. nothing could be better; it seems made for her." mrs white's expression changed to one of grave doubt. "it do _seem_ as how it would fit her," she said; "but that's not a christian name, is it, ma'am?" "well, it would make it one if you had her christened so, you see." "i was thinking of making so bold as to call her `annie', and to ask you to stand for her, ma'am." "and so i will, with pleasure. but don't call her annie; we've got so many annies in the parish already it's quite confusing--and so many whites too. we should have to say `annie white on the hill' every time we spoke of her. i'm always mixing them up as it is. _don't_ call her annie, mrs white, lilac's far better. ask your husband what he thinks of it." "oh! jem, he'll think as i do, ma'am," said mrs white at once; "it isn't _jem_." "who is it, then? if you both like the name it can't matter to anyone else." "well, ma'am," said mrs white hesitatingly, as she took her child from mrs leigh, and rocked it gently in her arms, "they'll all say down below in the village, as how it's a fancy sort of a name, and maybe when she grows up they'll laugh at her for it. i shouldn't like to feel as how i'd given her a name to be made game of." but mrs leigh was much too pleased with her fancy to give it up, and she smilingly overcame this objection and all others. it was a pretty, simple, and modest-sounding name, she said, with nothing in it that could be made laughable. it was short to say, and above all it had the advantage of being uncommon; as it was, so many mothers had desired the honour of naming their daughters after the rector's wife, that the number of "annies" was overwhelming, but there certainly would not be two "lilac whites" in the village. in short, as mrs white told jem that evening, mrs leigh was "that set" on the name that she had to give in to her. and so it was settled; and wonderfully soon afterwards it was rumoured in the village that mrs james white on the hill meant to call her baby "lilac." this could not matter to anyone else, mrs leigh had said, but she was mistaken. every mother in the parish had her opinion to offer, for there were not so many things happening, that even the very smallest could be passed over without a proper amount of discussion when neighbours met. on the whole they were not favourable opinions. it was felt that mrs white, who had always held herself high and been severe on the follies of her friends, had now in her turn laid herself open to remark by choosing an outlandish and fanciful name for her child. lilies, roses, and even violets were not unknown in danecross, but who had ever heard of lilac? mrs greenways said so, and she had a right to speak, not only because she lived at orchards farm, which was the biggest in the parish, but because her husband was mrs white's brother. she said it at all times and in all places, but chiefly at "dimbleby's", for if you dropped in there late in the afternoon you were pretty sure to find acquaintances, eager to hear and tell news; and this was specially the case on saturday, which was shopping day. dimbleby's was quite a large shop, and a very important one, for there was no other in the village; it was rather dark, partly because the roof was low-pitched, and partly because of the wonderful number and variety of articles crammed into it, so that it would have puzzled anyone to find out what dimbleby did not sell. the air was also a little thick to breathe, for there floated in it a strange mixture, made up of unbleached calico, corduroy, smockfrocks, boots, and bacon. all these articles and many others were to be seen piled up on shelves or counters, or dangling from the low beams overhead; and, lately, there had been added to the stock a number of small clocks, stowed away out of sight. their hasty ceaseless little voices sounded in curious contrast to the slowness of things in general at dimbleby's: "tick-tack, tick-tack,--time flies, time flies", they seemed to be saying over and over again. without effect, for at dimbleby's time never flew; he plodded along on dull and heavy feet, and if he had wings at all he dragged them on the ground. you had only to look at the face of the master of the shop to see that speed was impossible to him, and that he was justly known as the slowest man in the parish both in speech and action. this was hardly considered a failing, however, for it had its advantages in shopping; if he was slow himself, he was quite willing that others should be so too, and to stand in unmoved calm while mrs jones fingered a material to test its quality, or mrs wilson made up her mind between a spot and a sprig. it was therefore a splendid place for a bit of talk, for he was so long in serving, and his customers were so long in choosing, that there was an agreeable absence of pressure, and time to drink a cup of gossip down to its last drop of interest. "i don't understand myself what mary white would be at," said mrs greenways. she stood waiting in the shop while dimbleby thoughtfully weighed out some sugar for her; a stout woman with a round good-natured face, framed in a purple-velvet bonnet and nodding flowers; her long mantle matched the bonnet in stylishness, and was richly trimmed with imitation fur, but the large strong basket on her arm, already partly full of parcels, was quite out of keeping with this splendid attire. the two women who stood near, listening with eager respect to her remarks, were of very different appearance; their poor thin shawls were put on without any regard for fashion, and their straight cotton dresses were short enough to show their clumsy boots, splashed with mud from the miry country lanes. the edge of mrs greenways' gown was also draggled and dirty, for she had not found it easy to hold it up and carry a large basket at the same time. "i thought," she went on, "as how mary white was all for plain names, and homely ways, and such-like." "she _do say_ so," said the woman nearest to her, cautiously. "then, as i said to greenways this morning, `it's not a consistent act for your sister to name her child like that. accordin' to her you ought to have names as simple and common as may be.' why, think of what she said when i named my last, which is just a year ago. `and what do you think of callin' her?' says she. `why,' says i, `i think of giving her the name of agnetta.' `dear me!' says she; `whyever do you give your girls such fine names? there's your two eldest, isabella and augusta; i'd call this one betsy, or jane, or sarah, or something easy to say, and suitable.'" "_did_ she, now?" said both the listeners at once. "and it's not only that," continued mrs greenways with a growing sound of injury in her voice, "but she's always on at me when she gets a chance about the way i bring my girls up. `you'd a deal better teach her to make good butter,' says she, when i told her that bella was learning the piano. and when i showed her that screen gusta worked-lilies on blue satting, a re'lly elegant thing--she just turned her head and says, `i'd rather, if she were a gal of mine, see her knit her own stockings.' those were her words, mrs wishing." "ah, well, it's easy to talk," replied mrs wishing soothingly, "we'll be able to see how she'll bring up a daughter of her own now." "i'm not saying," pursued mrs greenways, turning a watchful eye on mr dimbleby's movements, "that mary white haven't a perfect right to name her child as she chooses. i'm too fair for that, i _hope_. what i do say is, that now she's picked up a fancy sort of name like lilac, she hasn't got any call to be down on other people. and if me and greenways likes to see our girls genteel and give 'em a bit of finishing eddication, and set 'em off with a few accomplishments, it's our own affair and not mary white's. and though i say it as shouldn't, you won't find two more elegant gals than gusta and bella, choose where you may." during the last part of her speech mrs greenways had been poking and squeezing her parcel of sugar into its appointed corner of her basket; as she finished she settled it on her arm, clutched at her gown with the other hand, and prepared to start. "and now, as i'm in a hurry, i'll say good night, mrs pinhorn and mrs wishing, and good night to you, mr dimbleby." she rolled herself and her burden through the narrow door of the shop, and for a moment no one spoke, while all the little clocks ticked away more busily than ever. "she's got enough to carry," said mrs pinhorn, breaking silence at last, with a sideway nod at her neighbour. "she have _so_," agreed mrs wishing mildly; "and i wonder, that i do, to see her carrying that heavy basket on foot--she as used to come in her spring cart." mrs pinhorn pressed her lips together before answering, then she said with meaning: "they're short of hands just now at orchards farm, and maybe short of horses too." "you don't say so!" said mrs wishing, drawing nearer. "my ben works there, as you know, and he says money's scarce there, very scarce indeed. one of the men got turned off only t'other day." "lor', now, to think of that!" exclaimed mrs wishing in an awed manner. "an' her in that bonnet an' all them artificials!" "there's a deal," continued mrs pinhorn, "in what mrs white says about them two greenways gals with their fine-lady ways. it 'ud a been better to bring 'em up handy in the house so as to help their mother. as it is, they're too finnicking to be a bit of use. you wouldn't see either of _them_ with a basket on their arm, they'd think it lowering themselves. and i dare say the youngest 'll grow up just like 'em." "there's a deal in what mrs greenways's just been saying too," remarked the woman called mrs wishing in a hesitating voice, "for mrs james white _is_ a very strict woman and holds herself high, and `lilac' is a fanciful kind of a name; but _i_ dunno." she broke off as if feeling incapable of dealing with the question. "i can't wonder myself," resumed mrs pinhorn, "at mrs greenways being a bit touchy. you heard, i s'pose, what mrs white up and said to her once? you didn't? well, she said, `you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and you'll never make them girls ladies, try all you will,' says she. `useless things you'll make 'em, fit for neither one station or t'other.'" "that there's plain speaking!" said mrs wishing admiringly. mr dimbleby had not uttered a word during this conversation, and was to all appearance entirely occupied in weighing out, tying up parcels, and receiving orders. in reality, however, he had not lost a word of it, and had been getting ready to speak for some time past. neither of the women, who were well acquainted with him, was at all surprised when he suddenly remarked: "it were mrs leigh herself as had to do with the name of mrs james white's baby." "re'lly, now?" said mrs wishing doubtfully. "an' it were mrs leigh herself as i heard it from," continued dimbleby ponderously, without noticing the interruption. "well, that makes a difference, don't it now?" said mrs pinhorn. "why ever didn't you name that afore, mr dimbleby?" "and," added dimbleby, grinding on to the end of his speech regardless of hindrance, like a machine that has been wound up; "and mrs leigh herself is goin' to stand for the baby." "lor'! i do wish mrs greenways could a heard that," said mrs pinhorn; "that'll set mrs white up more than ever." "it will so," said mrs wishing; "she allers did keep herself _to_ herself did mrs white. not but what she's a decent woman and a kind. seems as how, if mrs leigh wished to name the child `lilac', she couldn't do no other than fall in with it. but _i_ dunno." "and how does the name strike you, mr snell?" said mrs pinhorn, turning to a newcomer. he was an oldish man, short and broad-shouldered, with a large head and serious grey eyes. not only his leather apron, but the ends of his stumpy fingers, which were discoloured and brown, showed that he was a cobbler by trade. when mrs pinhorn spoke to him, he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, took off his hat, and passed his hand over his high bald forehead. "what name may you be alludin' to, ma'am?" he enquired very politely. "the name `lilac' as mrs james white's goin' to call her child." "lilac--eh! lilac white. white lilac," repeated the cobbler musingly. "well, ma'am, 'tis a pleasant bush and a homely; i can't wish the maid no better than to grow up like her name." "why, you wouldn't for sure wish her to grow up homely, would you now, mr snell?" said mrs wishing with a feeble laugh. "i _would_, ma'am," replied mr snell, turning rather a severe eye upon the questioner, "i _would_. for why? because to be homely is to make the common things of home sweet and pleasant. she can't do no better than that." mrs wishing shrank silenced into the background, like one who has been reproved, and the cobbler advanced to the counter to exchange greetings with mr dimbleby, and buy tobacco. the women's voices, the sharp ticking of the clocks, and the deeper tones of the men kept up a steady concert for some time undisturbed. but suddenly the door was thrown violently back on its hinges with a bang, and a tall man in labourer's clothes rushed into their midst. everyone looked up startled, and on mrs wishing's face there was fear as well as surprise when she recognised the newcomer. "why, dan'l, my man," she exclaimed, "what is it?" daniel was out of breath with running. he rubbed his forehead with a red pocket handkerchief, looked round in a dazed manner at the assembled group, and at length said hoarsely: "mrs greenways bin here?" "ah, just gone!" said both the women at once. "there's trouble up yonder--on the hill," said daniel, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and speaking in a strange, broken voice. "mary white's baby!" exclaimed mrs pinhorn. "fits!" added mrs wishing; "they all went off that way." "hang the baby," muttered daniel. he made his way past the women, who had pressed up close to him, to where the cobbler and dimbleby stood. "i've fetched the doctor," he said, "and she wants the greenways to know it; i thought maybe she'd be here." "what is it? who's ill?" asked the cobbler. "tain't anyone that's ill," answered daniel; "he's stone dead. they shot him right through the heart." "who? who?" cried all the voices together. "i found him," continued daniel, "up in the woods; partly covered up with leaves he was. smiling peaceful and stone dead. he was always a brave feller and done his dooty, did james white on the hill. but he won't never do it no more." "poachers!" exclaimed dimbleby in a horror-struck voice. "poachers it was, sure enough," said daniel; "an' he's stone dead, james white is. they shot him right through the heart. seems a pity such a brave chap should die like that." "an' him such a good husband!" said mrs wishing. "an' the baby an' all as we was just talking on," said mrs pinhorn; "well, it's a fatherless child now, anyway." "the family ought to allow the widder a pension," said mr dimbleby, "seeing as james white died in their service, so to speak." "they couldn't do no less," agreed the cobbler. the idea of fetching mrs greenways seemed to have left daniel's mind for the present: he had now taken a chair, and was engaged in answering the questions with which he was plied on all sides, and in trying to fix the exact hour when he had found poor james white in the woods. "as it might be here, and me standing as it might be there," he said, illustrating his words with the different parcels on the counter before him. it was not until all this was thoroughly understood, and every imaginable expression of pity and surprise had been uttered, that mrs pinhorn remembered that the "greenways ought to know. and i don't see why," she added, seizing her basket with sudden energy, "i shouldn't take her up myself; i'm goin' that way, and she's a slow traveller." "an' then dan'l can go straight up home with me," said mrs wishing, "and we can drop in as we pass an' see mrs white, poor soul. she hadn't ought to be alone." before nightfall everyone knew the sad tidings. james white had been shot by poachers, and daniel wishing had found him lying dead in the woods. as the days went on, the excitement which stirred the whole village increased rather than lessened, for not even the oldest inhabitant could remember such a tragical event. apart from the sadness of it, and the desolate condition of the widow, poor jem's many virtues made it impressive and lamentable. everyone had something to say in his praise, no one remembered anything but good about him; he was a brave chap, and one of the right sort, said the men, when they talked of it in the public-house; he was a good husband, said the women, steady and sober, fond of his wife, a pattern to others. they shook their heads and sighed mournfully; it was strange as well as pitiful that jem white should a been took. "there might a been _some_ as we could mention as wouldn't a been so much missed." then came the funeral; the bunch of white lilac, still fresh, which he had brought from cuddingham, was put on jem's newly-made grave, and his widow, passing silently through the people gathered in the churchyard, toiled patiently back to her lonely home. they watched the solitary figure as it showed black against the steep chalky road in the distance. "yon's an afflicted woman," said one, "for all she carries herself so high under it." "she's the only widder among all the whites hereabouts," remarked mrs pinhorn. "we needn't call her `mrs white on the hill' no longer, poor soul." "it's a mercy she's got the child," said another neighbour, "if the lord spares it to her." "the christening's to be on sunday," added a third. "i do wonder if she'll call it that outlandish name _now_." there was not much time to wonder, for sunday soon came, and the widow white, as she was to be called henceforth, was at the church, stern, sad, and calm, with her child in her arms. it was an april morning, breezy and soft; the uncertain sunshine darted hither and thither, now touching the newly turned earth of jem's grave, and now peering through the church window to rest on the tiny face of his little daughter in the rector's arms at the font. all the village had come to see, for this christening was felt to be one of more than common interest, and while the service went on there was not one inattentive ear. foremost stood mrs greenways, her white handkerchief displayed for immediate use, and the expression in her face struggling between real compassion and an eager desire to lose nothing that was passing; presently she craned her neck forward a little, for an important point was reached-"name this child," said the rector. there was such deep silence in the church that the lowest whisper would have been audible, and mrs leigh's voice was heard distinctly in the farthest corner, when she answered "lilac." -----------------------------------------------------------------------"not that it matters," said mrs greenways on her way home afterwards, "what they call the poor little thing--lilac white, or white lilac, or what you will, for she'll never rear it, never. it'll follow its father before we're any of us much older. you mark my words, greenways: i'm not the woman to discourage mary white by naming it to her now she's so deep in trouble, but you mark my words, she'll _never_ rear that child." chapter two. the cousins. "for the apparel oft proclaims the man."--shakespeare. but mrs greenways was wrong. twelve more springs came and went, cold winds blew round the cottage on the hill, winter snow covered it, summer sun blazed down on its unsheltered roof, but the small blossom within grew and flourished. a weak tender-looking little plant at first, but gathering strength with the years until it became hardy and bold, fit to face rough weather as well as to smile in the sunshine. it was twelve years since james white's death, twelve years since he had brought the bunch of lilac from cuddingham which had given his little daughter her name--that name which had once sounded so strangely in mrs white's ears. it had come to mean so much to her now, so many memories of the past, so much sweetness in the present, that she would not have changed it for the world, and indeed no one questioned its fitness, for as time went on it seemed to belong naturally to the child; it was even made more expressive by putting the surname first, so that she was often called "white lilac." for the distinguishing character of her face was its whiteness--"a wonderful white skin", as her mother had said, which did not tan, or freckle, or flush with heat, and which shone out in startling contrast amongst the red and brown cheeks of her school companions. this small white face was set upon a slender neck, and a delicately-formed but upright little figure, which looked all the straighter and more like the stalk of a flower, because it was never adorned with any flounces or furbelows. lilac was considered in the village to be very old-fashioned in her dress; she wore cotton frocks, plain in the skirt with gathers all round the waist, long pinafores or aprons, and sunbonnets. this attire was always spotless and freshly clean, but garments of such a shape and cut were lamentably wanting in fashion to the general eye, and were the subject of constant ridicule. not in the hearing of the widow, for most people were a good deal in awe of her, but lilac herself heard quite enough about her clothes to be conscious of them and to feel ashamed of looking "different." and this was specially the case at school, for there she met agnetta greenways every day, and agnetta was the object of her highest admiration; to be like her in some way was the deep and secret longing in her mind. it was, she knew well, a useless ambition, but she could not help desiring it, agnetta was such a beautiful object to look upon, with her red cheeks and the heavy fringe of black hair which rested in a lump on her forehead. on sundays, when she wore her blue dress richly trimmed with plush, a long feather in her hat, and a silver bangle on her arm, lilac could hardly keep her intense admiration silent; it was a pain not to speak of it, and yet she knew that nothing would have displeased her mother so much, who was never willing to hear the greenways praised. so she only gazed wistfully at her cousin's square gaily-dressed figure, and felt herself a poor washed-out insignificant child in comparison. this was very much agnetta's own view of the case; but nevertheless there were occasions when she was glad of this insignificant creature's assistance, for she was slow and stupid at her lessons, books were grief and pain to her, and lilac, who was intelligent and fond of learning, was always ready to help and explain. this service, given most willingly, was received by agnetta as one to whom it was due, and indeed the position she held among her schoolfellows made most of them eager to call her friend. she lived at orchards farm, which was the biggest in the parish; her two elder sisters had been to a finishing school, and one of them was now in a millinery establishment in london, where she wore a silk dress every day. this was sufficient to excuse airs of superiority in anyone. it was natural, therefore, to repay lilac's devotion by condescending patronage, and to look down on her from a great height; nevertheless it was extremely agreeable to agnetta to be worshipped, and this made her seek her cousin's companionship, and invite her often to orchards farm. there she could display her smart frocks, dwell on the extent of her father's possessions, on her sister bella's stylishness, on the last fashion gusta had sent from london, while lilac, meek and admiring, stood by with wonder in her eyes. orchards farm was the most beautiful place her imagination could picture, and to live there must be, she thought, perfect happiness. there was a largeness about it, with its blossoming fruit trees, its broad green meadows, its barns and stacks, its flocks of sheep and herds of cattle; even the shiny-leaved magnolia which covered part of the house seemed to lilac to speak of peace and plenty. it was all so different from her home; the bare white cottage on the hillside where no trees grew, where all was so narrow and cold, and where life seemed to be made up of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing. she looked longingly down from this sometimes to the valley where the farm stood. but other eyes, and mrs white's in particular, saw a very different state of things when they looked at orchards farm. she knew that under this smiling outside face lay hidden care and anxiety; for her brother, farmer greenways, was in debt and short of money. folks shook their heads when it was mentioned, and said: "what could you expect?" the old people remembered the prosperous days at the farm, when the dairy had been properly worked, and the butter was the best you could get anywhere round. there was the pasture land still, and a good lot of cows, but since the greenways had come there the supply of butter was poor, and sometimes the whole quantity sent to market was so carelessly made that it was sour. whose fault was it? mrs greenways would have said that molly, the one overworked maid servant, was to blame; but other people thought differently, and mrs white was as usual outspoken in her opinions to her sister-in-law: "it 'ull never be any different as long as you don't look after the dairy yourself, or teach bella to do it. what does molly care how the butter turns out?" but bella tossed her head at the idea of working, as she expressed it, "like a common servant", or indeed at working at all. she considered that her business in life was to be genteel, and to be properly genteel was to do nothing useful. so she studied the fashion books which gusta sent from london, made up wonderful costumes for herself, curled her hair in the last style, and read the stories about dukes and earls and countesses which came out in the _family herald_. the smart bonnets and dresses which mrs greenways and her daughters wore on sundays in spite of hard times and poor crops and debt were the wonder of the whole congregation, and in mrs white's case the wonder was mixed with scorn. "peter's the only one among 'em as is good for anything," she sometimes said, "an' he's naught but a puzzle-headed sort of a chap." peter was the farmer's only son, a loutish youth of fifteen, steady and plodding as his plough horses and almost as silent. it was april again, bright and breezy, and all the cherry trees at the farm were so white with bloom that standing under them you could scarcely see the sky. the grass in the orchard was freshly green and sprinkled with daisies, amongst which families of fluffy yellow ducklings trod awkwardly about on their little splay feet, while the careful mother hens picked out the best morsels of food for them. this food was flung out of a basin by agnetta greenways, who stood there squarely erect uttering a monotonous "chuck, chuck, chuck," at intervals. agnetta did not care for the poultry, or indeed for any of the creatures on the farm; they were to her only troublesome things that wanted looking after, and she would have liked not to have had anything to do with them. just now, however, there was a week's holiday at the school, and she was obliged to use her leisure in helping her mother, much against her will. agnetta had a stolid face with a great deal of colour in her cheeks; her hair was black, but at this hour it was so tightly done up in curl papers that the colour could hardly be seen. she wore an old red merino dress which had once been a smart one, but was now degraded to what she called "dirty work", and was covered with patches and stains. her hands and wrists were very large, and looked capable of hard work, as indeed did the whole person of agnetta from top to toe. "chuck, chuck, chuck," she repeated as she threw out the last spoonful; then, raising her eyes, she became aware of a little figure in the distance, running towards her across the field at the bottom of the orchard. "lor'!" she exclaimed aloud, "if here isn't lilac white!" it was a slight little figure clothed in a cotton frock which had once been blue in colour, but had been washed so very often that it now approached a shade of green; over it was a long straight pinafore gathered round the neck with a string, and below it appeared blue worsted stockings, and thick, laced boots. her black hair was brushed back and plaited in one long tail tied at the end with black ribbon, and in her hand she carried a big sunbonnet, swinging it round and round in the air as she ran. as she came nearer the orchard gate, it was easy to see that she had some news to tell, for her small features worked with excitement, and her grey eyes were bright with eagerness. agnetta advanced slowly to meet her with the empty basin in her hand, and unlatched the gate. "whatever's the matter?" she asked. lilac could not answer just at first, for she had been running a long way, and her breath came in short gasps. she came to a standstill under the trees, and agnetta stared gravely at her with her mouth wide open. the two girls formed a strong contrast to each other. lilac's white face and the faded colour of her dress matched the blossoms and leaves of the cherry trees in their delicacy, while about the red-cheeked agnetta there was something firm and positive, which suggested the fruit which would come later. "i came--" gasped lilac at last, "i ran--i thought i must tell you--" "well," said agnetta, still staring at her in an unmoved manner, "you'd better fetch your breath, and then you'll be able to tell me. come and sit down." there was a bench under one of the trees near where she had been feeding the ducks. the two girls sat down, and presently lilac was able to say: "oh, agnetta, the artist gentleman wants to put me in a picture!" "whatever do you mean, lilac white?" was agnetta's only reply. her slightly disapproving voice calmed lilac's excitement a little. "this is how it was," she continued more quietly. "you know he's lodging at the `three bells?' and he comes an' sits at the bottom of our hill an' paints all day." "of course i know," said agnetta. "it's a poor sort of an object he's copyin', too--old joe's tumble-down cottage. i peeped over his shoulder t'other day--'taint much like." "well, i pass him every day comin' from school, and he always looks up at me eager without sayin' nothing. but this morning he says, `little gal,' says he, `i want to put you into my picture.'" "lor'!" put in agnetta, "whatever can he want to paint _you_ for?" "so i didn't say nothing," continued lilac, "because he looked so hard at me that i was skeert-like. so then he says very impatient, `don't you understand? i want you to come here in that frock and that bonnet in your hand, and let me paint you, copy you, take your portrait. you run and ask mother.'" "i never did!" exclaimed agnetta, moved at last. "whatever can he want to do it for? an' that frock, an' that silly bonnet an' all! he must be a crazy gentleman, i should say." she gave a short laugh, partly of vexation. "but that ain't all," continued lilac; "just as i was turning to go he calls after me, `what's yer name?' and when i told him he shouts out, `_what_!' with his eyes hanging out ever so far." "well, i dare say he thought it was a silly-sounding sort of a name," observed agnetta. "he said it over and over to hisself, and laughed right out--`lilac white! white lilac!' says he. `what a subjeck! what a name! splendid!' an' then he says to me quieter, `you're a very nice little girl indeed, and if mother will let you come i'll give you sixpence for every hour you stand.' so then i went an' asked mother, and she said yes, an' then i ran all the way here to tell you." lilac looked round as she finished her wonderful story. agnetta's eyes were travelling slowly over her cousin's whole person, from her face down to the thick, laced boots on her feet, and back again. "i can't mek out," she said at length, "whatever it is that he wants to paint you for, and dressed like that! why, there ain't a mossel of colour about you! now, if you had my sunday blue!" "oh, agnetta!" exclaimed lilac at the mention of such impossible elegance. "and," pursued agnetta, "a few artificials in yer hair, like the ladies in our _book of beauty_, that 'ud brighten you up a bit. bella's got some red roses with dewdrops on 'em, an' a caterpillar just like life. she'd lend you 'em p'r'aps, an' i don't know but what i'd let you have my silver locket just for once." "i'm afraid he wouldn't like that," said lilac dejectedly, "because he said quite earnest, `_mind_ you bring the bonnet'." she saw herself for a moment in the splendid attire agnetta had described, and gave a little sigh of longing. "i must go back," she said, getting up suddenly, "mother'll want me. there's lots to do at home." "i'll go with you a piece," said agnetta; "we'll go through the farmyard way so as i can leave the basin." this was a longer way home for lilac than across the fields, but she never thought of disputing agnetta's decision, and the cousins left the orchard by another gate which led into the garden. it was not a very tidy garden, and although some care had been bestowed on the vegetables, the flowers were left to come up where they liked and how they liked, and the grass plot near the house was rank and weedy. nevertheless it presented a gay and flourishing appearance with its masses of polyanthus in full bloom, its tulips, and turk's head lilies, and lilac bushes. there was one particular bed close to the gate which had a neater appearance than the rest, and where the flowers grew in a well-ordered manner as though accustomed to personal attention. the edges of the turf were trimly clipped, and there was not a weed to be seen. it had a mixed border of forget-me-not and london pride. "how pretty your flowers grow!" said lilac, stopping to look at it with admiration. "oh, that's peter's bed," said agnetta carelessly, snapping off some blossoms. "he's allays mucking at it in his spare time--not that he's got much, there's so much to do on the farm." the house was now in front of them, and a little to the left the various, coloured roofs of the farm buildings, some tiled with weather-beaten bricks, some thatched, some tarred, and the bright yellow straw ricks standing here and there. between these buildings and the house was a narrow lane, generally ankle-deep in mud, which led into the highroad. lilac was very fond of the farmyard and all the creatures in it. she stopped at the gate and looked over at a company of small black pigs routing about in the straw. "oh, agnetta!" she exclaimed, "you've got some toiny pigs; what peart little uns they are!" "i can't abide pigs," said agnetta with a toss of her curl-papered head; "no more can't bella, we neither of us can't. nasty, vulgar, low-smelling things." lilac felt that hers must be a vulgar taste as agnetta said so, but still she _did_ like the little pigs, and would have been glad to linger near them. it was often puzzling to her that agnetta called so many things common and vulgar, but she always ended by thinking that it was because she was so superior. "here, peter!" exclaimed agnetta suddenly. a boy in leather leggings and a smock appeared at the entrance of the barn, and came tramping across the straw towards them at her call. "just take this into the kitchen," said his sister in commanding tones. "now," turning to lilac, "we can go t'other way across the fields. the lane's all in a muck." peter slouched away with the basin in his hand. he was a heavy-looking youth, and so shy that he seldom raised his eyes from the ground. "no one 'ud think," said agnetta as the girls entered the meadow again, "as peter was bella's and gusta's and my brother. he's so dreadful vulgar-lookin' dressed like that. he might be a common ploughboy, and his manners is awful." "are they?" said lilac. "pa won't hear a word against him," continued agnetta, "cause he's so useful with the farm work. he says he'd rather see peter drive a straight furrow than dress himself smart. but bella and me we're ashamed to be seen with him, we can't neither of us abide commoners." common! there was the word again which seemed to mean so many things and yet was so difficult to understand. common things were evidently vulgar. the pigs were common, peter was common, perhaps lilac herself was common in agnetta's eyes. "and yet," she reflected, lifting her gaze from the yellow carpet at her feet to the flowering orchards, "the cherry blossoms and the buttercups are common too; would agnetta call them vulgar?" she had not long to think about this, for her cousin soon introduced another and a very interesting subject. "who's goin' to be queen this year, i wonder?" she said; "there'll be a sight of flowers if the weather keeps all on so fine." "it'll be you, agnetta, for sure," answered lilac; "i know lots who mean to choose you this time." "i dessay," said agnetta with an air of lofty indifference. "don't you want to be?" asked lilac. the careless tone surprised her, for to be chosen queen of the may was not only an honour, but a position of importance and splendour. it meant to march at the head of a long procession of children, in a white dress, to be crowned with flowers in the midst of gaiety and rejoicing, to lead the dance round the maypole, and to be first throughout a day of revelry and feasting. to lilac it was the most beautiful of ceremonies to see the queen crowned; to join in it was a delight, but to be chosen queen herself would be a height of bliss she could hardly imagine. it was impossible therefore, to think her cousin really indifferent, and indeed this was very far from the case, for agnetta had set her heart on being queen, and felt tolerably sure that she should get the greatest number of votes this year. "i don't know as i care much," she answered; "let's sit down here a bit." they sat down one each side of a stile, with their faces turned towards each other, and agnetta again fixed her direct gaze critically on her cousin's figure. lilac twirled her sunbonnet round somewhat confusedly under these searching glances. "it's a pity you wear your hair scrattled right off your face like that," said agnetta at last; "it makes you look for all the world like daisy's white calf." "does it?" said lilac meekly; "mother likes it done so." "i know something as would improve you wonderful, and give you a bit of style--something as would make the picture look a deal better." "oh, what, agnetta?" "well, it's just as simple as can be. it's only to take a pair of scissors and cut yer hair like mine in front so as it comes down over yer face a bit. it 'ud alter you ever so. you'd be surprised." lilac started to her feet, struck with the immensity of the idea. a fringe! it was a form of elegance not unknown amongst the school-children, but one which she had never thought of as possible for herself. there was agnetta's stolid rosy face close to her, as unmoved and unexcited as if she had said nothing unusual. "oh, agnetta, _could_ i?" gasped lilac. "whyever not?" said her cousin calmly. lilac sat down again. "i dursn't," she said. "i couldn't ever bear to look mother in the face." "has she ever told you not?" "n-no," answered lilac hesitatingly; "leastways she only said once that the girls made frights of themselves with their fringes." "frights indeed!" said agnetta scornfully; "anyhow," she added, "it 'ull grow again if she don't like it." so it would. that reflection made the deed seem a less daring one, and lilac's face at once showed signs of yielding, which agnetta was not slow to observe. warming with her subject, she proceeded to paint the improvement which would follow in glowing colours, and in this she was urged by two motives--one, an honest desire to smarten lilac up a little, and the other, to vex and thwart her aunt, mrs white; to pay her out, as she expressed it, for sundry uncomplimentary remarks on herself and bella. "and supposing," was lilac's next remark, "as how i _was_ to make up my mind, i couldn't never do it for myself. i should be scared." this difficulty the energetic agnetta was quite ready to meet. _she_ would do it. lilac had only to run down to the farm early next morning, and, after she was made fashionable, she could go straight on to the artist. "and won't he just be surprised!" she added with a chuckle. "i don't expect he'll hardly know you." "you're _quite_ sure it'll make me look better?" said lilac wistfully. she had the utmost faith in her cousin, but the step seemed to her such a terribly large one. "ain't i?" was agnetta's scornful reply. "why, gusta says all the ladies in london wears their hair like that now." after this last convincing proof, for gusta's was a name of great authority, lilac resisted no longer, and soon discovered, by the striking of the church clock, that it was getting very late. she said good-bye to agnetta, therefore, and, leaving her to make her way back at her leisure, ran quickly on through the meadows all streaked and sprinkled with the spring flowers. after these came the dusty high-road for a little while, and then she reached the foot of the steep hill which led up to her home. the artist gentleman was there as usual, a pipe in his mouth, and a palette on his thumb, painting busily: as she hurriedly dropped a curtsy in passing, lilac's heart beat quite fast. "me in a picture with a fringe!" she said to herself; "how i do hope as mother won't mind!" that afternoon, when she sat quietly down to her sewing, this great idea weighed heavily upon her. it would be the very first step she had ever taken without her mother's approval, and away from the influence of agnetta's decided opinion it seemed doubly alarming--a desperate and yet an attractive deed. now and then for a moment she thought it would be better to tell her mother, but when she looked up at the grave, rather sad face, bent closely over some needlework, she lacked courage to begin. it seemed far removed from such trifles as fringes and fashions; and though, as lilac knew well, it could have at times a smile full of love upon it, just now its expression was thoughtful, and even stern. she kept silence, therefore, and stitched away with a mind as busy as her fingers, until it was time to boil the kettle and get the tea ready. this was just done when mrs wishing, who lived still farther up the hill, dropped in on her way home from the village. she was an uncertain, wavering little woman, with no will of her own, and a heavy burden in the shape of a husband, who, during the last few years, had taken to fits of drinking. the widow white acknowledged that she had a good deal to bear from dan'l, and when times were very bad, often supplied her with food and firing from her own small store. but she did not do so without protest, for in her opinion the fault was not entirely on dan'l's side. "maybe," she said, "if he found a clean hearth and a tidy bit o' supper waitin' at home, he'd stay there oftener. an' if he worked reg'lar, and didn't drink his wages, you'd want for nothin', and be able to put by with only just the two of you to keep. but i can't see you starve." mrs wishing fluttered in at the door, and, as she thought probable, was asked to have a dish of tea. lilac bustled round the kitchen and set everything neatly on the table, while her mother, glancing at her now and then, stood at the window sewing with active fingers. "well, you're always busy, mrs white," said the guest plaintively as she untied her bonnet strings. "i will say as you're a hard worker yourself, whatever you say about other folks." "an' i hope as when the time comes as i can't work that the lord 'ull see fit to take me," said mrs white shortly. "dear, dear, you've got no call to say that," said mrs wishing, "you as have got lilac to look to in your old age. now, if it was me and dan'l, with neither chick nor child--" she shook her head mournfully. mrs white gave her one sharp glance which meant "and a good thing too", but she did not say the words aloud; there was something so helpless and incapable about mrs wishing, that it was both difficult and useless to be severe with her, for the most cutting speeches could not rouse her from the mild despair into which she had sunk years ago. "i dessay you're right, but _i_ dunno," was her only reply to all reproaches and exhortations, and finding this, mrs white had almost ceased them, except when they were wrung from her by some unusual example of bad management. "an' so handy as she is," continued mrs wishing, her wandering gaze caught for a moment by lilac's active little figure, "an' that's all your up-bringing, mrs white, as i was saying just now to mrs greenways." mrs white, who was now pouring out the tea, looked quickly up at the mention of mrs greenways. she would not ask, but her very soul longed to know what had been said. "she was talkin' about lilac as i was in at dimbleby's getting a bunch of candles," continued mrs wishing, "sayin' how her picture was going to be took; an' says she, `it's a poor sort of picture as she'll make, with a face as white as her pinafore. now, if it was agnetta,' says she, `as has a fine nateral bloom, i could understand the gentleman wantin' to paint _her_.'" "i s'pose the gentleman knows best himself what he wants to paint," said mrs white. "lor', of course he do," mrs wishing hastened to reply; "and, as i said to mrs greenways, `red cheeks or white cheeks don't make much differ to a gal in life. it's the upbringing as matters.'" mrs white looked hardly so pleased with this sentiment as her visitor had hoped. she was perfectly aware that it had been invented on the spot, and that mrs wishing would not have dared to utter it to mrs greenways. moreover, the comparison between lilac's paleness and agnetta's fine bloom touched her keenly, for in this remark she recognised her sister-in-law's tongue. the rivalry between the two mothers was an understood thing, and though it had never reached open warfare, it was kept alive by the kindness of neighbours, who never forgot to repeat disparaging speeches. mrs white's opinions of the genteel uselessness of bella and gusta were freely quoted to mrs greenways, and she in her turn was always ready with a thrust at lilac which might be carried to mrs white. when the widow had first heard of the artist's proposal, her intense gratification was at once mixed with the thought, "what'll mrs greenways think o' that?" but she did not express this triumph aloud. even lilac had no idea that her mother's heart was overflowing with pleasure and pride because it was _her_ child, _her_ lilac, whom the artist wished to paint. so now, though she bit her lip with vexation at mrs wishing's speech, she took it with outward calmness, and only replied, with a glance at her daughter: "lilac never was one to think much about her looks, and i hope she never will be." both the look and the words seemed to lilac to have special meaning, almost as though her mother knew what she intended to do to-morrow; it seemed indeed to be written in large letters everywhere, and all that was said had something to do with it. this made her feel so guilty, that she began to be sure it would be very wrong to have a fringe. should she give it up? it was a relief when mrs wishing, leaving the subject of the picture for one of nearer interest, proceeded to dwell on dan'l and his failings, so that lilac was not referred to again. this well-worn topic lasted for the rest of the visit, for dan'l had been worse than usual. he had "got the neck of the bottle", as mrs wishing expressed it, and had been in a hopeless state during the last week. her sad monotonous voice went grinding on over the old story, while lilac, washing up the tea things, carried on her own little fears, and hopes, and wishes in her own mind. no one watching her would have guessed what those wishes were: she looked so trim and neat, and handled the china as deftly as though she had no other thought than to do her work well. and yet the inside did not quite match this proper outside, for her whole soul was occupied with a beautiful vision--herself with a fringe like agnetta! it proved so engrossing that she hardly noticed mrs wishing's departure, and when her mother spoke she looked up startled. "yon's a poor creetur as never could stand alone and never will," she said. "it was the same when she was a gal--always hangin' on to someone, always wantin' someone else to do for her, and think for her. well! empty sacks won't never stand upright, and it's no good tryin' to make 'em." lilac made no reply, and mrs white, seizing the opportunity of impressing a useful lesson, continued: "lor'! it seems only the other day as hepzibah was married to daniel wishing. a pretty gal she was, with clinging, coaxing ways, like the suckles in the hedge, and everyone she come near was ready to give her a helping hand. and at the wedding they all said, `there, now, she's got the right man, hepzibah has. a strong, steady feller, and a good workman an' all, and one as'll look after her an' treat her kind.' but i mind what i said to mrs pinhorn on that very day: `i hope it may be so,' i says, `but it takes an angel, and not a man, to bear with a woman as weak an' shiftless as hepzibah, and not lose his temper.' and now look at 'em! there's dan'l taken to drink, and when he's out of himself he'll lift his hand to her, and they're both of 'em miserable. it does a deal o' harm for a woman to be weak like that. she can't stand alone, and she just pulls a man down along with her." the troubles of the wishings were very familiar to lilac's ears, and, though she took her knitting and sat down on her little stool close to her mother, she did not listen much to what she was saying. mrs white, quite ignorant that her words of wisdom were wasted, continued admonishingly: "so as you grow up, lilac, and get to a woman, that's what you've got to learn--to trust to yourself; you won't always have a mother to look to. and what you've got to do now is, to learn to do your work jest as well as you can, and then afterwards you'll be able to stand firm on yer own two feet, and not go leaning up against other folk, or be beholden to nobody. that's a good thing, that is. there's a saying, `heaven helps them as helps themselves'. if that poor hepzibah had helped herself when she was a gal, she wouldn't be such a daundering creetur now, and dan'l, he wouldn't be a curse instead of a blessin'." when lilac went up to her tiny room in the roof that night, her head felt too full of confusing thoughts to make it possible to go to bed at once. she knelt on a box that stood in the window, fastened back the lattice, and, leaning on the sill, looked out into the night. the greyness of evening was falling over everything, but it was not nearly dark yet, so that she could see the windings of the chalky road which led down to the valley, and the church tower, and even one of the gable windows in orchards farm, where a light was twinkling. generally this last object was a most interesting one to her, but to-night she did not notice outside things much, for her mind was too busy with its own concerns. she had, for the first time in her life, something quite new and strange to think of, something of her own which her mother did not know; and though this may seem a very small matter to people whose lives are full of events, to lilac it was of immense importance, for until now her days had been as even and unvaried as those of any daisy that grows in a field. but to-morrow, two new things were to happen--she was to have her hair cut, and to have her picture painted. "a poor sort of picture," mrs greenways had said it would be, and, no doubt, lilac agreed in her own mind agnetta would make a far finer one--agnetta, who had red cheeks, and a fringe already, and could dress herself so much smarter. would a fringe really improve her? agnetta said so. and yet--her mother--was it worth while to risk vexing her? but it would grow. yes, but in the picture it would never grow. the more she thought, the more difficult it was to see her way clear; as the evening grew darker and more shadowy, so her reflections became dimmer and more confused; at last they were suddenly stopped altogether, for a bat which had come forth on its evening travels flapped straight against her face under the eaves. thoroughly roused, lilac drew in her head, shut her window, and was very soon fast asleep in bed. night is said to bring counsel, and perhaps it did so in some way, although she slept too soundly to dream, for punctually at eleven o'clock the next morning she was at the meeting-place appointed by agnetta at the farm. this was a loft over the cows' stables, the only place when, at that hour, they could be sure of no interruption. "the proper place 'ud be my bedroom," agnetta had said, "where there's a mirror an' all; but it's bella's too, you see, an' just now she's making a new bonnet, and she's forever there trying it on. but i'll bring the scissors and do it in a jiffy." and here was agnetta armed with the scissors, and a certain authority of manner she always used with her cousin. "tek off yer bonnet and undo yer plaits," she said, opening and shutting the bright scissors with a snap, as though she longed to begin. lilac stood with her back against a truss of hay, rather shrinking away, for now that the moment had really come she felt frightened, and all her doubts returned. she had the air of a pale little victim before her executioner. "come," said agnetta, with another snap. "oh, agnetta, do you really think they'll like it?" faltered lilac. "what i really think is that you're a ninny," said the determined agnetta; "an' i'm not agoin' to wait here while you shilly-shally. is it to be off or on?" "oh off, i suppose," said lilac. with trembling fingers she took off her bonnet, and unfastened her hair from its plait. it fell like a dark silky veil over her shoulders. "lor'!" said agnetta, "you have got a lot of it." she stood for a second staring at her victim open-mouthed with the scissors upraised in one hand, then advanced, and grasping a handful of the soft hair drew it down over lilac's face. "oh, agnetta," cried an imploring voice behind the screen thus formed, "you'll _be_ careful! you won't tek off too much." "come nearer the light," said agnetta. still holding the hair, she drew her cousin towards the wide open doors of the loft. "now," she said, "i can see what i'm at, an' i shan't be a minute." the steel scissors struck coldly against lilac's forehead. it was too late to resist now. she held her breath. grind, grind, snip! they went in agnetta's remorseless fingers, and some soft waving lengths of hair fell on the ground. it certainly did not take long; after a few more short clips and snips agnetta had finished, and there stood lilac fashionably shorn, with the poor discarded locks lying at her feet. it was curious to see how much agnetta's handiwork had altered her cousin's face. lilac's forehead was prettily shaped, and though she had worn her hair "scrattled" off it, there were little waving rings and bits which were too short to be "scrattled", and these had softened its outline. but now the pure white forehead was covered by a lump of hair which came straight across the middle of it, and the small features below looked insignificant. the expression of intelligent modesty which had made lilac look different from other girls had gone; she was just an ordinary pale-faced little person with a fringe. "there!" exclaimed agnetta triumphantly as she drew a small hand-glass from her pocket; "now you'll see as how i was right. you won't hardly know yerself." lilac took it, longing yet fearing to see herself. from the surface of the glass a stranger seemed to return her glance--someone she had never seen before, with quite a different look in her eyes. certainly she was altered. was it for the better? she did not know, and before she could tell she must get more used to this new lilac white. at present she had more fear than admiration for her. "clump! clump!" came the sound of heavy feet up the loft ladder. lilac let the glass fall at her side, and turned a terrified gaze on agnetta. "oh, what's that?" she cried. "let me hide--don't let anyone see me!" agnetta burst into a loud laugh. "well, you _are_ a ninny, lilac white. are you goin' to hide from everyone now you've got a fringe? you as are goin' to have your picture took. an' after all," she added, as a face and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. "it's only peter." peter's rough head and blunt, uncouth features were framed by the square opening in the floor of the loft. there they remained motionless, for the sight of agnetta and lilac where he had been prepared to find only hay and straw brought him to a standstill. his face and the tips of his large ears got very red as he saw lilac's confusion, and he went a step lower down the ladder, but his eyes were still above the level of the floor. "well," said agnetta, still giggling, "we'll hear what peter thinks of it. don't she look a deal better with her hair cut so, peter?" peter's grey-green eyes, not unkindly in expression, fixed themselves on his cousin's face. in her turn lilac gazed back at them, half-frightened, yet beseeching mutely for a favourable opinion; it was like looking into a second mirror. she waited anxiously for his answer. it came at last, slowly, from peter's invisible mouth. "no," he said, "i liked it best as it wur afore." as he spoke the head disappeared, and they heard him go clumping down the ladder again. the words fell heavily on lilac's ears. "best as it wur afore." perhaps everyone would think so too. she looked dismally first at the locks of hair on the ground and then at agnetta's unconcerned face. "well, you've no call to mind what _he_ says anyhow," said the latter cheerfully. "he don't know what's what." "i most wish," said lilac, as she turned to leave the loft, "that i hadn't done it." as she spoke, the distant sound of the church clock was heard. there was only just time to get to the foot of the hill, and she said a hurried good-bye to agnetta, tying on her bonnet as she ran across the fields. she generally hated the sun-bonnet, but to-day for the first time she found a comfort in its deep brim, which sheltered this new lilac white a little from the world. she almost hoped that the artist would change his mind and let her keep it on, instead of holding it in her hand. chapter three. "uncle joshua." "let each be what he is, so will he be good enough for man himself, and god."--_lavater_. whilst all this was going on at the farm, mrs white had been busy as usual in the cottage on the hill--her mind full of lilac, and her hands full of the rectory washing. it was an important business, for it was all she and her child had to depend on beside a small pension allowed her by jem's late employers; but quite apart from this she took a pride in her work for its own sake. she felt responsible not only for the unyielding stiffness of the rector's round collars, but also for the appearance of the choristers' surplices; and any failure in colour or approach to limpness was a real pain to her, and made it difficult to fix her attention on the service. this happened very seldom, however; and when it did, was owing to an unfortunate drying day or other accident, and never to want of exertion on her own part. there was nothing to complain of in the weather this morning--a bright sun and a nice bit of wind, and not too much of it. mrs white wrung out the surplices in a very cheerful spirit, and her grave face had a smile on it now and then, for she was thinking of lilac. lilac sweetened all her life now, much in the same way that the bunch of flowers from which she took her name had sweetened the small room with its fragrance twelve years ago. as she grew up her mother's love grew too, stronger year by year; for when she looked at her she remembered all the happiness that her life had known--when she spoke her name, it brought back a thousand pleasant memories and kept them fresh in her mind. and she looked forward too, for lilac's sake, and saw in years to come her proudest hope fulfilled--her child grown to be a self-respecting useful woman, who could work for herself and need be beholden to no one. she had no higher ambition for her; but this she had set her heart on, she should not become lazy, vain, helpless, like her cousins the greenways. that was the pitfall from which she would strain every muscle to hold lilac back. there were moments when she trembled for the bad influence of example at orchards farm. she knew lilac's yielding affectionate nature and her great admiration for her cousins, and kept a watchful eye for the first unsatisfactory signs. but there were none. no one could accuse lilac of untidy ways, or want of thoroughness in dusting, sweeping, and all branches of household work, and even mrs white could find no fault. "after all," she said to herself, "it's natural in young things to like to be together, and there's nothing worse nor foolishness in agnetta and bella." so she allowed the visits to go on, and contented herself by many a word in season and many a pointed practical lesson. the greenways were seldom mentioned, but they were, nevertheless, very often in the minds of both mother and daughter. this morning she was thinking of a much more pleasant subject. "how was the artist gentleman getting along with lilac's picture? he must be well at it now," she thought, looking up at the loud-voiced american clock, "an' her looking as peart and pretty as a daisy. white-faced indeed! i'd rather she were white-faced than have great red cheeks like a peony bloom. what will he do with the picture afterwards?" joshua snell, through reading the papers so much, knew most things, and he had said that it would p'r'aps be hung up with a lot of others in a place in london called an exhibition, where you could pay money and go to see 'em. "if he's right," concluded mrs white, wringing out the last surplice, "i do really think as how i must give lilac a jaunt up to london, an' we'll go and see it. the last holiday as ever i had was fifteen years back, an' that was when jem and me, we went--why, i do believe," she said aloud, "here she is back a'ready!" there was a sound of running feet, which she had heard too often to mistake, then the click of the latch, and then lilac herself rushed through the front room. "mother, mother," she cried, "he won't paint me!" mrs white turned sharply round. lilac was standing just inside the entrance to the back kitchen, with her bonnet on, and her hands clasped over her face. to keep her bonnet on a moment after she was in the house struck her mother at once as something strange and unusual, and she stared at her for an instant in silence, with her bands held up dripping and pink from the water. "whatever ails you, child?" she said at length. "what made him change his mind?" "he said as how i was the wrong one," murmured lilac under her closed hands. "the _wrong_ one!" repeated her mother. "why, how could he go to say such a thing? you told him you was lilac white, i s'pose. there's ne'er another in the village." "he didn't seem as if he knew me," said lilac. "he looked at me very sharp, and said as how it was no good to paint me now." "why ever not? you're just the same as you was." "i ain't," said lilac desperately, taking away her hands from her face and letting them fan at her side. "i ain't the same. i've cut my hair!" it was over now. she stood before her mother a disgraced and miserable lilac. the black fringe of hair across her forehead, the bonnet pushed back, the small white face quivering nervously. but though she knew it would displease her mother, she had very little idea that she had done the thing of all others most hateful to her. a fringe was to mrs white a sort of distinguishing mark of the greenways family, and of others like it. not only was it ugly and unsuitable in itself, but it was an outward sign of all manner of unworthy qualities within. girls who wore fringes were in her eyes stamped with three certain faults: untidiness, vanity, and love of dressing beyond their station. beginning with these, who could tell to what other evils a fringe might lead? and now, her own child, her lilac whom she had been so proud of, and thought so different from others, stood before her with this abomination on her brow. bitterest of all, it was the influence of the greenways that had triumphed, and not her own. all her care and toil had ended in this. it had all been in vain. if lilac "took pattern" by her cousins in one way she would in another--"a straw can tell which way the wind blows." she would grow up like bella and agnetta. swiftly all this rushed into mrs white's mind, as she stood looking with surprise and horror at lilac's altered face. finding her voice as she arrived at the last conclusion, she asked coldly: "what made yer do it?" lilac locked her hands tightly together and made no answer. she would not say anything about agnetta, who had meant kindly in what she had done. "i know," continued her mother, "without you sayin' a word. it was one of them greenways. but i did think as how you'd enough sense and sperrit of yer own to stand out agin' their foolishness--let alone anything else. it's plain to me now that you don't care for yer mother or what she says. you'll fly right in her face to please any of them at orchards farm." still lilac did not speak, and her silence made mrs white more and more angry. "an' what do you think you've got by it?" she continued scornfully. "do those silly things think it makes 'em look like ladies to cut their hair so and dress themselves up fine? then you can tell 'em this from me: vulgar they are, and vulgar they'll be all their lives long, and nothing they can do to their outsides will change 'em. but they might a left you alone, lilac, for you're but a child; only i did think as you'd a had more sense." lilac was crying now. this scolding on the top of much excitement and disappointment was more than she could bear, but still she felt she must defend the greenways from blame. "it was my fault," she sobbed. "i thought as how it would look nicer." "the many and many times," pursued mrs white, drying her hands vigorously on a rough towel, "as i've tried to make you understand what's respectable and right and fitting! and it's all been no good. well, i've done. go to your greenways and let them teach you, and much profit may you get. i've done with you--you don't look like my child no longer." she turned her back and began to bustle about with the linen, not looking towards lilac again. in reality her eyes were full of tears and she would have given worlds to cry heartily with the child, for to use those hard words to her was like bruising her own flesh. but she was too mortified and angry to show it, and lilac, after casting some wistful glances at the active figure, turned and went slowly out of the room with drooping head. pulling her bonnet forward so that her forehead and the dreadful fringe were quite hidden, she wandered down the hill, hardly knowing or caring where she went. all the world was against her. no one would ever look pleasantly at her again, if even her mother frowned and turned away. one by one she recalled what they had all said. first, peter: "i liked it best as it wur afore." then the artist--he had been quite angry. "you stupid little girl," he had said, "you've made yourself quite commonplace. you're no use whatever. run away." and now mother--that was worst of all: "you don't look like my child." lilac's tears fell fast when she remembered that. how very hard they all were upon her! she strayed listlessly onwards, and presently came to a sudden standstill, for she found that she was getting near the bottom of the hill, where the artist was no doubt still sitting. that would never do. at her right hand there branched off a wide grass-grown lane, one of the ancient roads of the romans which could still be traced along the valley. it was seldom used now, for it led nowhere in particular; but here and there at long distances there were some small cottages in it, and in one of these lived the cobbler, joshua snell. now, uncle joshua, as she called him, though he was no relation to her, was a great friend of lilac's, and the thought of him darted into her forlorn little mind like a ray of comfort. he would perhaps look kindly at her in spite of her fringe. there was no one else to do it except agnetta, and to reach her the artist must be passed, which was impossible. lilac could not remember that joshua had ever been cross to her, even in the days when she had played with his bits of leather and mislaid his tools--those old days when she was a tiny child, and mother had left her with him "to mind" when she went out to work. and besides being kind he was wise, and would surely find some way to help her in her present distress. perhaps even he would speak to mother, who thought a deal of what he said, and that would make her less angry. a little cheered by these reflections lilac turned down the lane, quickened her pace, and made straight for the cobbler's cottage. it was a very small abode, with such a deep thatch and such tiny windows that it looked all roof. at right angles there jutted out from it an extra room, or rather shed, and in this it was possible, by peering closely through a dingy pane of glass, to make out the dim figure of joshua bending over his work. this dark little hole, in which there was just space enough for joshua, his boots and tools and leather, had no door from without, but could only be approached through the kitchen. as he sat at work he could see the fire and the clock without getting up, which was very convenient, and he was proud of his work-shed, though in the winter it was both chilly and dark. joshua lived quite alone. he had come to danecross twenty years ago from the north, bringing with him a wife, a collection of old books, and a clarionet. the wife, whose black bonnet still hung behind the kitchen door, had now been dead ten years, and he had only the books and the clarionet to bear him company. but these companions kept him from being dull and lonely, and gave him besides a position of some importance in the village. for by dint of reading his books many times over, and pondering on them as he sat and cobbled, he had gained a store of wisdom, or what passed for such, and a great many long words with which he was fond of impressing the neighbours. he was also considered a fine reader, and quite a musical genius; for although he now only played the clarionet in private, there had been a time, he told them, when he had performed in a gallery as one of the church choir. it was now about four o'clock in the afternoon, and he sat earnestly intent on making a good job of a pair of boots which had been brought to him to sole. he was also anxious to make the most of the bright spring sunshine, a stray beam of which had found its way in at his little window and helped him greatly by its cheerful presence. all at once a shadow flitted across it, and glancing up he saw a well-known figure run hurriedly in at the cottage door. "it's white lilac," he said to himself with a smile but without ceasing his work, for lilac was a frequent visitor, and he could not afford to waste his time in welcoming his guests. he did not even look round, therefore, but listened for her greeting white his hammer kept up a steady tack, tack, tack. it did not come. joshua stopped his work, raised his head, and listened more intently. the kitchen was as perfectly silent as though it were empty. "i cert'nly did see her," said he, almost doubting his eyesight; "maybe she's playing off a game." he got up and looked cautiously round the entrance, quite expecting lilac to jump out from some hiding-place with a laugh; but a very different sight met his eyes. lilac had thrown herself into a large chair which stood on the hearth, her head was bent, her face buried in her hands, and she was crying bitterly. "my word!" exclaimed joshua, suddenly arrested on the threshold. he rubbed his hands in great perplexity on his leather apron. it was quite a new thing to see lilac in tears, and they fell so fast that she could neither control herself nor tell him the cause of her distress. in vain he tried to coax and comfort her: she would not even raise her head nor look at him. joshua looked round the room as if for counsel and advice in this difficulty, and fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the tall clock for some moments; then he winked at it, and said softly, as though speaking in confidence: "best let her have her cry out; then she'll tell me." "see here," he continued, turning to lilac and using his ordinary voice. "you've come to get uncle's tea ready for him, i know, and make him some toast; that's what you've come for. an' i've got a job as i must finish afore tea-time, 'cause the owner's coming for 'em. so i'll go and set to and do it, and you'll get the tea ready like a handy maid as you are, and then we'll have it together, snug and cosy." when he had settled himself to his work again, and the sound of his hammer mingled with the ticking of the tall clock as though they were running a race, lilac raised her head and rubbed her wet eyes. there was something very soothing and peaceful in uncle joshua's cottage, and his kind voice seemed to carry comfort with it. she had a strong hope that he would help her in some way, though she could not tell how, for he had never failed to find a remedy for all the little troubles she had brought to him from her earliest years. her faith in him, therefore, was entire, and even if he had proposed to make her hair long again at once, she would have believed it possible, because he knew so much. gradually, as she remembered this, she ceased crying altogether, and began to move about the room to prepare the tea, a business to which she was well used, for she had always considered it an honour to get uncle joshua's tea and make toast for him. the kettle already hung on its chain over the fire, and gave out a gentle simmering sound; by the time the toast was ready the water would boil. lilac got the bread from the corner cupboard and cut some stout slices. uncle liked his toast thick. then she knelt on the hearth, and shielding her face with one hand chose out the fiercest red hollows of the fire. it was an anxious process, needing the greatest attention; for lilac prided herself on her toast, and it was a matter of deep importance that it should be a fine even brown all over--neither burnt, nor smoked, nor the least blackened. while she was making it she was happy again, and quite unconscious of the fringe, for the first time since she had felt agnetta's cold scissors on her brow. it was soon quite ready on a plate on the hearth, so that it might keep hot. uncle joshua was ready also, for he came in just then from his shed, carrying his completed job in his hand: a pair of huge hobnailed boots, which he placed gently on the ground as though they were brittle and must be handled with care. "them's peter greenways' boots," he said, looking at them with some triumph, "and a good piece of work they be!" it was a great relief to lilac that neither then nor during the meal did uncle joshua look at her with surprise, or appear to notice that there was anything different about her. everything went on just as usual, just as it had so often done before. she sat on one side of the table and poured out the tea, and uncle joshua in his high-backed elbow chair on the other, with his red-and-white handkerchief over his knees, his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, and a well-buttered slice of toast in his hand. he never talked much during his meals; partly because he was used to having them alone, and partly because he liked to enjoy one thing at a time thoroughly. he was fond of talking and he was fond of eating, and he would not spoil both by trying to do them together. so to-night, as usual, he drank endless cups of tea in almost perfect silence, and at last lilac began to wish he would stop, for although she feared she yet longed for his opinion. she felt more able to face it now that she had eaten something, for without knowing it she had been hungry as well as miserable, and had quite forgotten that she had had no dinner. she watched uncle joshua nervously. would he ask for more tea. no. he wiped his mouth with the red handkerchief, looked straight at lilac, and suddenly spoke: "and how's the picture going forrard then?" after this question it was easy to tell the whole story, from its beginning to its unlucky end. during its progress the cobbler listened with the deepest attention, gave now a nod, and now a shake of the head or a muttered "humph!" and when it was finished he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, and said: "and so he wouldn't paint you--eh? and mother was angry?" "she's dreadful angry," sighed lilac. "did you think it 'ud please her, now?" asked uncle joshua. "n-no," answered lilac hesitatingly; "but i never thought as how she'd make so much fuss. and after all no one don't like it. do you think as how it looks _very_ bad, uncle?" the cobbler put his spectacles carefully straight and studied lilac's face with earnest attention. "what i consider is this here," he said as he finished his examination and leant back in his chair. "it makes you look like lots of other little gells, that's what it does. not so much like white lilac as you used to. i liked it best as it wur afore." "peter, he said that too," said lilac. "no one likes it except agnetta." "ah! and what made agnetta and all of 'em cut their hair that way?" asked uncle joshua. "because gusta greenways told bella as how all the ladies in london did it," answered lilac simply. "that's where it is," said uncle joshua. "my little maid, there's things as is fitting and there's things as isn't fitting. perhaps it's fitting for london ladies to wear their hair so. very well, then let them do it. but why should you and agnetta and the rest copy 'em? you're not ladies. you're country girls with honest work to do, and proud you ought to be of it. as proud every bit as the grandest lady as ever was, who never put her hand to a useful thing in her life. i'm not saying you're better than her. she's got her own place, an' her own lessons to learn, an' she's got to do the best she can with her life. but you're different, because your life's different, an' you'll never look like her whatever you put on your outside. if a thing isn't fit for what it's intended, it'll never look well. now, here's peter's boots--i call 'em handsome." he lifted one of them as he spoke and put it on the table, where it seemed to take up a great deal of room. lilac looked at it with a puzzled air; she saw nothing handsome in it. it was enormously thick and deeply wrinkled across the toes, which were turned upwards as though with many and many a weary tramp. "i call 'em handsome," pursued joshua. "because for why? because they're fit for ploughin' in the stiffest soil. because they'll keep out wet and never give in the seams. they're fit for what they're meant to do. but now you just fancy," he went on, raising one finger, "as how i'd made 'em of shiny leather, and put paper soles to 'em, and pointed tips to the toes. how'd they look in a ploughed field or a muddy lane? or s'pose peter he went and capered about in these 'ere on a velvet carpet an' tried to dance. how'd he look?" the idea of the loutish peter capering anywhere, least of all on a velvet carpet, made lilac smile in spite of uncle joshua's great gravity. "why, he'd look silly," he continued; "as silly as a country girl, who's got to scrub an' wash an' make the butter, dressed out in silks an' fandangoes. she ought to be too proud of being what she is, to try and look like what she isn't. give me down that big brown book yonder an' i'll read you something fine about that." lilac reached the book from the shelf with the greatest reverence; it was the only one amongst joshua's collection that she often begged to look at, because it was full of curious pictures. it was lavater's physiognomy; having found the passage he wanted, joshua read it very slowly aloud: "in the mansion of god there are to his glory vessels of wood, of silver, and of gold. all are serviceable, all profitable, all capable of divine uses, all the instruments of god: but the wood continues wood, the silver silver, the gold gold. though the golden should remain unused, still they are gold. the wooden may be made more serviceable than the golden, but they continue wood. let each be what he is, so will he be sufficiently good, for man himself, and god. the violin cannot have the sound of the flute, nor the trumpet of the drum." he had just finished the last line, and still held one knotty brown finger raised to mark the important words, when there was a low knock at the door, and immediately afterwards it opened a little way and a head appeared, covered by a rusty-black wideawake. it was the second time that day that lilac had seen it, for it was peter greenways' head. in a moment all the events of the unlucky morning came back to her, and his gruffly unfavourable opinion. why had he come? this awkward peter was always turning up when he was not wanted, and thrusting that large uncouth head in at unexpected places. she turned her back towards the door in much vexation, and peter himself remained stationary, with his eyes fixed where he had first directed them--on his own boot, which still stood on the table by joshua's elbow. his first intention had evidently been to come in, but suddenly seized with shyness he was now unable to move. "why, peter, lad," said the cobbler, "come in then; the boots is ready for you." thus invited peter slowly opened the door a very little wider and squeezed himself into the room. he was indeed a very awkward-looking youth, and though he was broad-shouldered and strongly made, he was so badly put together that he did not seem to join properly anywhere, and moved with effort as though he were walking in a heavy clay soil. everything about peter, and even the colour of his clothes, made you think of a ploughed field, and he generally kept his eyes fastened on the ground as though following the course of a furrow. this was a pity, for his eyes were the only good features in his broad red face, and had the kindly faithful expression seen in those of some dogs. as he stood there, ill at ease, with his enormous hands opening and shutting nervously, lilac thought of agnetta's speech: "peter's so common." if to be common was to look like peter, it was a thing to be avoided, and she was dismayed to hear uncle joshua say: "well, now, if you're not just in time to go home with lilac here, seein' as how we've done our tea, and her mother'll be looking for her." "oh, uncle, i'd rather not," said lilac hastily. then she added, "i want you to play me a tune before i go." joshua was always open to a compliment about his playing. "ah!" he said, "you want a tune, do you? well, and p'r'aps peter he'd like to hear it too." as he spoke he gave the boots to peter, who was now engaged in dragging up a leather purse from some great depth beneath his gaberdine. this effort, and the necessity of replying, flushed his face to a deeper red than ever, but he managed to say huskily as he counted some coin into joshua's hand: "no, thank you, mr snell. can't stop tonight." nevertheless it was some moments before he could go away: he stood clasping his boots and staring at joshua. "the money's all right, my lad," said the latter. "well," said peter, "i must be goin'." but he did not move. "well, good night, peter," said joshua, encouragingly. "good night, mr snell." "good night, peter," said lilac at length, nodding to him, and this seemed to rouse him, for with sudden energy he hurled himself towards the door and disappeared. "yon's an honest lad and a fine worker," remarked the cobbler, "but he do seem a bit tongue-tied now and then." and now, after the tune was played, there was no longer any excuse to put off going home. for the first time in her life lilac dreaded it, for instead of a smile of welcome she had only a frown of displeasure to expect from her mother. it was such a new thing that she shrank from it with fear, and found it almost as difficult to say goodbye as peter had done. if only uncle joshua would go with her! her face looked so wistful that he guessed her unspoken desire. "now i shouldn't wonder," he said, carefully thrusting the clarionet into its green baize bag, "as how you'd like me to go up yonder with you. and it do so happen as how i've got a job to take back to dan'l wishing, so i shall pass yours without goin' out of my way." accordingly, the door of the cottage being locked, the pair set out together a few moments later, lilac walking very soberly by the cobbler's side, with one hand in his. joshua's hand was rough with work, so that it felt like holding the bough of a gnarled elm tree, but it was so full of kindness that there was great comfort and support in it. how would mother receive them? lilac hardly dared to look up when they got near the gate and saw her standing there, and hardly dared to believe her own ears when she heard her speak. for what she said was: "run in, child, and get yer tea. i've put it by." she stayed a long time at the gate talking to uncle joshua, and lilac, watching them through the window, felt little doubt that they were talking of her. when her mother came in, and was quite kind and gentle, and behaved just as usual, she felt still more sure that it was uncle joshua's wonderful wisdom that had done it all. but if she could have heard the conversation she would have been surprised, for they dwelt entirely on the cobbler's rheumatics and the chances of rain, and said no word of either lilac or her fringe. mrs white had had time to repent of her harsh words, and when the hours went by, and lilac did not come back, she had pictured her receiving comfort and encouragement from the greenways--the very people she wished her to avoid. now she had driven her to them. "i could bite my tongue out for talking so foolish," she said to herself as she ran out to the gate, over and over again. when at last she saw the two well-known figures approaching, she could only just restrain herself from rushing out to meet lilac and covering her with kisses. the relief was almost too great to bear. in her own home, therefore, lilac heard nothing further on the unlucky subject. but this was not by any means the case in the village, where nothing was too small to be important. the fact of the widow white's lilac wearing a fringe was quite enough to talk of, and more than enough to stare at, for it was something new. unfortunately everyone knew lilac, and lilac knew everyone, so there was no escape. her acquaintances would draw up in front of her and gaze steadily for an instant, after which the same remarks always came: "my! you have altered yerself. i shouldn't never have known you, i do declare! and so you didn't have yer picter done after all?" lilac wished she could hide somewhere until her hair had grown long again. and worst of all, when mrs leigh next saw her in school, she looked quite startled and said: "i'm so sorry you've cut your hair, lilac; it looked much nicer before." it was the same thing over and over again, no one approved the change but agnetta, and lilac's faith in her cousin was by this time a little bit shaken. she should not be so ready, she thought, the next time to believe that agnetta must know best. one drop of comfort in all this was that the artist gentleman no longer sat painting at the bottom of the hill. he had packed up all his canvases and brushes and gone off to the station, so that lilac saw him no more. she was very glad of this, for she felt that it would have been almost impossible to pass him every day and to see his keen disapproving glance fixed upon her. slowly the picture that was to have been painted was forgotten, and lilac white's fringe became a thing of custom. there were more important matters near at hand; may day was approaching, an event of interest and excitement to both young and old. chapter four. who will be queen? "when daisies pied and violets blue and lady-smocks all silver-white and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight."--_shakespeare_. on the top of the ridge of hills which rose behind mrs white's cottage there was a great beech wood, which could be reached in two ways. one was by following a rough stony road which got gradually steeper and was terribly hard for both man and beast, and the other was to take a chalky track which led straight across the rounded shoulder of the downs. this last was considerably shorter, and by active people was always preferred to the road, although in summer it was glaring and unshaded. but the scramble was soon over, and in the deep quiet shelter of the woods it was cool on the hottest day, for the trees held their leaves so thickly over your head that it was better than any roof. the sun could not get through to scorch or dazzle, but it lit up the flickering sprays on the low boughs, so that looking through them you saw a silvery shimmering dance always going on. in the valley there had not perhaps been a breath of air, but up here a little ruffling breeze had its home, and was ready to fan you gently and hospitably directly you arrived. under your feet a red-and-brown carpet of last year's leaves was spread, stirred now and then with sudden mysterious rustlings as the small wild creatures darted away at the sound of your step. these and the birds shared the woods in almost complete solitude, disturbed now and again by the woodcutters, or boys from the village. but there was one day in the year when this quiet kingdom was strangely invaded, when its inhabitants fled to their most retired corners and peeped out with terrified eyes upon a very altered scene--and this was the first of may. then everything was changed for a little while. instead of the notes of the birds there were human voices calling to each other, laughing, singing, shouting, and the music of a band; instead of great silent spaces, there were many brightly-coloured figures which ran and danced. in the midst, where a clearing had been made and the oldest trees stood solemnly round, there appeared the slim form of a maypole decked with gay ribbons; near it a throne covered with hawthorn boughs, on which, dressed in white with garland and sceptre, was seated the queen of the may. there with great ceremony she was crowned by her court, and afterwards led the dance round the maypole. songs and feasting followed until the sun went down, and then the gay company marched away to the sounds of "god save the queen." quietness reigned in the woods again, and once more the wild creatures which lived there could roam and fly at their pleasure until next may day. now this holiday, which was fast approaching again, was not only looked forward to with interest and excitement by the children, but was an event of importance to everyone in the village. the very oldest made shift somehow to get up to the woods and join in the rejoicing, and the most careworn and sorrowful managed to struggle out of their gloom for that one day, and to leave behind the dulness of their daily toil. many, coming from distant parts of the parish, met for the only time throughout the year in the woods on may day, and found the keenest pleasure in comparing the growth of their children, and talking of their neighbours' affairs. it was a source of pride and satisfaction, too, to fathers as well as mothers, to point out some child in the procession so bedecked with flowers that the real johnnie was hardly visible, and say with a grin of delight: "why, it's our johnnie, i do declare! shouldn't never a known him." as the time came round again, therefore, it was more or less in everyone's mind in some way. for one thing: would it be fine? that affected everyone's comfort, for a cold wet may day could be nothing but a miserable failure. mr dimbleby at the shop had his own anxieties, for it was his business to provide tea, bread and butter, and cake for the whole assembly, and to get it all up to the top of the hill--no small matter. to do this it was necessary to keep his mind steadily fixed on may day for a whole week beforehand, and not to allow it to relax for an instant. the drum-and-fife band, who felt themselves the pride and ornament of the occasion, had to practise new tunes and polish up "god save the queen" to a great pitch of perfection, and the children thought themselves busier than anyone. not only had they to wonder who would be queen, but they must meet in the vicarage garden and learn how to dance round the maypole, singing at the same time. not only must they present themselves at all sorts of odd hours to have some wonderful costume "tried on" by miss ellen and miss alice, but above all they had to gather the flowers for the wreaths and garlands. sometimes, if the season were cold and backward, it was difficult to get enough; but this year, as lilac had noticed with delight, it had been so bright and mild that the meadows were thick with blossoms and there was no fear of any scarcity. she was always amongst the children chosen "to gather"; and there was more in this office than might at first appear, for there were good gatherers and bad gatherers. it might be done carelessly and in a half-hearted manner, or with full attention and earnest effort, and these results were evident when each child brought her own collection to the school room on may morning. the contents of the baskets were very different, for some showed plainly that as little trouble as possible had been taken. these flowers were picked anyhow, with short stalks or long stalks, in bud or too fully blown, faded or fresh, just as they happened to grow and could be most easily got. others, again, you could see at the first glance, had been gathered with care and thought, the finest specimens chosen just at the right stage of blossoming, and tied in neat bunches with the stalks all of one length. you might be sure that the flowers in these baskets were quite as good at the bottom as those on the top. now, lilac white was a gatherer on whom you might depend, and the ladies at the rectory who made the wreaths, and dressed the queen, and arranged the festivities, considered her their best support in the matter of flowers. for, by reason of having had her eye upon them for weeks beforehand, she knew every spring where the finest grew, whether they were early or late, and whether they would be ready for the great occasion. when they had to be gathered she spared no trouble, but would get up at any hour so that they might be picked before the sun scorched them, walk any distance or climb the steepest hills to get the very finest possible. she was always appealed to when any question arose about the flowers. "we must ask lilac white whether the king-cups are out," miss ellen would say; and lilac was always able to tell. she filled, therefore, a very pleasant and important post at these times, and took great pride in it; but her cousin agnetta looked at this part of the affair differently. to her there was neither pleasure nor profit in "mucking" about in the damp fields, as she said, getting her feet wet, and spoiling her frock in stooping about after the flowers. she wished mrs leigh would let them wear artificials, which were quite as pretty to look at, and did not fade or get messy, and were no bother at all. you could wear 'em time after time. agnetta felt quite sure she should be queen this year, and although she did not like the trouble beforehand she looked forward to the event itself very much indeed. there were many agreeable things about it: the white dress, the crown, the crowd of people looking on, and the fact of being first amongst her companions. it was a little vexing that lilac was quicker to learn the steps of the dance miss ellen was teaching them, and could sing the may-day song better than she could. agnetta always sang out of tune, and tumbled over her own feet in the dance; but she consoled herself by remembering how well she should look as queen dressed all in white, with her red cheeks and frizzy black hair. meanwhile the queen was not yet chosen, but would be voted for in the school a week beforehand. who would be chosen? it was a question which occupied a good many minds just then, and amongst them one which was not supposed to trouble itself about such matters, or to have anything to do with merry-making. this was peter greenways' mind. he was so dull and silent, and worked so very hard all the year, that it was an ever fresh surprise to see him appear with the rest on may day, and came natural to say, "what, you here, peter!" although he had never missed a single occasion. he expressed no pleasure, and showed no outward sign of enjoyment; but he always went, to the great vexation of his sisters, who were heartily ashamed of him. his face was red, his figure was loutish--it was impossible to smarten him up or make him look like other folks; he continued, in spite of all their efforts, to be just plain peter--"dreadful vulgar" in his appearance. and the worst of it was, that you could not overlook him in the crowd. this might have been the case if he had been allowed to wear his ordinary working-clothes, but peter in his "best" was an object which seemed to stand out from all others, and to be present wherever the eye turned. on the day which was to decide the important question, peter had been ploughing in a part of his father's land called the high field. all the rest lay level on the plain round about the farm, but this one field was on the shoulder of the downs, so that from it you looked far over the distant valley, with its little clusters of villages dotted here and there. immediately below was the grey church of danecross, the rectory, the school-house, and a group of cottages all nestling sociably together; farther on, orchards farm peeped out from amongst the trees, which were still white with blossom, and above all this came the cold serious outline of the chalk hills, broken here and there by the beech woods. peter never felt so happy as when he was looking at this from the high field, with his dinner in his pocket and the prospect of a long day's work before him. it was so far away from all that disturbed and worried; no one to scold, no one to call him clumsy, no one to look angrily at him, no sounds of dispute. only the voice of the wind, which blew so freshly up here and seemed to cheer him on, and the song of the larks high above his head, and for companions his good beasts with no reproof in their patient eyes, but only obedience and kindness. peter was master in the high field. no one could do a better day's work or drive a straighter furrow, and he was proud of it, and proud of his team--three iron-greys, with white manes and tails, called "pleasant", "old pleasant", and "young pleasant." yet though he did his ploughing well, it by no means occupied all his mind. as he trudged backwards and forwards with bent head, and hands grasping the handles, with now and then a shout to his horses, and now and then a pause for rest, his thoughts were free as the wind, flying about to an sorts of subjects. for this silent peter had always something to wonder about. he never asked questions now as he had done at school: he had been laughed at so much then, that he knew well enough by this time that he only wondered so much because he was more stupid than other folks; it must be so, for the most common things which he saw every day, and which wise people took as a matter of course, were enough to puzzle him and fill his mind with wonder. the stars, the flowers, the sunset, the sound of the wind, the very pebbles turned up by the ploughshare, gave him strange feelings which he did not understand and which he carefully hid. they would have been explained, he knew, if he had expressed them, by the sentence, "peter's not all there"; and he was sometimes quite inclined to think that this was really the case. to-day his thoughts had been fixed on the approaching holiday, and on all the delights of the past one. it was to him a most beautiful and even solemn occasion, and he could recall the very smallest detail of it from year to year: even the uncertain squeaks and flourishes of the drum and fife band were something to be remembered with pleasure. as his eye rested on the school-house, a small red dot in the distance, he wondered if they had settled on the queen yet, and whether agnetta would be chosen. "she'll be rarely vexed if she ain't," he thought seriously. so the day went by, and after five o'clock had sounded from the church tower peter and his beasts left off work and went leisurely down the hill towards home; two of the pleasants in front with their harness clanking and flapping loosely about them, and their master following, seated sideways on the back of the third. peter had done a long day's work and was hungry, but he did not go into the house till he had seen his horses attended to by ben pinhorn, who was in the yard when they arrived. even after this he was further delayed, for as he was crossing the lane which separated the farm buildings from the house an ugly cat ran to meet him, rubbed against his legs, and mewed. "jump, then, tib," said peter encouragingly; and tib jumped, arriving with outspread claws on the front of his waistcoat and thence to his shoulder. thus accompanied he went to the kitchen window and tapped softly, which signal brought molly the servant girl with a saucer of skim milk. "there's your supper, tib," said peter as he set it on the ground, and stood looking heavily down at the cat till she had lapped up the last drop. and in this there was reason; for sober the sheepdog, lying near, had his eye on the saucer, and only waited for tib to be undefended to advance and finish the milk himself. being now quite ready for his own refreshment peter made his way through the back kitchen into the general living-room of the family, which also, much to bella's disgust, had the appearance of a kitchen. it was large and comfortable, with three windows in it, looking across the garden to the orchard, but, alas! it had a great fireplace and oven, where cooking often went on, and an odious high settle sticking out from one corner of the chimney. this was enough to deprive it of all gentility, without mentioning the long deal table at which in former times the farmer had been used to dine with his servants. they were banished now to the back kitchen, but this was the only reform bella and gusta had been able to make. nothing would induce their father to sit in the parlour, where there was a complete set of velvet-covered chairs, a sofa, a piano, a photograph-book, and a great number of anti-macassars and mats. all these elegances were not enough to make him give up his warm corner in the settle, where he could stretch out his legs at his ease and smoke his pipe. mrs greenways herself, though she was proud of her parlour, secretly preferred the kitchen, as being more handy and comfortable, so that except on great occasions the parlour was left in chilly loneliness. when peter entered there were only his mother and bella in the room. the latter stood at the table with a puzzled frown on her brow, and a large pair of scissors in her hand; before her were spread paper patterns, fashion-books, and some pieces of black velveteen, which she was eyeing doubtfully, and, placing in different ways so that it might be cut to the best advantage. bella was considered a fine young woman. she had a large frame like all the greenways, and nature had given her a waist in proportion to it. she had, however, fought against nature and conquered, for her figure now resembled an hour-glass--very wide at the top, and suddenly very small in the middle. like agnetta she had a great deal of colour, frizzy black hair, and a good-natured expression, but her face was just now clouded by some evident vexation. "lor', bella," said her mother, turning round from the hearth, "put away them fal-lals--do. here's peter wanting his tea, and your father'll be along from market directly." bella did not answer, partly because her mouth was full of pins, and mrs greenways continued: "you might hurry and get the tea laid just for once. i'm clean tired out." "where's molly?" muttered bella indistinctly. "molly indeed!" exclaimed her mother impatiently. "it's molly here and molly there. one 'ud think she had a hundred legs and arms for all you think she can do. molly's scrubbing out the dairy, which she ought to a done this morning." "it won't run to it after all!" exclaimed bella, dashing her scissors down on the table; "not by a good quarter of a yard." "an' you've been and wasted pretty nigh all the afternoon over it," said mrs greenways. "i do wish gusta wouldn't send you them patterns, that i do." "i've cut up the skirt of my velveteen trying to fashion it," said bella, looking mournfully at the plate in myra's journal, "so now i'm ever so much worse off than i was afore. lor', peter!" she added, as her eye fell on her brother, "do go and take off that horrid gaberdine and them boots. you look for all the world like ben pinhorn, there ain't a pin to choose between you." "you oughtn't to speak so sharp," said her mother, as peter slouched out of the room. "i know what it is to feel spent like that after a day's work. you just come in and fling down where you are and as you are, boots or no boots." as she spoke the rattle of wheels was heard outside, and then the click of a gate. "there now!" she exclaimed, starting up; "there _is_ yer father. back already, and a fine taking he'll be in to see all this muss about and no tea ready. he's short enough always when he's bin to market, without anything extry to vex him." she swept bella's scraps, patterns, and books unceremoniously into a heap, and directly afterwards the tramp of heavy feet sounded in the passage, and the farmer entered. his first glance as he threw himself on the settle was at the table, where bella was hurriedly clearing away her confused mass of working materials. "be off with all that rubbish and let's have tea," he said crossly. "why can't it be ready when i come in?" "you're a bit earlier than usual, richard," said his wife; "but you'll have it in no time now. the kettle's on the boil." she made anxious signs to bella to quicken her movements, for she saw that the farmer was in a bad humour. things had not gone well at market. "and what did you see at lenham?" she asked, as she began to put the cups and saucers on the table. "nawthing," answered mr greenways, staring at the fire. "what did you hear then?" persisted his wife. "nawthing," was the answer again. mother and daughter exchanged meaning looks. the farmer jerked his head impatiently round. "what i want to see is summat to eat, and what i want to hear is no more questions till i've got it. so there!" he thrust out his legs, pushed his hands deep down in his pockets, and with his chin sunk on his breast sat there a picture of moody discontent. after a good deal of clatter and bustle, and calls for molly, the tea was ready at last--a substantial meal, but somewhat untidily served--and peter, having changed the offensive gaberdine for a shiny black cloth coat, having joined them, the party sat down. it was a very silent one, for no one dared to address another remark to the farmer until he had satisfied his appetite, which took some time. at last, however, as he handed his cup to his wife to be refilled, he asked: "who made the butter this week?" "why, molly, as always makes it," answered mrs greenways. "wasn't it good. i thought it looked beautiful." "well, all i know is," said the farmer moodily, "that benson told me to-day that if this lot was like the last he wouldn't take no more." "lor', richard, you don't really mean it!" said mrs greenways, setting down the teapot with a thump. "whatever shall we do if benson won't take the butter?" "you can't expect him to take it if it ain't good," answered the farmer. "i don't blame him; he's got to sell it again." "it's that there good-for-nothing molly," said mrs greenways. "i'm always after her about the dairy, yet if my head's turned a minute she'll forget to scald her pans, and that gives the butter a sour taste." "all i know is, it's a hard thing, that with good pasture and good cows, and three women indoors, the butter can't be made so as it's fit to sell," said mr greenways, hitting the table with his fist. "what's the use of bella and agnetta, i should like to know?" bella tossed her head and smiled. "lor', pa, how you talk!" she said mincingly. "they've never been taught nothing of such things," said mrs greenways; "and besides, agnetta's got her schooling yet awhile." "fancy me," said bella with a giggle, "making the butter with my sleeves tucked up like molly. i hope i'm above that sort of thing. i didn't go to lenham finishing school to _learn_ that." "i can't find out what it was you did learn there," growled her father, "except to look down on everything useful. i'll not have agnetta sent there, i know. not if i had the money, i wouldn't. it's bad enough to have bad seasons and poor crops to do with out-of-doors, without having a set of dressed-up lazy hussies in the house, who mar more than they make. where to turn for money i don't know, and there's going on for three years' rent owing to mr leigh." he got up as he spoke and left the room, followed by peter. bella continued her tea placidly. father was always cross on market days, and it did not impress her in the least to be called lazy; she was far more interested in the fate of her velveteen dress than in the quality of the butter. but this was not the case with mrs greenways. to hear that benson had threatened not to take the butter was a real as well as a new trouble, and alarmed her greatly. the rent owing and the failing crops were such a very old story that she had ceased to heed it much, but what would happen if the butter was not sold? the dairy was one of their largest sources of profit, and, as the farmer had said, the pasture was good and the cows were good. there was no fault out-of-doors. whose fault was it? molly's without doubt. "but then," reflected mrs greenways, "she have got a sight to do, and you can't hurry butter; you must have care and time." she sighed as she glanced at bella's strong capable form. perhaps it would have been better after all, as mrs white had so often said, to bring up her girls to understand household matters, instead of being stylishly idle. "i did it for their good," thought poor mrs greenways; "and anyhow, it's too late to alter 'em now. they'd no more take to it than ducks to flying." she was startled out of these reflections by the sudden entrance of agnetta, who burst into the room with a hot excited face, and flung her bag of books into a corner. "well," said bella, looking calmly at her, "i s'pose you're to be queen, ain't you?" "no!" exclaimed agnetta angrily, "i ain't queen; and it's a shame, so it is." "why, whoever is it, then?" asked bella, open-mouthed. "they've been and chosen lilac white; sneaking little thing!" said agnetta. "well, now, surely, i am surprised," said her mother. "i made sure they'd choose you, agnetta; being the oldest, and the best lookin', and all. i do call it hard." "it's too bad," continued agnetta, thus encouraged; "after i've been such a friend to her, and helped her cut her hair. it's ungrateful. she might have told me." "why, i don't suppose she knew it, did she?" said bella. "she went all on pretending she wanted me queen," said agnetta, "as innocent as you please. and she must a known there were a lot meant to vote for her. i call it mean." "never you mind, agnetta," said her mother soothingly; "come and get yer tea, and here's a pot of strawberry jam as you're fond of. she'll never make half such a good queen as you, and i dessay you'll look every bit as fine now, when you're dressed." "i don't want no strawberry jam," said agnetta sullenly, kicking at the leg of the table. "mercy me!" said poor mrs greenways with a sigh, "everything do seem to go crossways today." chapter five. may day. "but i must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, for i'm to be queen of the may, mother, i'm to be queen of the may!" --_tennyson_. agnetta had been quite wrong in saying that lilac had any idea of being queen. at the school that afternoon, when amidst breathless silence the mistress had counted up the votes and said: "lilac white is chosen queen", it had been such a surprise to her that she had stood as though in a dream. her companions nudged her on either side. "it's you that's queen," they whispered; and at length she awoke to the wonderful fact that it was not agnetta or anyone else who had the most votes, but she herself, lilac white. she was queen! looking round, still half-puzzled to believe such a wonderful thing, she saw a great many pleased faces, and heard mrs leigh say: "i think you have chosen very well, and i am glad lilac will be queen this year." it was, then, really true. "how pleased mother'll be!" was her first thought; but her second was not so pleasant, for her eye fell on agnetta. it was the only sullen face there; disappointment and vexation were written upon it, and there was no answering glance of sympathy from the downcast eyes. lilac was an impulsive child, and affection for her friend made her forget everything else for the moment. she left her place, went up to mrs leigh, who was talking to the schoolmistress, and held one arm out straight in front of her. "well, lilac," said mrs leigh kindly, "what is it?" "please, ma'am," said lilac, dropping a curtsy, "if they don't mind, i'd rather agnetta greenways was queen." "oh, that's quite out of the question," said mrs leigh decidedly; "when the queen's been once chosen it can't be altered. why, i should have thought you would have been pleased." lilac hung her head, and went back to her place rather abashed. she was pleased, and she did not like mrs leigh to think she did not care. her whole heart was full of delight at receiving such an honour, but at the same time it was hard for agnetta, who had so set her mind on being queen. if only she could be queen too! that being impossible, lilac had done her best in offering to give it up, and it was disappointing to find that her friend, far from being grateful, was cross and sulky with her and quite out of temper. when the other children crowded round lilac with pleased faces agnetta held back, and had not one kind word to say, but refusing an advances flung herself away from her companions and rushed home full of wrath. lilac looked after her wistfully; it hurt her to think that agnetta could behave so. "after all," she said to herself, "i couldn't help them choosing me, and i did offer to give it up." everyone else was glad that she was queen, and ready with a smile and a nod when they met her. if agnetta had only been pleased too lilac's happiness would have been perfect, but that was just the one thing wanting. however, even with this drawback there was a great deal of pleasure to look forward to, and when she went to the rectory to have the white dress fitted on she was almost as excited as though it was really a royal robe. "it's a pity about the fringe, lilac," said miss ellen as she pinned and arranged the long train; "it's not nearly so becoming." then seeing the excited face suddenly downcast she added: "never mind; i dare say the crown will partly hide it." her arrangements finished, she called her sister, and they both surveyed lilac gravely, who, a little abashed by such business-like observation, stood before them shyly in her straight white gown, with the train fastened on her shoulders. "i think she'll do very nicely," said miss alice, "when she gets the flowers on. they make all the difference. what will she wear?" miss ellen's opinion was decided on that point. "it ought to be white lilac, and plenty of it," she said, "nothing would suit the queen so well." then came a difficulty: there was none nearer than cuddingham. could it be got in time? lilac was doubtful, for cuddingham was a long way off, but she promised to do her best, and miss ellen's last words to her were: "bring moon daisies if you can't get it, but remember i should like white lilac much the best." lilac herself thought the moon daisies would be prettier, with their bright yellow middles; but miss ellen's word was law, and as she had set her heart on white lilac, some way of going to cuddingham must be found since it was too far to walk. there were only two days now to the great event, and during them lilac did her best to make her wants known everywhere. in vain, however. no one was going to or coming from that place; always the same disappointing answers: "cuddingham! no, thank goodness; i was there last week. i don't want to see that hill again yet a while." or, "well now, if i'd known yesterday i might a suited you." and so on. lilac began to despair. she thought of orchards farm, but she had not courage to ask any favour there while agnetta was so vexed with her. even uncle joshua, who had always helped her at need, had nothing to suggest now, and did not even seem to think it of much importance. he dropped in to see mrs white on the evening before may day, and with her usual faith in him lilac at once began to place her difficulty before him. but for once he was not ready to listen, and she was obliged to wait impatiently while he carried on a long conversation with her mother. they had a great deal to talk of, and it was most uninteresting to lilac, for it was all about things of the past in which she had had no share. she might have liked it at another time, but just now she was full of the present, and she became more and more impatient as uncle joshua went on. he had to call back the first celebration of may day which he "minded", and the smallest event connected with it; and when he had done mrs white took up the tale, dwelling specially on jem's musical talent, and how he had been the very soul of the drum-and-fife band. "they're all at sixes and sevens now, to my thinking," she said. "jem, he kep' 'em together and made 'em do their best." "aye, that's where it is," said the cobbler with an approving nod; "that's what we've all on us got to do." his eye rested as he spoke on lilac's eager face, and seizing the opportunity of a pause she rushed in with what she had so much on her mind: "oh, uncle joshua! to-morrow's the day, and i can't get no white lilac for miss ellen to make my garland with. what shall i do?" but joshua was in a moralising mood, and though lilac's question gave him another subject to discourse on, he was more bent on hearing himself talk than in getting over her difficulty. he raised one finger and began to speak slowly, and when mrs white saw that, she paused with the kettle in her hand and stood quite still to listen. joshua was going to say something "good." "it don't matter a bit," he said, "what you make your garland of. flowers is all perishin' things and they'll be dead next day, and wear what you will, they won't make you into a real queen. but there's things as will always make folks bow down when they see 'em, may day or no may day, and them's the things you ought to seek for, early and late till you find 'em. you take a lot of pains to get flowers to deck your outsides, but you don't care much for the plants i'm thinking of; you leave 'em to chance, and so sometimes they're choked out by the weeds. an' yet they're worth takin' trouble for, and if you once get 'em to take root and grow they're fit to crown the finest queen as ever was; and they won't die either, but the more you use 'em the fresher and sweeter they'll be. there's love now; you can't understand anyone, not the smallest child, without that. there's truth; you can't do anything with folks unless they trust you. there's obedience; you can't rule till you know how to serve. there's three plants for you, and there's a whole lot more, but that's enough for you to bear in mind, and i must be going along." joshua departed much satisfied with his eloquence, leaving mrs white equally impressed. "lor'!" she exclaimed, "there's a gifted man. it's every bit as good as being in church to hear him. and i hope, lilac, as how you'll lay it to heart and mind it when you get to be a woman." but lilac did not feel in the least inclined to lay it to heart. she was vexed with uncle joshua, who had not been the least help in her perplexity; for once he had failed her, and she was glad he had gone away so that she could think over a plan for to-morrow. it was of no use evidently to reckon on white lilac any longer, the only thing to be done now was to get up very early the next morning and pick the best moon daisies she could find for miss ellen. this determination was so strong within her when she fell asleep, that she woke with a sudden start next morning as the daylight was just creeping through her lattice. had she overslept herself? no, it was beautifully early, it must be an hour at least before her usual time. she dressed herself quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb her mother in the next room, and then pushing open her tiny window gave an anxious look at the weather. would it be fine? at present a thin misty grey veil was spread over everything, but she could see the village below, which looked fast, fast asleep, with no smoke from its chimneys and nothing stirring. there was such a stillness everywhere that it seemed wrong to make a noise, as though you were in church. and the birds felt it too, for they twittered in a subdued manner, keeping back their full burst of song to greet someone who would come presently. lilac knew who that was. she knew as well as the birds that very soon the sun would thrust away the misty veil and show his beaming face to the valley. it would be fine. it was may day, and she was queen! she drew a deep breath of delight, went downstairs on tiptoe, found a basket and a knife, tied on her bonnet, and unlatched the door; but there she stopped short, checked on the threshold by a sight so surprising that for a moment she could not move. for at her feet, on the doorstep, lying there purely white as though it had fallen from the clouds, was a great mass of white lilac. there were branches and branches of it, so that the air was filled with its gentle delicate scent, and it was so fresh that all its leaves were moist with dew. someone had been up earlier even than herself. the question was--who? uncle joshua of course; he had not failed after all, though how even such a very clever man could have got to cuddingham and back since last night was more than lilac could tell. that did not matter. there it was, and what a fine lot of it! "he must have brought away nigh a whole bush," she said to herself. "miss ellen will be rare and pleased, surely." she gathered up the sweet-smelling boughs at last, and put them into one of her mother's washing-baskets. there was no need to pick moon daisies now, and as she swept and dusted the room and lit the fire she gave many looks of admiration at her treasure, and many grateful thoughts to uncle joshua. mrs white also had no doubt that he had managed it somehow; and she was so moved by the fact of his kindness, and by lilac being queen, and by a hundred past memories, that her usual composure left her, and she threw her apron over her head and had a good cry. "there!" she said when it was over, "i can't think what makes me so silly. but jem he would a been proud to have seen you--he always liked the laylocks." but now came the question as to how it was to be carried down the hill to the school room. lilac could not lift the great basket, and it was at last found best to pile up the branches in her long white pinafore, which she held by the two corners. when all was ready she looked seriously across the fragrant burden, which reached up to her chin, and said: "you'll be sure and be up there in time, won't you, mother, or you won't see me crowned?" "no fear," said mrs white as she held the gate open. "mind and walk steady or you'll drop some, and you can't pick it up if you do." lilac nodded. she was almost too excited to speak. if it felt like this to be queen of the may, she wondered what it must be like to be a real queen! it was a glorious morning. the mist had gone, the sun had come, and all the birds were singing their best tunes to welcome him. to lilac they sounded more than usually gay, as though they were telling each other all sorts of pleasant things. "the sun is here--it is may day--lilac is queen." all the trees too, as they bent in the breeze, seemed to talk together with busy murmurs and whisperings: they tossed their heads and threw up their hands as if in surprise at some news, and then bowed low and gracefully before her, for what they had heard was--"lilac white is queen!" her heart danced so to listen to them that it was quite difficult to keep her feet to a measured step, but when she reached the turn of the hill something made her feel that she must look back. she turned slowly round. there was mother waving her hand at the gate. when they next met it would be up in the woods, and lilac would wear crown and garland. she could not wave her hand or even nod in return, but she made a sort of little curtsy and went on her way. at the bottom of the hill she met mrs wishing, who, bent nearly double by a heavy bundle, was crawling up from the village. "well, you look happy anyhow, lilac white," she said mournfully. "and you haven't forgotten to bring enough flowers with you either." "i can't stop," said lilac, "i've got to go and put these on father first. it's so far for mother to come." she gave a movement of her chin towards the primrose wreath which mrs white had added at the last moment to the heap of flowers. "ah! well," sighed mrs wishing, "in the midst of life we are in death. i haven't much heart for junketing myself, but i shall be up yonder this afternoon if i'm spared." lilac passed quickly on, nodding and smiling in return to the greetings which met her. at the door of the shop stood mr dimbleby, his face heavier than usual with importance, and a little farther on she saw her uncle greenways' wagon and team waiting in charge of ben, who leant lazily against one of the horses. mr greenways always lent a wagon on may day so that the very old people and small children might drive up the worst part of the hill. certainly it was there in plenty of time, for it would not be wanted till the afternoon; but it is always well not to be hurried on such occasions, and many of the people had to walk from outlying hamlets. lilac laid her primroses on her father's grave, and turned back towards the school-house just as the clock struck twelve. there were now many other little figures hurrying in the same direction with businesslike step, and all carrying flowers. primroses, daisies, buttercups, cowslips, and honeysuckle were to be seen, but there was nothing half so beautiful as the heap of white lilac. agnetta saw it as she passed into the school room, and gave an astonished stare and a sniff of displeasure: she had only brought a basket of small daisies, and had taken no trouble about them, so that her offering was not noticed or praised at all. then lilac advanced, and dropping her little curtsy stood silently in front of miss ellen and miss alice holding out her pinafore to its widest extent. there were exclamations of admiration and surprise from everyone, and agnetta stamped her foot with vexation to hear them. "it's _exquisite_!" said miss ellen at last. "where did you get such a beautiful lot of it?" "please, ma'am, i don't know," said lilac. "i found it on the doorstep." agnetta's wrath grew higher every moment. no one paid her any attention, and here was her insignificant cousin lilac the centre of everyone's interest. she overheard a whisper of miss alice's: "she'll make far the loveliest queen we've ever had." what could it be they admired in lilac? agnetta stood with a pout on her lips, idle, while all round the busy work and chatter went on. "now, agnetta," said miss ellen, bustling up to her, "there's plenty to do. get me some twine and some wire, and if you're very careful you may help me with the queen's sceptre." it was a hateful office, but there was no help for it, and agnetta had to humble herself in the queen's service for the rest of the morning. to kneel on the floor, pick off small sprays from the bunches of lilac, and hand them up to miss ellen as she wove them into garland and sceptre. while she did it her heart was hot within her, and she felt that she hated her cousin. the work went on quickly but very silently inside the schoolroom. there was no time to talk, for the masses of flowers which covered table, benches, and floor had all to be changed into wreaths and garlands before one o'clock, for the queen and her court. outside it was not so quiet. an eager group had gathered there long ago, composed of the drum-and-fife band, which broke out now and then into fragments of tunes, the boy with the maypole on his shoulder, and bearers of sundry bright flags and banners. to these the time seemed endless, and they did their best to shorten it by jokes and laughter; it was only the close neighbourhood of the schoolmaster which prevented the boldest from climbing up to the high window and hanging on by his hands to see how matters were going on within. but at last the latch clicked, the door opened wide: there stood the smiling little white queen with her gaily dressed court crowding at her back. there was a murmur of admiration, and the band, gazing open-mouthed, almost forgot to strike up "god save the queen." for there was something different about this queen to any they had seen before. she was so delicately white, so like a flower herself, that looking out from the blossoms which surrounded her she might have been the spirit of a lilac bush suddenly made visible. the white lilac covered her dress in delicate sprays, it bordered the edge of her long train, it twined up the tall sceptre in her hand, it was woven into the crown which was carried after her. at present the queen's head was bare, for she would not be crowned till she reached her throne in the woods. then the procession began its march, band playing, banners fluttering bravely in the wind, through the village first, so that all those who could not get up the hill might come to their doors and windows to admire. then leaving the highroad it came to the steep ascent, and here the wind blowing more freshly almost caught away the queen's train from the grasp of her two little pages. the band, in spite of gallant struggles, became short of breath, so that the music was wild and uncertain; and the smaller courtiers straggled behind unable to keep up with the rest. it made its way, however, notwithstanding these difficulties, and from the top of the hill where crowds of people had now gathered it was watched by eager and interested eyes. first it looked in the distance like a struggling piece of patchwork on the hillside, then it took shape and they could make out the maypole and the flags, then, nearer still, the sounds of the three tunes which the band played over and over again were wafted to their ears, and at last the small white figure of the queen herself could plainly be distinguished from the rest. it did not take long after this to reach level ground, and as the procession moved along with recovered breath and dignity to the music of "god save the queen", it was followed by admiring remarks from all sides: "see my johnnie! him in the pink cap. bless his 'art, how fine he looks!" or "there's polly ann with the wreath of daisies!" "well now," said mrs pinhorn, "i will say lilac looks as peart and neat as a little bit of waxworks." "she wants colour, to my thinking," said mrs greenways, to whom this was addressed. the greenways stood a little aloof from the general crowd, dressed with great elegance. bella rather looked down on the whole affair. "it's so mixed," she said; "but we have to go, because papa don't wish to offend mr leigh." "i call that a real pretty sight," said joshua snell, turning to his neighbour, who happened to be peter greenways. "they've dressed her up very fitting in all them lilac blooms. but wherever did they get such a sight of 'em?" peter had been forced into a shiny black suit of clothes, a stiff collar, and a bright blue necktie, that he might not disgrace the stylish appearance of his mother and sisters. in this attire he felt even less at his ease than usual, and his arms hung before him as helplessly as those of a stuffed figure. perhaps it was owing to this state of discomfort that he made no other answer to joshua's remark than a nervous grin. "i don't see the widder white anywheres," continued joshua, looking round; "but there's such a throng one can't tell who's who." lilac, too, had been looking in vain for her mother amongst the groups of people she had passed through, and as she took her seat on the hawthorn-covered throne she gazed wistfully to right and left. no, mother was not there. plenty of well-known faces, but not the one she wanted most to see. "she _promised_ to be in time," she said to herself, "and now she'll miss the crowning." it was a dreadful pity, for lilac could only be queen once in her life, and it seemed to take away the best part of the pleasure for mother not to be there. she had been looking forward to it for so long. what could have kept her away? the queen's eyes filled with tears of disappointment, and through them the form of peter greenways seemed to loom unnaturally large, his face redder than ever above his blue neckcloth, his mouth and eyes wide open. lilac checked her tears and remembered her exalted position. she must not cry now; but directly the crowning and the dance were over she resolved to search for her mother, and if she were not there to go home and see what had prevented her coming. this determination enabled her to bear her honours with becoming dignity, and to put aside her private anxiety for the time like other royal personages. she danced round the maypole with her court, and led the may-day song as gaily as if her pleasure had been quite perfect. but it was not; for all the while she was wondering what could possibly have become of her mother. at last, her public duties over, the queen found herself at liberty. the crowd had dispersed now, and was broken up into little knots of people chatting together and waiting for the next excitement--tea-time. through these lilac passed with always the same question: "have you seen mother?" sometimes in the distance she fancied she saw a shawl of a pattern she knew well, but having pursued it, it turned out to belong to someone quite different. she had just made up her mind to go home, when one of her companions ran up to her with an excited face: "come along," she cried; "they're just agoin' to start the races." lilac hesitated. "i can't," she said; "i've got to go and look after mother." "well, it'll be on your way," said the other; "and you needn't stop no longer nor you like. come along." she seized lilac's arm and they ran on together to the flat piece of ground on the edge of the wood, where the races were to take place. the steep side of the down descended abruptly from this, and lilac knew that by taking that way, which was quite an easy one to her active feet, she could very quickly reach home. so she stayed to look first at one race and then at another, and they all proved so amusing that the more she saw the more she wanted to see, though she still said to herself: "i'll go after this one." she was laughing at the struggling efforts of the boys in a sack race, when suddenly, amidst the noise of cheers and shouting which surrounded her, she heard her own name spoken in an urgent entreating voice: "lilac--lilac white!" "who is it wants me!" she said, starting up and trying to force her way through the crowd. "i'm here; what is it?" the people stood back to let her pass. "it's mrs leigh wants you," said a woman. "she's standing back yonder." it was strange to see mrs leigh's beaming face look so grave and troubled, and it gave lilac a sense of fear when she reached her. "is mother here, ma'am?" was her first question. "does she want me, please?" mrs leigh did not answer quite at once, then she said very seriously: "your mother is at home, lilac. you must go with me at once. she is ill." self-reproach darted through lilac's heart. why had she put off going home? but she must do the best she could now, and she said at once: "hadn't i best send someone for the doctor first, ma'am?" "he is there," answered mrs leigh. "he was sent for some time ago; daniel wishing went." the next thing was to get back to mother as quickly as possible, and lilac turned without hesitation to the way she had meant to take-straight down the side of the hill. but mrs leigh stopped aghast. "you're not going down there, surely?" she said. "it's as nigh again as going round, ma'am," said lilac eagerly; "and it's not to say difficult if you do it sideways." mrs leigh still hesitated. it was very steep; the smooth turf was slippery. there was not even a shrub or anything to cling to, and a slip would certainly end in an awkward tumble. at another time she would have turned from it with horror, but she looked at lilac's upturned anxious face and was touched with pity. "after all," she said, grasping her umbrella courageously, "if you can help me a little, perhaps it won't be so bad as it looks." so they started, hand in hand, lilac a little in front carefully leading the way; but she was soon sorry that they had not gone round by the road. this was a short distance for herself, but it proved a long one now that she had mrs leigh with her. a slip, a stop, a slide, another stop--it was a very slow progress indeed. as they went jerking along the flowers fell off lilac's dress one by one and left a white track behind her. she had taken off her crown and held it in her hand; its blossoms were drooping already, and its leaves folded up and limp. how short a time it was since they had been fresh and fair, and she had marched up the hill so bravely, full of delight. now, poor little discrowned queen, she was leaving her kingdom of mirth and laughter behind her with every step, and coming nearer to the shadowy valley where sadness waited. after many a sigh and gasp mrs leigh and her guide reached the bottom in safety. they were on comparatively level ground now, with gently sloping fields in front of them and the sharp shoulder of the hill rising at their back. there, within a stone's throw stood the wishings' cottage, and a little farther on lilac's own home. how quiet, how very still it all looked! now and then there floated in the calm air a shout or a sudden burst of laughter from the distant merry-makers, but here, below, it was all utterly silent. the two little white cottages had no light in their windows, no smoke from their chimneys, no sign of life anywhere. "mother's let the fire out," said lilac. mrs leigh came to a sudden standstill. "lilac," she said, "my poor child--" lilac looked up frightened and bewildered. mrs leigh's eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak. she took lilac's hand in hers and held it tightly. "my poor child," she repeated. "oh, please, ma'am," cried lilac, "let's be quick and go to mother. what ails her?" "nothing ails her," said mrs leigh solemnly; "nothing will ever ail her any more. you must be brave for her sake, and remember that she loves you still; but you will not hear her speak again on earth." -----------------------------------------------------------------------the revels on the hill broke up sooner than usual that night, and those who had to pass the cottage on their way home trod softly and hushed their children's laughter. for ill news travels fast, and before nightfall there was no one who did not know that the widow white was dead. and thus lilac's may-day reign held in its short space the greatest happiness and the greatest sorrow of her life. joy and smiles and freshly-blooming flowers in the morning; sadness and tears and a withered crown at night. chapter six. alone. "the spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear?"--_proverbs_. a few days after this lilac sat on her little stool in her accustomed corner, listening in a dreamy way to the muffled voices of mrs pinhorn and mrs wishing. they spoke low, not because they did not wish her to hear, but because, having just come from her mother's funeral, they felt it befitted the occasion. as they talked they stitched busily at some "black" which they were helping her to make, only pausing now and then to glance round at her as though she were some strange animal, shake their heads, and sigh heavily. lilac had not cried much since her mother's death, and was supposed by the neighbours to be taking it wonderful easy-like. for the twentieth time mrs wishing was entering slowly and fully into every detail connected with it--of all the doctor had said of its having been caused by heart disease, of all she had said herself, of all mr leigh had said; and if she paused a moment mrs pinhorn at once asked another question. for it was mrs wishing, who, running in as usual to borrow something, had found mrs white on may morning sitting peacefully in her chair, quite dead. "and it do strike so mournful," she repeated, "to think of the child junketing up on the hill, and may queen an' all, an' that poor soul an alone." "it's a thing one doesn't rightly understand, that is," said mrs pinhorn, "why both lilac's parents should have been took so sudden." she gave a sharp glance round the room--"i suppose," she added, "the greenways'll have the sticks. there's a goodish few, and well kep'. mary white was always one for storing her things." "i never heard of no other kin," said mrs wishing. "lilac's lucky to get a home like orchards farm. but there! some is born lucky." the conversation continued in the same strain until mrs wishing discovered that she must go home and get dan'l's supper ready. "an' it's time i was starting too," added mrs pinhorn. "i've got a goodish bit to walk." they both looked hesitatingly at lilac. "you'll come alonger me and sleep, won't you, dearie?" said mrs wishing coaxingly. "it's lonesome for you here." but lilac shook her head. "i'd rather bide here, thank you," was all she said; and after trying many forms of persuasion the two women left her unwillingly and took their way. lilac stood at the open door and watched them out of sight, but she was not thinking of them at all, though she still seemed to hear mrs wishing's words: "it's lonesome for you here." her head felt strange and dizzy, almost as though she had been stunned, and it was stranger still to find that she could not cry although mother was dead. she knew it very well, everyone had talked of it to her. mr leigh had spoken very kind, and mrs leigh had given her a black frock, and all the neighbours at the church that morning had groaned and cried and pitied her; but lilac herself had hardly shed a tear, though she felt it was expected of her, and saw that people were surprised to see her so quiet. she tried every now and then to get it into her head, and to understand it, but she could not. it seemed to be someone else that folks spoke of, and not mother. as she stood by the open door, each thing her eye rested on seemed to have something to do with her and to promise her return. there was the hill she had toiled up so often: surely she would come again with a tired footstep, but always a smile for lilac. there was the little garden and the sweet-peas she had sown, just showing green above the earth: would she never see them bloom? there on the window sill were her knitting-pins and a half-finished stocking: was it possible that lilac would never hear them click again in her busy fingers? there, most familiar object of all, was the clothes line. lilac could almost fancy she saw her mother's straight active figure, as she had done scores of times, stretching up her arms to fasten the clothes with wooden pegs, her skirt tucked up, her arms bare, her sunbonnet tilted over her eyes. no--it was quite impossible to feel that she would really never come back; it seemed much more likely that by and by she would walk in at the door and sit down by the window in her high-backed windsor chair, and take up the unfinished knitting. as lilac was thinking thus, a figure did really appear at the top of the hill, a short square figure with a gaily trimmed hat on its head--her cousin agnetta. for the first time in all her life agnetta was feeling not superior to lilac as usual, but shy of her. she did not know what to say to her nor even whether she should be welcome, for she was conscious of having been very ill-tempered lately. now that lilac was in trouble, cast down from her high position as queen, she no longer felt angry with her, and would even have liked to make herself pleasant--if she could. as she came near, however, and stood staring at her cousin, she felt that somehow there was a great difference in her, something which she could not understand. there was a look in lilac's small white face which made it impossible to speak to her in the old patronising tone; it was as though she had been somewhere and seen something to which agnetta was a stranger, and which could never be explained to her. it made her uncomfortable, and almost afraid to say anything; and yet, she remembered, lilac was very low down in the world now--there was less reason than ever to stand in awe of her. she was only poor little lilac white, with nothing in the world she could call her own, an orphan, and dependent for a home on agnetta's father. so after these reflections she took courage and spoke: "mamma said i was to tell you that she'll be up to-morrow morning to look at the furniture, and you must be ready in the afternoon to come down alonger ben when he brings the cart." lilac nodded, and the two girls stood silently on the doorstep for a moment; then agnetta spoke again: "i s'pose you're glad you're coming to live at the farm, ain't ye?" "no," answered lilac, "i don't know as i be. i'd rather bide here." agnetta had recovered her courage with her voice. she stepped uninvited past lilac into the room and cast a curious look round. "lor'!" she said, "don't it look mournful! i should think you'd be glad to get away." lilac did not answer. "what's this?" asked agnetta, pouncing on the needlework which the two women had left on the table. "it's a frock for me," said lilac. "mrs leigh give it to me." agnetta held the skirt out at arm's length and looked at it critically. "well!" she exclaimed with some scorn in her voice, "i should a thought you'd a had it made different now." "different?" said lilac enquiringly. "why, there's no reason you shouldn't have it cut more stylish, is there, now there's no one to mind?" no one to mind! lilac looked at her cousin with dazed eyes for a moment, as if she hardly understood--then she took the stuff out of her hand. "i'll never have 'em made different," she cried with a sudden flash in her eyes; "i never, never will." and then to agnetta's great surprise she suddenly burst into tears. agnetta stood staring at her, puzzled. she was sorry, only what had made lilac cry just now when she had been quite calm hitherto? "don't take on so," she ventured to say presently; "and you'll spoil your black. it'll stain dreadful." but lilac took no more notice than if she had not been there, and soon, feeling that she could do nothing, agnetta left her and took her way home. she had accomplished something by her visit, though she did not know it, for she had made lilac feel now that it really was true. mother would not come back. she was alone in the world. there was no one, as agnetta had said, "to mind." she began to understand it now, and the clearer it was the harder it was to bear. so she bowed her head on the table, amongst the black stuff in spite of agnetta's caution, and cried on. and presently another thing, which she had not realised till now, stood out plainly before her. she was to go away to-morrow and live at orchards farm. orchards farm, which she had always fancied the most beautiful place in the world, and beside which her own home had seemed poor and small! now all that had changed, and the more she thought of it the more she felt that she did not want to leave the cottage. it had suddenly become dear and precious; for all the things in it, even the meanest and smallest, seemed full of her mother's voice and presence. orchards farm was a strange country now, with nothing in it that her mother had loved or that loved her, and to go there would be like going still farther from her. raising her eyes she looked round at the familiar room, at her mother's chair, at her own little stool, at the plants in the window. they all seemed to say: "don't go, lilac. it is better to stay here." must she go? then suddenly she caught sight of the lilac crown lying dusty and withered in a corner. it reminded her of a friend. "i'll ask uncle joshua," she said to herself; "i'll go early to-morrow morning and ask him. _he'll_ know." joshua had a very decided opinion on the question placed before him next day: could lilac live alone at the cottage and take in the washing as her mother used to do? "i can reach the line quite easy if i stand on a stool," she said anxiously; "and mrs wishing, she'd help me wring." "bless you, my maid," he said, "you're not old enough to make a living, or strong enough, or wise enough yet. the proper place for you is your uncle greenways' house, till such time as you come to be older." "mother, she always said, `don't be beholden to no one. stand on your own feet.' that's what she said ever so often," faltered lilac. the cobbler smiled as he looked at the slight little figure. "well, you must wait a bit. if mother could speak to you now, she'd say as i do. and you won't be no farther from her at the farm; wherever and whenever you think of her and mind what she said, and how she liked you to act, that's her voice talking to you still. you listen and do as she bids, and that'll make her happier and you too." joshua set to work again with feverish haste as he finished. he did not like parting with lilac, and it was difficult to say goodbye. she lingered, looking wistfully at him. "you'll come and see me down yonder, won't you, uncle joshua?" "why, surely, surely," replied joshua hastily; "and you'll come and see me. it ain't so far after all. bless me!" he added with a testy glance at the dusty pane in front of him, "what ails the window this morning? it don't give no light whatever." in a moment lilac had fetched a duster and rubbed the little window bright and clear. it was a small office she had often performed for the cobbler. "it wasn't, not to say very dirty," she said; "but you'll have to do it yourself next time, uncle joshua." when she got back to the cottage, she felt a little comforted by the cobbler's words, although he had not fallen in with her plan. what could she do at once, she wondered, that would please her mother? she looked round the room. it had a forlorn appearance. the doorstep, trodden by so many feet lately, was muddy, there was dust on the furniture, and the floor had not been swept for days. mother certainly would not like that, and lilac felt she could not leave it so another minute. with new energy she seized broom, brushes, and pail and went to work, going carefully into all the corners, and doing everything just as she had been taught. very soon it all looked like itself again, bright and orderly, and with a sigh of satisfaction she went upstairs to put herself "straight" before her aunt came. when there another idea struck her, for the moment she looked at the glass she remembered how mother had hated the fringe. surely she could brush it back now that her hair had grown longer. no, brush as hard as she would it fell obstinately over her forehead again. but lilac was not to be conquered. she scraped it back once more, and tied a piece of ribbon firmly round her head; then she nodded triumphantly at herself in the glass. it was ugly, but anyhow it was neat. she had just finished this arrangement when a noise in the room below warned her of mrs greenways' approach, and running downstairs she found her seated breathless in the high-backed chair. one foot was stretched out appealingly in front of her, and she was so fatigued that at first she could only nod speechlessly at lilac. "i'm fairly spent," she said at last, "with that terr'ble hill. i can't wonder myself that your poor mother was taken so sudden with her heart, though she was always a spare figure." lilac said nothing; the old feeling came back to her that it was someone else and not mother who was spoken of. mrs greenways looked thoughtfully round the room; her eye rested on each piece of furniture in turn. "they're good solid things, and well kept," she said. "i will say for mary white as she knew how to keep her things. we can do with a good many of 'em at the farm," she went on after a pause; "but i don't want to be cluttered up with furniture, and the rest we must sell as it stands." lilac's heart sank. she could not bear to think of any of mother's things being sold, but she was too much in awe of her aunt to say anything. "so i've come up this morning," pursued mrs greenways, producing an old envelope and a stumpy pencil; "just to jot down what i want to keep. and when i've done here, and fetched my breath a little, i'll go upstairs and have a look round." mrs greenways made her list, and then with a businesslike air tied pieces of tape on all the things she had chosen. lilac saw with dismay that her own little stool and the high-backed chair were left out. it was almost like leaving two old friends behind. "have you packed your clothes?" asked mrs greenways. "no, aunt, not yet," said lilac. "well, i shall have to send ben up with the cart this afternoon for your box, so you may as well come alonger him. and mind this, lilac. don't you go bringin' any litter and rubbish with you. jest your clothes and no more, and your bible and prayer book. and now i'll go upstairs." mrs greenways went upstairs, followed meekly by lilac. she watched passively while her aunt punched all the mattresses, placed a searching finger beneath every sheet and blanket, sat down in the chairs, and finally examined every article of mrs white's wardrobe. "'tain't any of it much good to me," she said, holding up a cotton gown to the light. "they're all cut so antiquated, and she was never anything of a figure. you may as well keep 'em, lilac, and they'll come in for you later." it made lilac's heart ache sorely to see her mother's clothes in mrs greenways' hands turned about and talked over. there was one gown in particular, with a blue spot. mrs white had worn it on that last may morning when she had stood at the gate, and it seemed almost a part of her. when her aunt dropped it carelessly on the ground after her last remark, lilac picked it up and held it closely to her. "and her sunday bonnet now," continued mrs greenways discontentedly. "all the ribbons is fresh and it's a good straw, but i don't suppose i shall look anything but a scarecrow in it." she perched it on her head as she spoke, and turned about before the glass. "'tain't so bad," she murmured, with a glance at lilac for approval. there was no answer; for to her great surprise mrs greenways found that her niece had hidden her face in the blue cotton gown she held to her breast, and was sobbing quietly. mrs greenways was a kind-hearted woman in spite of her coarse nature. she could not exactly see what had made lilac cry just now, but she went up to her and spoke soothingly. "there, there," she said, "it's natural to take on, but you'll be better soon, when you get down to the farm alonger agnetta. you must think of all you've got to be thankful for. and now i should relish a cup o' tea, for i started away early; so we'll go down and you'll get it for me, i dessay. i brought a little in my pocket in case you should be out of it. i shouldn't wonder if bella was able to give this a bit of style,"--taking off the bonnet. "she's wonderful clever with her fingers." mrs greenways drank her tea, made lilac take some and eat some bread and butter, which she wished to refuse but dared not. "now you feel better, don't you?" she said good-naturedly. "and before i start off home, lilac, i've got a word to say, and that is that i hope you're proper and thankful for all your uncle's going to do for you." "yes, aunt," said lilac. "if it wasn't for him, you know, there'd only be the house for you to go to. just think o' that! what a disgrace it 'ud be! it's a great expense to have an extry mouth to feed and a growing girl to clothe in these bad times, but we must put up with it." "i can work, aunt," said lilac. "i can do lots of things." "well, i hope you'll do what you can," replied mrs greenways. "because, as you haven't a penny of your own, you ought to do summat in return for your uncle's charity. that's only fair and right, isn't it?" her mother's words came into lilac's mind: "don't be beholden to no one." "i don't mind work, aunt," she repeated more boldly. "i'd rather work. mother, she always taught me to." "well, that's a good thing," said mrs greenways. "because, now you're left so desolate, you've got nothing to look to but your own hands and feet. but as to being any help--you're small and young, you see, and you can't be anything but a burden to us for years to come." a burden! that was a new idea to lilac. "and so," finished mrs greenways, rising, "i hope as how you'll be a good gal, and grateful, and always remember that if it wasn't for us you'd be on the parish, instead of at orchards farm." she made her way out of the door, and stopped at the garden gate to call back over her shoulder: "mind and bring no rubbish along with you. nothing but clothes." lilac's tears dropped fast into the painted deal box as she packed her small stock of clothes. but she felt that she must not wait to cry; she must be ready by the time ben came, and her aunt's visit had been so long that it was already late. when she had finished she went downstairs to take a last look round. there stood all the well-known pieces of furniture, dumb, yet full of speech; they had seen and heard so much that was dear to her, that it seemed cruel to leave them to strangers. above all she looked wistfully at a small twisted cactus in a pot standing on the window ledge. mrs white had been fond of it, and had given it much care and attention. might she venture to take it with her? how pleased mother had been, she remembered, when the cactus had once rewarded her by producing two bright-red blossoms. that was long ago, and it had never done anything so brilliant again. content with its one effort it had since remained unadorned, yet as it stood there, with its fat green leaves and little bunches of prickles, it had the air of saying to itself, "i have done it once, and if i liked i could do it a second time." even now as she bent tenderly over it lilac thought she could make out the faint beginning of a bud. "i do wish i could take it," she said to herself. "if it was only in bloom maybe they'd like it." but the cactus was very far from blooming, and perhaps had no intention of doing so; in its present condition it would certainly be considered "rubbish" at orchards farm. lilac turned from it with a sigh, and glancing through the window was startled to see that the cart with ben sitting in it was already at the gate. ben looked as though he might have been waiting there for some hours, and was content to wait for any length of time. she ran out in alarm. "oh, ben!" she cried, "i never heard you. have you been here long?" "not i," said ben; "on'y just come. missus she give orders as how i was to fetch down some cheers alonger you, so as to lighten the next load a bit." by the time he had slowly stacked the chairs together, and disposed them round lilac's box in the cart, which cost him much painful thought, there was not much room left. "now then, missie," he said at length, "that's the lot, ain't it?" "where am i to sit, ben?" asked lilac doubtfully. ben took off his hat to scratch his head. he had a perfectly round, foolish face, with short dust-coloured whiskers. "that's so," he said. "i clean forgot you was to go too." a corner was at last found amongst the chairs, and ben having hoisted himself on to the shaft they started slowly on their way. lilac kept her eyes fixed on the cottage until a turn of the road hid it from her sight. it was just there she had turned to look at mother on may day. what a long, long time ago, and what a different lilac she felt now! grave and old, with all manner of cares and troubles waiting for her, and no one to mind if she were glad or sorry. no one to want her much or to be pleased at her coming. a burden instead of a blessing. she clung to the hope that agnetta at least would not think her so, but would welcome her to her new home and be kind to her; but she was the only one of whom she thought without shrinking. her aunt and uncle, bella and peter, above all the last, were people to be afraid of. "here's the young master," said ben, suddenly turning his face round to look at her. "he be coming up to fetch the rest of the sticks." lilac peeped out through the various legs of chairs which surrounded her; towards her, crawling slowly up the hill, came a wagon drawn by three iron-grey horses, and by their side a broad-shouldered, lumbering figure. it was her cousin peter. of course it was peter, she thought impatiently, turning her head away. no one else would walk up the hill instead of riding in the empty wagon. the descent now becoming easier ben whipped up his horse, and they soon jolted past peter and his team. "there's been a sight o' deaths lately in the village," he resumed cheerfully, having once broken the silence. "i dunno as i can ever call to mind so many. the bell's forever agoin'. it's downright mournful." he was kindly disposed towards lilac, and having hit upon this lucky means of entertaining her he dwelt on it for the rest of the way, fortunately requiring no answering remarks. it seemed long before they reached the farm, and lilac was cramped and tired in her uneasy position when they had at last driven in at the yard gate. there was no one to be seen; but presently molly, the servant girl, having spied the arrival from the back kitchen, came and stood at the door. when she discovered lilac almost hidden by the chairs, she hastened out and held up a broad red hand to help her down from the cart. "you've brought yer house on yer back like a hoddy-dod," she said with a grin. lilac clambered down with difficulty, and stood by the side of the cart uncertain where to go. a forlorn little figure in her straight black frock, clasping her mother's large old cotton umbrella. she wished she could see agnetta, but she did not appear. soon her aunt and bella came into the yard, but their attention was immediately fixed on the chairs, which ben had now unloaded and placed in a long row by lilac's side. "where were they to go?" asked molly. in the living-room, mrs greenways thought, where they were short of chairs. "in the bedrooms," said bella contemptuously. "common-looking things like them." "we could do with 'em in the kitchen," added molly. the dispute continued for some time, but in the end bella carried the day, and mrs greenways found time to notice the newcomer. "well, here you are, lilac," she said. "come along in, and agnetta shall show where you've got to sleep." agnetta led the way up the steep stairs to the top of the house. she had rather a condescending manner as she threw open the door of a small attic in the roof. "this is it," she said; "and mamma says you've got to keep it clean yerself." "i'd rather," said lilac hastily. "i've always been used to." she looked round the room. it was very like her old one at the cottage, and its sloping ceiling and bare white walls seemed familiar and homelike; it was a comfort, too, to see that its tiny window looked towards the hills. as she observed all this she took off her bonnet, and was immediately startled by a loud laugh from agnetta. "well!" she exclaimed, "you have made a pretty guy of yourself." lilac put her hand quickly up to her head. "oh, i forgot--my hair," she said. "whatever made you do it?" asked agnetta, planting herself full in front of her cousin and staring at her. "it's neater," said lilac, avoiding the hard gaze. "i shall wear it so till it gets longer. i'm not agoin' to have a fringe no more." "well!" repeated agnetta, lost in astonishment; then she added: "you do look comical! just like a general servant. if i was you i'd wear a cap!" with this parting thrust she clattered downstairs giggling. so this was lilac's welcome. she went to the window, leant her arms on the broad sill, and looked forlornly up at the hill. there was not a single person who wanted her here, or who had taken the trouble to say a kind word. how could she bear to live here always? "li-lack!" shrieked a voice up the stairs, "you're to come to tea." through the meal that followed lilac sat shyly silent, feeling that every morsel choked her, and listening to the clatter of voices and teacups round her but hardly hearing any words. the farmer had noticed her presence by a nod, and then resumed his newspaper. he meant to do his duty by mary's girl until she was old enough to go to service, but no one could expect him to be glad of her arrival. another useless member of the family to support, where there were already too many. peter was not there at first, but when the meal was nearly over lilac heard the wagon roll heavily into the yard, and soon afterwards its master came almost as heavily into the room and took his place at the table. when there he eat largely and silently, taking huge draughts of tea out of a great mug. this was one of his many vulgarities, which bella deplored but could not alter, for he required so much tea that a cup was a ridiculous and useless thing to him, and had to be filled so often that it gave a great deal of trouble--in this therefore he was allowed to have his way. when lilac got into her attic that night she found that her deal box had been carried up and placed in one corner, and as she began to undress in the half-light she caught sight of something else which certainly had not been there before. something standing in the window twisted and prickly, but to her most pleasant to look upon. could it really be the cactus? she went up to it, half afraid to find that she was mistaken. no, it was not fancy, the cactus was there, and lilac was so pleased to see its ugly friendly face that tears came into her eyes. she had found a little bit of kindness at last at orchards farm, and it no longer felt quite so cold and strange. peter no doubt had brought the plant down from the cottage, but who had told him to do it? her aunt, or agnetta, or perhaps after all it was uncle joshua as usual. whoever it was lilac felt very grateful, and went to sleep comforted with the thought that there was something in the room which had lived her old life and known her mother's care, though it was only a cactus plant. chapter seven. orchards farm. "for a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal where there is no love."--_bacon_. "i like this one best," said lilac. she was looking in at the shed where ben was milking the cows at orchards farm. inside it was dusky and cool. there was a sweet smell of hay and new milk, and it was very quiet, the silence only disturbed when an impatient cow stamped her foot or swished her tail at the flies, and was reproved by ben's deep-toned, "woa then, stand still." but outside it was very different, for the afternoon sun was still hot and dazzling, and all the farmyard creatures were conversing cheerfully together in many keys and voices. a tall white cock had perched himself tiptoe on a gate, crowing in a shrilly triumphant manner, the ducks were quacking in a sociable chorus, and chummy, the great black sow, lying stretched on her side in the sun, kept up an undertone of deeply comfortable grunts. lilac leant against the doorpost, now looking in at ben and his cows, and now at the sunshiny strawyard. she felt tired and languid, as she very often did at the end of the day, although the work at orchards farm was no harder than she had always been used to at home. there, however, it had been done in peace and quietness, here all was hurry and confusion. it was a new and distracting thing to live in the midst of wrangling disputes, to be called here, shouted after there, to do bits of everyone's business, and to be scolded for leaving undone what she had never been told to do. altogether a heavy change from her old peaceful life, and she could not settle her mind to it with any comfort. "'tain't the work, it's the worry i mind," she said once to agnetta; but agnetta only stared and laughed. there was no consolation at all to be found in her, and all lilac's hopes concerning her were disappointed as time went on. she was the same and orchards farm was the same as they had been in the old days when lilac had worshipped them from a distance; but somehow, seen quite near this glory vanished, and though the stylish sunday frocks and bangles remained, they were worth nothing compared to a little sympathy and kindness. alas! these were not to be had. lilac must stand on her own feet now, as her mother had told her: everyone was too full of their own troubles and interests and enjoyments to have any thought for her. what could she need beyond a roof over her head, food to eat, and clothes to wear? mrs greenways and all the neighbours thought her a lucky child, and told her so very often; but lilac did not feel lucky, she felt sad and very lonely. after one or two attempts to talk to agnetta, she resolved, however, to keep her troubles to herself, for agnetta did not "understand." who was there now to understand? none in the wide world but uncle joshua, and from him she felt as far distant as though he were in another country. she became in this way, as time went on, more silent, graver, and more what her cousins called "old-fashioned"; and though at heart she was far more childlike than they, she went about her work with serious application like one of twice her years. mrs greenways did not disapprove of this, and though she lost no occasion of impressing upon lilac her smallness and uselessness, she soon began to find her valuable in the house: it was a new thing to have someone there who was steady and thorough in her work, and might be depended on to do it without constant reproof. she was satisfied, too, that lilac had quite got over her grief, and did not seem to miss her mother so much as might have been expected. it would be troublesome to see the child fret and pine, and as no sign of this appeared she concluded it was not there. mrs greenways was accustomed to the sort of sorrow which shows itself in violent tears and complaints, and she would have been surprised if she could have known how lilac's lonely little heart ached sometimes for the sound of her mother's voice or the sight of her face; how at night, when she was shut safely into her attic, she would stretch out her arms towards the cottage on the hill, and long vainly for the days to come back which she had not loved half well enough while they were passing. but no one knew this, and amidst the turmoil and bustle of the day no one guessed how lonely she was or thought of her much in any way. she was only little lilac white, an orphan who had been fortunate enough to get a good home. so she lived her own life, solitary, although surrounded by people; and while she worked her mind was full of her mother's memory--sometimes she even seemed to hear her words again, and to see her smile of pleasure when she had done anything particularly well. she was careful, therefore, not to relax her efforts in the least, and though she got no praise for the thoroughness of her work, it was a little bit of comfort at the end of the day to think that she had "pleased mother." it began soon to be a pleasure, too, when work was finished, to go out amongst the creatures in the farmyard. here she forgot her troubles and her loneliness for a little while, and made many satisfactory friendships in which there were no disappointments. true, there was plenty of noise and bustle here as well as indoors, and family quarrels were not wanting amongst the poultry; but unlike the sharp speeches of bella and agnetta they left no bad feeling behind, and were soon settled by a few pecks and flaps. lilac was sure of a welcome when she appeared at the gate to distribute the small offerings she had collected for her various friends during the day; bits of bread, sugar, or crusts--nothing came amiss, and even the great lazy chummy would waddle slowly across to her from the other end of the yard. by degrees lilac began to look forward to the end of the day, when she should meet these friends, and found great comfort in the thought that they expected her and looked out for her coming. especially she liked to be present at milking-time, and as often as she possibly could she stole out of the house at this hour to spend a few quiet moments with ben and his cows. on this particular afternoon she saw that there was one among them she had not noticed before--a little cream-coloured alderney, with slender black legs and dark eyes. "i like that one best of all," she said, pointing to it. ben's voice sounded hollow as he answered, and seemed to come out of the middle of the cow, for his head was pressed firmly against her side. "ah, she's a sort of a little fancy coo, she is," he said; "she belongs to the young master. he thinks a lot of her. `we'll call this one none-so-pretty,' says he, when he brung her home." "why does it belong to him," asked lilac, "more than the other cows?" "well, it were like this 'ere," said ben, who was fond of company and always willing to talk. "this is how it wur. none-so-pretty she caught cold when she'd bin here a couple of weeks, and the master he sent for coo-doctor. and coo-doctor come and says: `she's in a pretty plight,' says he; `information of the lungs she's got, and you'll never get her through it. a little dillicut scrap of a animal like that,' he says; 'she ain't not to say fit for this part of the country! an' so he goes away, and the coo gets worse, so as it's a misery to see her." ben stopped so long in his story to quiet none-so-pretty, who wanted to kick over the pail, that lilac had to put another question. "how did she get well?" "it wur along of the young master," answered ben, "as sat up with her a week o' nights, and poured her drink down her throat, and poletissed her chest, and cockered her up like as if she'd bin a human christian. and he brung her through. like a skilliton she wur at fust, but she picked up after a bit and got saucy again. an' ever sin that she'll foller him and rub her head agin' him, and come to his whistle like a dog. an' so the old master, he says: `the little cow's yer own now, peter, to do as you like with,' he says; `no one else'd a had the patience to bring her through. an' if you'll take my advice you'll sell her, for she'll never be much good to us.'" "but peter wouldn't sell her, i suppose?" asked lilac eagerly. "no fear," replied ben's muffled voice; "he's martal fond of none-so-pretty." lilac looked with great interest at the little cow. an odd pair of friends--she and peter--and as unlike as they could possibly be, for none-so-pretty was as graceful and slender in her proportions as he was clumsy and awkward-limbed. it was a good thing that there was someone to admire and like peter, even if it were only a cow; for lilac had not been a month at the farm without beginning to feel a little pity for him. he was uncouth and stupid, to be sure, but it was hard, she thought, that he should be so incessantly worried and jeered at. from the moment he entered the house to the moment he left it, there was something wrong in what he said or did. if he sat down on the settle and wearily stretched out his long legs, someone was sure to tumble over them: "peter, how stupid you are!" if he opened his mouth to speak he said something laughable, and if to eat, there was something vulgar in his manners which called down a sharp reproof from bella, who considered herself a model of refinement and good taste. he took all this in unmoved silence, and seldom said a word except to talk to his father on farming matters; but lilac, looking on from her quiet corner, often felt sorry for him, as she would have done to see any large, patient animal ill-treated and unable to complain. "anyhow," she said to herself as she stood with her eyes fixed on none-so-pretty after ben had done his story, "if he is common he's kind." her reflections were disturbed by ben's voice making another remark, which came from the side of a large red cow named cherry: "there's not a better lot of coos, nor richer milk than what they give, this side lenham." lilac made no answer. "an' if so be as the dairy wur properly worked they'd most pay the rent of this 'ere farm, with the poultry thrown in." lilac glanced at the various feathered families outside; they were supposed to be bella's charge, she knew, but she generally gave them over to agnetta, who looked after them when she was inclined, and often forgot to search for the eggs altogether. "they wants care," continued ben, "as well as most things. i don't name no names, but the young broods had ought to be better looked after in the spring. and they're worth it. there's ducks now--chancy things is early ducks, but they pay well. git 'em hatched out early. feed 'em often. keep 'em warm and dry at fust. let 'em go into the water at the right time. kill 'em and send 'em up to lunnon, and there you are--a good profit. why, you'll git 15 shillings the couple for ducklings in march! that's not a price to sneeze at, that isn't. i name no names," he repeated mysteriously, "but them as don't choose to take the pains can't expect the profit." at supper that night lilac remembered this conversation with ben, and examined peter's countenance curiously as he sat opposite to her with his whole being apparently engrossed by the meal. she could not, however, discover any kind or pleasant expression upon it. if it were there at all, it was unable to struggle through the thick dull mask spread over it. bella meanwhile had news to tell. she had heard at dimbleby's that afternoon that there was to be a grand fete in lenham next week. fireworks and a balloon, and perhaps dancing and a band. charlotte smith said it would be splendid, and she was going to have a new hat on purpose. "well, i haven't got no money to throw away on new hats and suchlike," said mrs greenways, "but i s'pose you and agnetta'll want to go too." "how'll we get over there?" asked bella, looking fixedly at peter, who did not raise his eyes from his plate. mrs greenways turned her glance in the same direction, and said presently: "well, perhaps peter he could drive you over in the spring cart." "hay harvest," muttered peter, deep down in his mug; "couldn't spare time." "oh, bother," said bella. "then we must do with ben." "couldn't spare him neither," was peter's answer. "heavy crop. want all the hands we can get." bella pouted and agnetta looked on the edge of tears. mrs greenways, anxious to settle matters comfortably, made another suggestion. "well, you must just drive yourselves then, bella. the white horse is quiet. i've drove him often." "couldn't spare the horse neither," said peter, "nor yet the cart," and having finished both his meal and the subject he got up and went out of the room. the farmer, roused by the sound of the dispute from a nap in the window seat, now enquired what was going on, and was told of the difficulty. "what's to prevent 'em walking?" he asked; "it's only five miles. if they're too proud to walk they'd better stop at home," and then he too left the room. "you don't catch _me_ walking!" exclaimed bella; "if i can't drive i shan't go at all. getting all hot and dusty, and charlotte smith driving past us on the road with her head held up ever so high." "no more shan't i," said agnetta, with a toss of her head. "well, there, we'll see if we can't manage somehow," said mrs greenways coaxingly. "if the weather's good for the hay harvest your father'll be in a good temper, and we'll see what we can do. lilac!" she added, turning sharply to her niece, "molly's left out some bits of washing in the orchard, jest you run and fetch 'em in." lilac picked up her sunbonnet and went out, glancing at agnetta to see if she were coming too, but she did not move. it was a cool, still evening after a very hot day, and all the flowers in the garden were holding up their drooping heads again, and giving out their sweetest scent as if in thankfulness for the change. there were a great many in bloom now, for it was june, more than a whole month since that happy, miserable day when lilac had been queen, and as she passed peter's own little bit of ground she stopped to look admiringly at them. they seemed to grow here better than in other places--with a willing luxuriance as though in return for the affection and care which was evidently spent on them. pansies, columbines, white-fringed pinks, and sweet-peas all mixed up together, and yet keeping a certain order and not allowed to intrude upon each other. lilac passed on through a little gate which led into the kitchen garden, and as she did so became aware that the owner of the flowers was quite near. she paused and considered within herself as to whether she should speak to him. he was sitting on the stump of a cherry tree, which had been cut down to a convenient height from the ground; on this was placed a square piece of turf, so that it formed a cushion, and was evidently a customary seat. near him was a row of beehives, under a slanting thatch, and their busy inhabitants, returning in numbers from their day's labour, hummed and buzzed around him, much to the annoyance of sober, the old sheep dog, who lay stretched at his feet. tib, the ugly cat, had taken up a discreet position at a little distance from the hives, and sat very wide awake, with the only eye she possessed on the alert for any stray game that might pass that way. neither peter nor his companions saw lilac; they all appeared absorbed in their own reflections, and the former had fixed his gaze vacantly on the copse beyond the orchard. a little while ago she would have passed quickly on without a moment's hesitation, but now she felt a sort of sympathy with peter. she was lonely, and he was lonely; besides, he had been kind to none-so-pretty. so presently she made a little rustle, which roused sober from his slumbers. he raised his head, and finding that it was a friend wagged his bushy tail and resumed his former position; but this roused peter too, and he slowly turned his eyes upon lilac and stared silently. knowing that it would be useless to wait for him to speak, she said timidly: "how pretty your pinks grow!" peter got up from his seat and looked seriously over the railing at the pinks. "they're well enough," he said; "but the slugs and snails torment 'em so." "i think they're as pretty as can be," said lilac; "and that sweet you can smell 'em ever so far. we had some up yonder," she added, with a nod towards the hills, "but they never had such blooms as yours." "maybe you'd like a posy," said peter, suddenly blurting out the words with a great effort. receiving a delighted answer in the affirmative he fumbled for some time in his pocket, and having at last produced a large clasp knife bent over his flower bed. the conversation having got on so far, lilac felt encouraged to continue it, and looked round her for a subject. "this is a nice, pretty corner to sit in," she said; "but don't the bees terrify you?" peter straightened himself up with the flowers he had cut in one hand, and stared in surprise. "the bees!" he repeated. he strode up to the hives, took up a handful of bees and let them crawl about him, which they did without any sign of anger. "why ever don't they sting yer?" asked lilac, shrinking away. "they know i like 'em," answered peter, returning to his flowers. "they know a lot, bees do." "i s'pose they're used to see you sitting here?" said lilac. peter nodded. "they're rare good comp'ny too," he said, "when you can follow their carryings on, and know what they're up to." lilac watched him thoughtfully as his large hand moved carefully amongst the flowers, cutting the best blossoms and adding them to the nosegay, which now began to take the shape of a large fan. while he had been talking of the bees his face had lost its dullness; he had not looked stupid at all, and scarcely ugly. she would try and make him speak again. "the blossoms is over now," she remarked, looking at the trees in the orchard; "but there's been a rare sight of 'em this year." "there has so," answered peter. "it'll be a fine season for the fruit if so be as we get sun to ripen it. the birds is the worst," he went on. "i've seen them old jaypies come out of the woods yonder as thick as thieves into the orchard. i don't seem to care about shootin' 'em, and scarecrows is no good." what a long sentence for peter! "do they now?" said lilac sympathisingly. "an' i s'pose," stroking tib on the head, "they don't mind tib neither?" "not they," said peter, with something approaching a chuckle. "they're altogether too many for _her_." "she's not a _pretty_ cat," said lilac doubtfully. "well, n-no," said peter, turning round to look at tib with some regret in his tone. "she ain't not to say exactly pretty, but she's a rare one for rats. ain't ye, tib?" as if in reply tib rose, fixed her front claws in the ground, and stretched her long lean body. she was not pretty, the most favourable judge could not have called her so. her coat was harsh and wiry, her head small and mean, with ears torn and scarred in many battles. her one eye, fiercely green, seemed to glare in an unnaturally piercing manner, but this was only because she was always on the lookout for her enemies--the rats. to complete her forlorn appearance she had only half a tail, and it was from this loss that her friendship with peter dated, for he had rescued her from a trap. he seemed now to feel that her character needed defence, for he went on after a pause: "she'll sit an' watch for 'em to come out of the ricks by the hour, without ever tasting food. better nor any tarrier she is at it." "ben says the rats is awful bad," said lilac. "they're that bold they'll steal the eggs, and scare off the hens when they're setting." "they do that," replied peter, shaking his head. "the poultry wants seeing to badly; but bella she don't seem to take to it, nor yet agnetta, and our hands is full outside." "i like the chickens and ducks and things," said lilac. "i wish aunt'd let me take 'em in hand." peter reared himself up from his bent position, and holding the big nosegay in one hand looked gravely down at his cousin. it was a good long distance from his height to lilac, and she seemed wonderfully small and slender and delicately coloured as she stood there in her straight black frock and long pinafore. she had taken off her sun bonnet, so that her little white face with all the hair fastened back from it was plainly to be seen. it struck peter as strange that such a small creature should talk of taking any more work "in hand" besides what she had to do already. "you hadn't ought to do hard work," he said at length; "you haven't got the strength." "i don't mind the work," said lilac, drawing up her little figure. "i'm stronger nor what i look. 'taint the work as i mind--" she stopped, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. peter saw them with the greatest alarm. somehow with his usual stupidity he had made his cousin cry. all he could do now was to take himself away as quickly as possible. he went up to sober and touched him gently with his foot. "come along, old chap," he said. "we've got to look after the lambs yonder." without another word or a glance at lilac he rolled away through the orchard with the dog at his heels, his great shoulders plunging along through the trees, and lilac's gay bunch of flowers swinging in one hand. he had quite forgotten to give it to her. she looked after him in surprise, with the tears still in her eyes. then a smile came. "he's a funny one surely," she said to herself. "why ever did he make off like that?" there was no one to answer except tib, who had jumped up into a tree and looked down at her with the most complete indifference. "anyway, he means to be kind," concluded lilac, "and it's a shame to flout him as they do, so it is." chapter eight. only a child! "who is the honest man? he who doth still and strongly good pursue, to god, his neighbour and himself most true, whom neither force nor fawning can unpin or wrench from giving all his due." _g. herbert_. joshua snell had by no means forgotten his little friend lilac. there were indeed many occasions in his solitary life when he missed her a great deal, and felt that his days were duller. for on her way to and from school she had been used to pay him frequent visits, if only for a few moments at a time, dust his room, clean the murky little window, and bring him a bunch of flowers or a dish of gossip. in this way she was a link between him and the small world of danecross down below; and in spite of his literary pursuits joshua by no means despised news of his neighbour's affairs, though he often received it with a look of indifference. besides this, her visits gave him an opportunity for talking, which was a great pleasure to him, and one in which he was seldom able to indulge, except on saturdays when he travelled down to the bar of the "three bells" for an hour's conversation. he was also fond of lilac for her own sake, and anxious to know if she were comfortable and happy in her new home. he soon began, therefore, to look out eagerly for her as he sat at work; but no little figure appeared, and he said to himself, "i shall see her o' sunday at church." but this expectation was also disappointed, and he learned from bella greenways that lilac and agnetta were to go in the evenings, it was more convenient. joshua could not do that; it had been his settled habit for years to stay at home on sunday evening, and it was impossible to alter it. so it came to pass that a whole month went by and he had not seen her once. then he said to himself, "if so be as they won't let her come to me, i reckon i must go and see her." and he locked up his cottage one evening and set out for the farm. joshua was a welcome guest everywhere, in spite of his poverty and lowly station; even at the greenways', who held their heads so high, and did not "mix", as bella called it, with the "poor people." this was partly because of his learning, which in itself gave him a position apart, and also because he had a certain dignity of character which comes of self-respect and simplicity wherever they are found. mrs greenways was indeed a little afraid of him, and as anxious to make the best of herself in his presence as she was in that of her rector and landlord, mr leigh. "why, you're quite a stranger, mr snell," she said when he appeared on this occasion. "now sit down, do, and rest yourself, and have a glass of something or a cup of tea." joshua being comfortably settled with a mug of cider at his elbow she continued: "greenways is over at lenham, and peter's out on the farm somewheres, but i expect they'll be in soon." the cobbler waited for some mention of lilac, but as none came he proceeded to make polite enquiries about other matters, such as the crops and the live stock, and the chances of good weather for the hay. he would not ask for her yet, he thought, because it might look as though he had no other reason for coming. "and how did you do with your ducks this season, mrs greenways, ma'am?" he said. "why, badly," replied mrs greenways in a mortified tone; "i never knew such onlucky broods. a cow got into the orchard and trampled down one. fifteen as likely ducklings as you'd wish to see. and the rats scared off a hen just as she'd hatched out; and we lost a whole lot more with the cramp." "h'm, h'm, h'm," said the cobbler sympathisingly, "that was bad, that was. and you ought to do well with your poultry in a fine place like this too." "well, we don't," said mrs greenways, rather shortly; "and that's all about it." "they want a lot of care, poultry does," said joshua reflectively; "a lot of care. i know a little what belongs to the work of a farm. years afore i came to these parts i used to live on one." "then p'r'aps you know what a heart-breaking, back-breaking, wearing-out life it is," burst out poor mrs greenways. "all plague an' no profit, that's what it is. it's drive, drive, drive, morning, noon, and night, and all to be done over again the next day. you're never through with it." "ah! i dessay," said joshua soothingly; "but there's your daughters now. they take summat off your hands, i s'pose? and that reminds me. there's little white lilac, as we used to call her,--you find her a handy sort of lass, don't you?" "she's well enough in her way," said mrs greenways. "i don't never regret giving her a home, and i know my duty to greenways' niece; but as for use--she's a child, mr snell, and a weakly little thing too, as looks hardly fit to hold a broom." "well, well, well," said joshua, "every little helps, and i expect you'll find her more use than you think for. even a child is known by its doings, as solomon says." mrs greenways interposed hastily, for she feared the beginning of what she called joshua's "preachments." "you'd like to have seen her, maybe; but she's gone with agnetta to the vicarage to take some eggs. mrs leigh likes to see the gals now and then." joshua made his visit as long as he could in the hope of lilac's return, but she did not appear, and at last he could wait no longer. "well, i'll go and have a look round for peter," he said; "and p'r'aps you'll send lilac up one day to see me. she was always a favourite of mine, was lilac white. and i'd a deal of respect for her poor mother too. any day as suits your convenience." "oh, she can come any day as for that, mr snell," replied mrs greenways with a little toss of her head. "it doesn't make no differ in a house whether a child like that goes or stays. she's plenty of time on her hands." "that's settled then, ma'am," said joshua, "and i shall be looking to see her soon." he made his farewell, leaving mrs greenways not a little annoyed that no mention had been made of agnetta in this invitation. "not that she'd go," she said to herself, "but he might a asked her as well as that little bit of a lilac." it was quite a long time before she found it possible to allow lilac to make this visit, for although she was small and useless and made no differ in the house, there were a wonderful number of things for her to do. lilac's work increased; other people beside mrs greenways discovered the advantage of her willing hands, and were glad to put some of their own business into them. thus the care of the poultry, which had been shuffled off bella's shoulders on to agnetta, now descended from her to lilac, the number of eggs brought in much increasing in consequence. lilac liked this part of her daily task; she was proud to discover the retired corners and lurking-places of the hens, and fill her basket with the brown and pink eggs. day by day she took more interest in her feathered family, and began to find distinguishing marks of character or appearance in each, she even made plans to defeat the inroads of the rats by coaxing her charges to lay their eggs in the barn, where they were more secure. "hens is sillier than most things," said ben, when she confided her difficulties to him; "what they've done once they'll do allers, it's no good fightin' with 'em." he consented, however, to nail some boards over the worst holes in the barn, and by degrees, after infinite patience, lilac succeeded in making some of the hens desert their old haunts and use their new abode. all this was encouraging. and about this time a new interest indoors arose which made her life at orchards farm less lonely, and was indeed an event of some importance to her. it happened in this way. ever since her arrival she had watched the proceedings of molly in the dairy with great attention. she had asked questions about the butter-making until molly was tired of answering, and had often begged to be allowed to help. this was never refused, although molly opened her eyes wide at the length of time she took to clean and rinse and scour, and by degrees she was trusted with a good deal of the work. the day came when she implored to be allowed to do it all--just for once. molly hesitated; she had as usual a hundred other things to do and would be thankful for the help, but was such a bit of a thing to be trusted? on the whole, from her experience of lilac she concluded that she was. "you won't let on to the missus as how you did it?" she said. and this being faithfully promised, lilac was left in quiet possession of the dairy. she felt almost as excited about that batch of butter as if her life depended on it. suppose it should fail? "but there!" she said to herself, "i won't think of that; i will make it do," and she set to work courageously. and now her habits of care and neatness and thoroughness formed in past years came to her service, as well as her close observation of molly. nothing was hurried in the process, every small detail earnestly attended to, and at last trembling with excitement and triumph she saw the result of her labours. the butter was a complete success. as she stood in the cool dark dairy with the firm golden pats before her, each bearing the sharply-cut impression of the stamp, lilac clasped her hands with delight. she had not known such a proud moment in all her life, except on the day when she had been queen. and this was a different sort of pride, for it was joy in her own handiwork-something she herself had done with no one to help her. "oh," she said to herself, "if mother could but see that, how rare an' pleased she'd be!" maybe she did, but how silent it was without her voice to say "well done", and how blank without her face to smile on her child's success. there was no one to sympathise but molly, who came in presently with loud exclamations of surprise. "so you've got through? lor'-a-mussy, what a handy little thing it is! and you won't ever let on to missus or any of 'em?" lilac never did "let on." she kept molly's secret faithfully, and saw her butter packed up and driven off to lenham without saying a word. and from this time forward the making up of the butter, and sometimes the whole process, was left in her hands. it was not easy work, for all the things she had to use were too large and heavy for her small hands, and she had to stand on a stool to turn the handle of the big churn. but she liked it, and what she lacked in strength she made up in zeal; it was far more interesting than scrubbing floors and scouring saucepans. molly, too, was much satisfied with this new arrangement, for the dairy had always brought her more scolding from her mistress than any part of her work, and all now went on much more smoothly. lilac wondered sometimes that her aunt never seemed to notice how much she was in the dairy, or called her away to do other things; she always spoke as if it were molly alone who made the butter. in truth mrs greenways knew all about it, and was very content to let matters go on as they were; but something within her, that old jealousy of lilac and her mother, made it impossible for her to praise her niece for her services. she could not do it without deepening the contrast between her own daughters and lilac, which she felt, but would not acknowledge even to herself. so lilac got no praise and no thanks for what she did, and though she found satisfaction in turning out the butter well for its own sake, this was not quite enough. a very small word or look would have contented her. once when her uncle said: "the butter's good this week," she thought her aunt must speak, and glanced eagerly at her, but mrs greenways turned her head another way and no words come. lilac felt hurt and disappointed. it was a busier time than usual at the farm just now, though there was always plenty for everyone to do. it was hay harvest and there were extra hands at work, extra cooking to do, and many journeys to be made to and from the hayfield. lilac was on the run from morning till night, and even bella and agnetta were obliged to bestir themselves a little. in the big field beyond the orchard where the grass had stood so tall and waved its flowery heads so proudly, it was now lying low on the ground in the bright hot sun. the sky was cloudless, and the farmer's brow had cleared a little too, for he had a splendid crop and every chance of getting it in well. "to-morrow's lenham fete," said agnetta to lilac one evening. "it's a pity but what you can go," answered lilac. "we are going," said agnetta triumphantly, "spite of peter and father being so contrary; and we ain't a-going to walk there neither!" "how are you goin' to get there, then?" asked lilac. "mr buckle, he's goin' to drive us over in his gig," said agnetta. "my i shan't we cut a dash? bella, she's goin' to wear her black silk done up. we've washed it with beer and it rustles beautiful just like a new one. and she's got a hat turned up on one side and trimmed with gobelin." "what's that?" asked lilac, very much interested. "it's the new blue, silly," answered agnetta disdainfully. then she added: "my new parasol's got lace all round it, ever so deep. i expect we shall be about the most stylish girls there. won't charlotte smith stare!" "i s'pose it's summat like a fair, isn't it?" asked lilac. "lor', no!" exclaimed agnetta; "not a bit. not near so vulgar. there's a balloon, and a promnarde, and fireworks in the evening." all these things sounded mysteriously splendid to lilac's unaccustomed ears. she did not know what any of them meant, but they seemed all the more attractive. "you've got to be so sober and old-fashioned like," continued agnetta, "that i s'pose you wouldn't care to go even if you could, would you? you'd rather stop at home and work." "i'd like to go," answered lilac; "but molly couldn't never get through with the work to-morrow if we was all to go. there's a whole lot to do." "oh, of course you couldn't go," said agnetta loftily. "bella and me's different. we're on a different footing." agnetta had heard her mother use this expression, and though she would have been puzzled to explain it, it gave her an agreeable sense of superiority to her cousin. in spite of soberness and gravity, lilac felt not a little envious the next day when mr buckle drove up in his high gig to fetch her cousins to the fete. she could hear the exclamations of surprise and admiration which fell from mrs greenways as they appeared ready to start. "well," she said with uplifted hands, "you do know how to give your things a bit of style. that i _will_ say." bella had spent days of toil in preparing for this occasion, and the result was now so perfect in her eyes that it was well worth the labour. the silk skirt crackled and rustled and glistened with every movement; the new hat was perched on her head with all its ribbons and flowers nodding. she was now engaged in painfully forcing on a pair of lemon-coloured gloves, but suddenly there was the sound of a crack, and her smile changed to a look of dismay. "there!" she exclaimed, "if it hasn't gone, right across the thumb." "lor', what a pity," said her mother. "well, you can't stop to mend it; you must keep one hand closed, and it'll never show." agnetta now appeared. she was dressed in the sunday blue, with bella's silver locket round her neck and a bangle on her wrist. but the glory of her attire was the new parasol; it was so large and was trimmed with such a wealth of cotton lace, that the eye was at once attracted to it, and in fact when she bore it aloft her short square figure walking along beneath it became quite a secondary object. lilac watched the departure from the dairy window, which, overgrown with creepers, made a dark frame for the brightly-coloured picture. there was mr buckle, a young farmer of the neighbourhood, in a light-grey suit with a blue satin tie and a rose in his buttonhole. there was bella, her face covered with self-satisfied smiles, mounting to his side. there was agnetta carrying the new parasol high in the air with all its lace fluttering. how gay and happy they all looked! mrs greenways stood nodding at the window. she had meant to go out to the gate, but bella had checked her. "lor', ma," she said, "don't you come out with that great apron on--you're a perfect guy." when the start was really made, and her cousins were whirled off to the unknown delights of lenham, leaving only a cloud of dust behind them, lilac breathed a little sigh. the sun was so bright, the breeze blew so softly, the sky was so blue--it was the very day for a holiday. she would have liked to go too, instead of having a hard day's work before her. "where's lilac?" called out mrs greenways in her high-pitched worried voice. "what on earth's got that child? here's everything to do and no one to do it. ah! there you are," as lilac ran out from the dairy. "now, you haven't got no time to moon about to-day. you must stir yourself and help all you can." "bees is swarmin'!" said ben, thrusting his head in at the kitchen door, and immediately disappearing again. "bother the bees!" exclaimed mrs greenways crossly. but on molly the news had a different effect. it was counted lucky to be present at the housing of a new swarm. she at once left her occupation, seized a saucepan and an iron spoon, and regardless of her mistress rushed out into the garden, making a hideous clatter as she went. "there now, look at that!" said mrs greenways with a heated face. "she's off for goodness knows how long, and a batch of loaves burning in the oven, and your uncle wanting his tea sent down into the field. why ever should they want to go swarmin' now in that contrairy way?" she opened the oven door and took out the bread as she spoke. "now, don't you go running off, lilac," she continued. "there's enough of 'em out there to settle all the bees as ever was. you get your uncle's tea and take it out, and peter's too. they won't neither of 'em be in till supper. hurry now." the last words were added simply from habit, for she had soon discovered that it was impossible to hurry lilac. what she did was well and thoroughly done, but not even the example which surrounded her at orchards farm could make her in a bustle. the whole habit of her life was too strong within her to be altered. mrs greenways glanced at her a little impatiently as she steadily made the tea, poured it into a tin can, and cut thick hunches of bread and butter. "i could a done it myself in, half the time," she thought; but she was obliged to confess that lilac's preparations if slow were always sure, and that she never forgot anything. lilac tilted her sunbonnet well forward and set out, walking slowly so as not to spill the tea. how blazing the sun was, though it was now nearly four o'clock. in the distance she could see the end of her journey, the big bare field beyond the orchard full of busy figures. as she passed the kitchen garden, molly, rushing back from her encounter with the bees, almost ran against her. "there was two on 'em," she cried, her good-natured face shining with triumph and the heat of her exertions; "and we've housed 'em both beautiful. lor'! ain't it hot?" she stood with her iron weapons hanging down on each side, quite ready for a chat to delay her return to the house. molly was always cheerfully ready to undertake any work that was not strictly her own. lilac felt sorry, as they went on their several ways, to think of the scolding that was waiting for her; but it was wasted pity, for molly's shoulders were broad, and a scolding more or less made no manner of difference to them. there were all sorts and sizes of people at work in the hayfield as lilac passed through it. machines had not yet come into use at danecross, so that the services of men, women, and children were much in request at this busy time. the farmer, remembering the motto, was determined to make his hay while the sun shone, and had collected hands from all parts of the neighbourhood. lilac knew most of them, and passed along exchanging greetings, to where her uncle sat on his grey cob at the end of the field. he was talking to peter, who stood by him with a wooden pitchfork in his hand. lilac thought that her uncle's face looked unusually good-tempered as she handed up his meal to him. he sat there eating and drinking, and continued his conversation with his son. "well, and what d'ye think of buckle's offer for the colt?" "pity we can't sell him," answered peter. "_can't_ sell him!" repeated the farmer; "i'm not so sure about that. maybe he'd go sound now. he doesn't show no signs of lameness." "wouldn't last a month on the roads," said peter. the farmer's face clouded a little. "well," he said hesitatingly, "that's buckle's business. he can look him over, and if he don't see nothing wrong--" "we hadn't ought to sell him," said peter in exactly the same voice. "he's not fit for the roads. take him off soft ground and he'd go queer in a week." "he might or he mightn't," said the farmer impatiently; "all i know is i want the cash. it'd just pay that bill of jones's, as is always bothering for his money. i declare i hate going into lenham for fear of meeting that chap." peter had begun to toss the hay near him with his pitchfork. he did not look at his father or change his expression, but he said again: "knowing what we do, we hadn't ought to sell him." the farmer struck his stirrup-iron so hard with his stick that even the steady grey pony was startled. "i wish," he said with an oath, "that you'd never found it out then. i'd like to be square and straight about the horse as well as anyone. i've always liked best to be straight, but i'm too hard up to be so particular as that comes to. it's easy enough," he added moodily, "for a man to be honest with his pockets full of money." "i could get the same price for none-so-pretty," said peter after a long pause. "mrs grey wants her--over at cuddingham. took a fancy to her a month ago." "i'll not have her sold," said the farmer quickly. "what's the good of selling her? she's useful to us, and the colt isn't." "she ain't not exactly so _useful_ to us as the other cows," said peter. "she's more of a fancy." "well, she's yours," answered the farmer sullenly. "you can do as you like with her of course; but i'm not going to be off my bargain with buckle whatever you do." he shook his reins and jogged slowly away to another part of the field, while peter fell steadily to work again with his pitchfork. lilac was packing the things that had been used into her basket, and glanced at him now and then with her thoughts full of what she had just heard. her opinion of peter had changed very much lately. she had found, since her first conversation with him, that in many things he was not stupid but wise. he knew for instance a great deal about all the animals on the farm, their ways and habits, and how to treat them when they were ill. there were some matters to be sure in which he was laughably simple, and might be deceived by a child, but there were others on which everyone valued his opinion. his father certainly deferred to him in anything connected with the live stock, and when peter had discovered a grave defect in the colt he did not dream of disputing it. so lilac's feeling of pity began to change into something like respect, and she was sure too that peter was anxious to show her kindness, though the expression of it was difficult to him. since the day when he had gone away from her so suddenly, frightened by her tears, they had had several talks together, although the speech was mostly on lilac's side. she shrank from him no longer, and sometimes when the real peter came up from the depths where he lay hidden, and showed a glimpse of himself through the dull mask, she thought him scarcely ugly. would he sell none-so-pretty? she knew what it would cost him, for since ben's history she had observed the close affection between them. there were not so many people fond of peter that he could afford to lose even the love of a cow--and yet he would rather do it than let the colt be sold! as she turned this over in her mind lilac lingered over her preparations, and when peter came near her tossing the hay to right and left with his strong arms, she looked up at him and said: "i'm sorry about none-so-pretty." peter stopped a moment, took off his straw hat and rubbed his hot red face with his handkerchief. "thank yer," he answered; "so am i." "is it _certain sure_ you'll sell her?" asked lilac. peter nodded. "she'll have a good home yonder," he said; "a rare fuss they'll make with her." "she'll miss you though," said lilac, shaking her head. "well," answered peter, "i shouldn't wonder if she did look out for me a bit just at first. i've always been foolish over her since she was ill." "but if uncle sells the colt i s'pose you won't sell her, will you?" continued lilac. "he _won't_ sell him," was peter's decided answer, as he turned to his work again. now, nothing could have been more determined than mr greenways' manner as he rode away, but yet when lilac heard peter speak so firmly she felt he must be right. the colt would not be sold and none-so-pretty would have to go in his place. she returned to the farm more than ever impressed by peter's power. quiet, dull peter who seemed hardly able to put two sentences together, and had never an answer ready for his sisters' sharp speeches. that evening when bella and agnetta returned from lenham, lilac was at the gate. she had been watching for them eagerly, for she was anxious to hear all about the grand things they had seen, and hoped they would be inclined to talk about it. as they were saying goodbye to mr buckle with a great many smiles and giggles, the farmer came out. "stop a bit, buckle," he said, "i want a word with you about the colt. i've changed my mind since the morning." lilac heard no more as she followed her cousins into the house; but there was no need. peter had been right. during supper nothing was spoken of but the fete--the balloon, the band, the fireworks, and the dresses, charlotte smith's in particular. lilac was intensely interested, and it was trying after the meal was over to have to help molly in taking away the dishes, and lose so much of the conversation. this business over she drew near agnetta and made an attempt to learn more, but in vain. agnetta was in her loftiest mood, and though she was full of private jokes with bella, she turned away coldly from her cousin. they had evidently some subject of the deepest importance to talk of which needed constant whispers, titters from bella, and even playful slaps now and then. lilac could hear nothing but "he says--she says," and then a burst of laughter, and "go along with yer nonsense." it was dull to be left out of it all, and she wished more than ever that she had gone to the fete too. "lilac," said her aunt, "just run and fetch your uncle's slippers." she was already on her way when the farmer took his pipe out of his mouth and looked round. he had been moody and cross all supper-time, and now he glanced angrily at his two daughters as they sat whispering in the corner. "it's someone else's turn to run, it seems to me," he said; "lilac's been at it all day. you go, agnetta." and as agnetta left the room with an injured shrug, he continued: "seems too as if lilac had all the work and none of the fun. you'd like an outing as well as any of 'em--wouldn't you, my maid?" lilac did not know what to make of such unexpected kindness. as a rule her uncle seemed hardly to know that she was in the house. she did not answer, for she was very much afraid of him, but she looked appealingly at her aunt. "i'm sure, greenways," said the latter in an offended tone, "you needn't talk as if the child was put upon. and your own niece, and an orphan besides. i know my duty better. and as for holidays and fetes and such, 'tisn't nateral to suppose as how lilac would want to go to 'em after the judgment as happened to her directly after the last one. leastways, not yet awhile. there'd be something ondacent in it, to my thinking." "well, there! it doesn't need so much talking," replied the farmer. "i'm not wanting her to go to fetes. but there's mr snell--he was asking for her yesterday when i met him. let her go tomorrow and spend the day with him." "if there is a busier day than another, it's thursday," said mrs greenways fretfully. "why, as to that, she's only a child, and makes no differ in the house, as you always say," remarked the farmer; "anyhow, i mean her to go to-morrow, and that's all about it." lilac went to bed that night with a heart full of gratitude for her uncle's kindness, and delight at the promised visit; but her last thought before she slept was: "i'm sorry as how none-so-pretty has got to be sold." chapter nine. common things. "...find out men's wants and will and meet them there, all earthly joys grow less to the one joy of doing kindnesses." _george herbert_. lilac could hardly believe her own good fortune when nothing happened the next morning to prevent her visit, not even a cross word nor a complaint from her aunt, who seemed to have forgotten her objections of last night and to be quite pleased that she should go. mrs greenways put a small basket into her hand before she started, into which she had packed a chicken, a pot of honey, and a pat of fresh butter. "there," she said, "that's a little something from orchards farm, tell him. the chick's our own rearing, and the honey's from peter's bees, and the butter's fresh this morning." she nodded and smiled good-naturedly; joshua should see there was no stint at the farm. "be back afore dusk," she called after lilac as she watched her from the gate. so there was nothing to spoil the holiday or to damp lilac's enjoyment in any way, and she felt almost as merry as she used to be before she came to live in the valley, and had begun to have cares and troubles. for one whole day she was going to be white lilac again, with no anxieties about the butter; she would hear no peevish voices or wrangling disputes, she would have kindness and smiles and sunshine all round her, and the blue sky above. in this happy mood everything along the well-known road had new beauties, and when she turned up the hill and felt the keener air blow against her face, it was like the greeting of an old friend. the very flowers in the tall overgrown hedges were different to those which grew in the valley, and much sweeter; she pulled sprays of them as she went along until she had a large straggling bunch to carry as well as her basket, and so at last entered joshua's cottage with both hands full. "now, uncle joshua," she said, when the first greetings over he had settled to his work again, "i've come to dinner with you, and i've brought it along with me, and until it's ready you're not to look once into the kitchen. you couldn't never guess what it is, so you needn't try; and you mustn't smell it more nor you can help while it's cooking." it was a proud moment for lilac when, the fowl being roasted to a turn, the table nicely laid, and the bunch of flowers put exactly in the middle, she led the cobbler up to the feast. even if joshua had smelt the fowl he concealed it very well, and his whole face expressed the utmost astonishment, while lilac watched him in an ecstasy of delight. "my word!" he exclaimed, "its fit for a king. i feel," looking down at his clothes, "as if i ought to have on my sunday best." lilac was almost too excited to eat anything herself, and presently, when she saw joshua pause after his first mouthful, she enquired anxiously: "isn't it good, uncle?" "fact is," he answered, "it's _too_ good. i don't really feel as how i ought to eat such dillicate food. not being ill, or weak, or anyway picksome in my appetite." "i made sure you'd say that," said lilac triumphantly; "and i just made up my mind i'd cook it without telling what it was. you've got to eat it now, uncle joshua. you couldn't never be so ungrateful as to let it spoil." "there's mrs wishing now," said joshua, stilt hesitating, "a sickly ailing body as 'ud relish a morsel like this." it was not until lilac had set his mind at rest by promising to take some of the fowl to mrs wishing before she returned, that he was able to abandon himself to thorough enjoyment. lilac knew then by his silence that her little feast was heartily appreciated, and she would not disturb him by a word, although there were many things she wanted to say. but at last joshua had finished. "a fatter fowl nor a finer, nor a better cooked one couldn't be," he said, as he laid down his knife and fork. "not a bit o' dryness in the bird: juicy all through and as sweet as a nut." ready now for a little conversation, he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe while lilac stood near washing the dishes and plates. "it's thirty years ago," he said, speaking in a jerky voice so as not to interfere with the comfort of his pipe, "since i had a fowl for dinner-and i mind very well when it was. it was my wedding-day. away up in the north it was, and parson gave the feast." "was that when you used to play the clar'net in church, uncle?" asked lilac. joshua nodded. "we was a clar'net and a fiddle and a bass viol," he said reflectively. "never kept time--the bass viol didn't. couldn't never get it into his head. he wasn't never any shakes of a player--and he was a good feller too." "did they play at your wedding?" asked lilac. "they did that," he answered; "in church and likewise after the ceremony. lor'! to hear how the bass viol did tag behind in _rockingham_. i can hear him now. 'twas like two solos being played, as one might say. no unity at all. i never hear that tune now but what it carries me back to my wedding-day and the bass viol; and the taste of that fowl's done the same thing. it's a most pecooliar thing, is the memory." lilac liked to hear joshua talk about old days, but she was eager too to tell her own news. there was so much that he did not know: all about hay-harvest, and her butter-making, about lenham fete, and her cousins, and, finally, all about none-so-pretty and peter. "i do think," she added, "as how i like him best of any of 'em, for all they say he's so common." "common or uncommon, they'd do badly without him," muttered joshua. "he's the very prop and pillar of the place, is peter; if a wall's strong enough to hold the roof up, you don't ask if it's made of marble or stone." "are common things bad things?" asked lilac suddenly. joshua took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at her in some surprise. "common things--eh?" he repeated. "yes, uncle," said lilac hesitatingly, and trying to think of how to make it clear. but she could only add: "they call the pigs common too." "well, as to pigs," said joshua, "i wish they was commoner still. i don't despise a bit of bacon myself. i call that a good thing anyhow. when one comes to look at it," he continued after a few puffs at his pipe, "the best things of all is common. the things as is under our feet and nigh to our hand and easy to be got. there's the flowers now-the common ones which grow so low as any child can pick 'em in the fields, daisies and such. there's the blue sky as we can all see, poor as well as rich. there's rain and sunshine and air and a heap else as belongs to all alike, and which we couldn't do without. the common things is the best things, don't you make any mistake about that. there's your own name now--lilac. it's a common bush lilac is; it grows every bit as well in a little bit of garden nigh the road as in a grand park, and it hasn't no rare colours to take the eye. and yet on a sunshiny day after rain the folks passing'll say, `whatever is it as smells so beautiful?' why it's just the common lilac bush. you ought to be like that in a manner of speaking--not to try and act clever and smart so as to make folks stare, but to be good-tempered and peaceful and loving, so as they say when you leave 'em, `what made the place so pleasant? why, it was lilac white. she ain't anything out of the common, but we miss her now she's gone--'" the frequent mention of her name reminded lilac of something she wanted to say, and she broke in suddenly: "why, i've never thought to thank you, uncle, for all that bloom you got me on may day. what a long way back it do seem!" joshua looked perplexed. "what's the child talking on?" he said. "i didn't get no flowers." "whoever in all the world could it a been then?" said lilac slowly. "you're sure you haven't forgotten, uncle joshua?" "sartain sure!" "you didn't ask no one to get it?" "never mentioned a word to a livin' bein'." lilac stared thoughtfully at the cobbler, who had now gone back to his little shed and was hard at work. "p'r'aps, then," she said, "'twarn't you neither who sent mother's cactus down to the farm?" "similarly," replied he, "it certainly was _not_; so you've got more friends than you reckoned for, you see." lilac stood in the doorway, her bonnet dangling in one hand, her eyes fixed absently on joshua's brown fingers. "i made sure," she said, "as how it was you. i couldn't think as there was anybody else to mind." it was getting late. without looking at the clock she knew that her holiday would soon be over, because through joshua's little window there came a bright sun beam which was never there till after five. she tied on her bonnet, prepared a choice morsel of chicken for mrs wishing, and set out on her further journey after a short farewell to the cobbler. joshua never liked saying goodbye, and did it so gruffly that it might have sounded sulky to the ear of a stranger, but lilac knew better. she had a "goodish step" before her, as she called it to herself, and if she were to get back to the farm before dusk she must make haste. so she hurried on, and soon in the distance appeared the two little white cottages side by side, perched on the edge of the steep down. the one in which she had lived with her mother was empty, and as she got close to it and stopped to look over the paling into the small strip of garden, she felt sorry to see how forlorn and deserted it looked. it had always been so trim and neat, and its white hearthstone and open door had invited the passer-by to enter. now the window shutters were fastened, the door was locked, the straggling flowers and vegetables were mixed up with tall weeds and nettles--it was all lifeless and cold. it was a pity. mother would not have liked to see it. lilac pushed her hand through the palings and managed to pick some sweet-peas which were trailing themselves helplessly about for want of support, then she went on to the next gate. poor mrs wishing was very lonely now that her only neighbour was gone; very few people passed over that way or came up so far from danecross. sometimes when dan'l had a job on in the woods he was away for days and she saw no one at all, unless she was able to get to the cobbler's cottage, and that was seldom. lilac knocked gently at the half-open door, and hearing no answer went in. mrs wishing was there, sitting asleep in a chair by the hearth with her head hanging uncomfortably on one side; her dress was untidy, her hair rough, and her face white and pinched. lilac cast one glance at her and then looked round the room. there were some white ashes on the hearth, a kettle hanging over them by its chain, and at mrs wishing's elbow stood an earthenware teapot, from which came a faint sickly smell; and when lilac saw that she nodded to herself, for she knew what it meant. the next moment the sleeper opened her large grey eyes and gazed vacantly at her visitor. "it's me," said lilac. "it's lilac white." mrs wishing still gazed without speaking; there was an unearthly flickering light in her eyes. at last she muttered indistinctly: "you're just like her." not in the least alarmed or surprised at this condition, lilac glanced at the teapot and said reproachfully: "you've been drinking poppy tea, and you promised mother you wouldn't do it no more." mrs wishing struggled feebly against the drowsiness which overpowered her, and murmured apologetically: "i didn't go to do it, but it seemed as if i couldn't bear the pain." lilac set down her basket, and opened the door of a cupboard near the chimney corner. "where's your kindlin's?" she asked. "i'll make you a cup of real tea, and that'll waken you up a bit. and uncle joshua's sent you a morsel of chicken." "ha'n't got no kindlin's and no tea," murmured mrs wishing. "give me a drink o' water from the jug yonder." no tea! that was an unheard-of thing. as lilac brought the water she said indignantly: "where's mr wishing then? he hadn't ought to go and leave you like this without a bit or a drop in the house." mrs wishing seemed a little refreshed by the water and was able to speak more distinctly. she sat up in her chair and made a few listless attempts to fasten up her hair and put herself to rights. "'tain't dan'l's fault this time," she said; "he's up in the woods felling trees for a week. they're sleeping out till the job's done. he did leave me money, and i meant to go down to the shop. but then i took bad and i couldn't crawl so far, and nobody didn't pass." "and hadn't you got nothing in the house?" asked lilac. "only a crust a' bread, and i didn't seem to fancy it. i craved so for a cup a' tea. and i had some dried poppy heads by me. so i held out as long as i could, and nobody didn't come. and this morning i used my kindlin's and made the tea. and when i drank it i fell into a blessed sleep, and i saw lots of angels, and their harps was sounding beautiful in my head all the time. when i was a gal there was a hymn--it was about angels and golden crownds and harps, but i can't put it rightly together now. so then i woke and there was you, and i thought you was a sperrit. seems a pity to wake up from a dream like that. but _i_ dunno." she let her head fall wearily back as she finished. lilac was not in the least interested by the vision. she was accustomed to hear of mrs wishing's angels and harps, and her mind was now entirely occupied by earthly matters. "what you want is summat to eat and drink," she said, "and i shall just have to run back to uncle joshua's for some bread and tea. but first i'll get a few sticks and make you a blaze to keep you comp'ny." mrs wishing's eyes rested an her like those of a child who is being comforted and taken care of, as having collected a few sticks she knelt on the hearth and fanned them into a blaze with her pinafore. "you couldn't bide a little?" she said doubtfully, as lilac turned towards the door. "i'll be back in no time," said lilac, "and then you shall have a nice supper, and you mustn't take no more of this," pointing to the teapot. "you know you promised mother." "i didn't _go to_," repeated mrs wishing submissively; "but it seemed as if i couldn't bear the gnawing in my inside." it did not take long for lilac, filled with compassion for her old friend, to run back to the cobbler's cottage; but there she was delayed a little, for joshua had questions to ask, although he was ready and eager to fill her basket with food. the return was slower, for it was all uphill and her burden made a difference to her speed, so that it was long past sunset when she reached mrs wishing for the second time. then, after coaxing her to eat and drink, lilac had to help her upstairs and put her to bed like a child, and finally to sit by her side and talk soothingly to her until she dropped into a deep sleep. her duties over, and everything put ready to. mrs wishing's hand for the next morning, she now had time to notice that it was quite dusk, and that the first stars were twinkling in the sky. with a sudden start she remembered her aunt's words: "be back afore dusk," and clasped her hands in dismay. it was no use to hurry now, for however quickly she went the farm would certainly be closed for the night before she reached it. should she stay where she was till the morning? no, it would be better to take the chance of finding someone up to let her in. mrs wishing would be all right now that joshua knew about her; "and anyway, i'm glad i came," said lilac to herself, "even if aunt does scold a bit." with this thought to console her, she stepped out into the cool summer night, and began her homeward journey. it was not very dark, for it was midsummer--near saint barnabas day, when there is scarcely any night at all- "barnaby bright all day and no night!" lilac had often heard her mother say that rhyme, and she remembered it now. it was all very, very still, so that all manner of sounds too low to have been noticed amongst the noises of the day were now plainly to be heard. a soft wind went whispering and sighing to itself in the trees overhead, carrying with it the sweetness of the hayfields and the honeysuckle in the hedges, owls hooted mysteriously, and the frogs croaked in some distant pond. creatures never seen in the daytime were now awake and busy. as lilac ran along, the bats whirred close past her face, and she saw in the grass by the wayside the steady little light of the glow-worms. it was certainly very late; there was hardly a glimmer of hope that anyone would be up at the farm. it was equally certain that, if there were, a scolding waited for lilac. either way it was bad, she thought. she wanted to go to bed, for she was very tired, but she did not want to be scolded to-night; she could bear that better in the morning. when she reached the house, therefore, and found it all silent and dark, with no light in any window and no sound of any movement, she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. but presently, as she stood there forlornly, with only the sky overhead full of stars blinking their cold bright eyes at her, she began to long to creep in somewhere and rest. her limbs ached, her head felt heavy, and her hard little bed seemed a luxury well worth the expense of a scolding. should she venture to knock at the door? she had almost determined on this bold step, when quite suddenly a happy idea came to her. there would perhaps be some door open in the outbuildings, either in the loft or the barn or the stables, where she could get in and find shelter for the night. it was worth trying at any rate. with renewed hope she ran across the strawyard and tried the great iron ring in the stable door. it was not locked. here were shelter and rest at last, and no one to scold! she crept in, and was just closing the heavy door when towards her, across the rickyard, came the figure of a man. his head was bent so that she could not see his face, but she thought from his lumbering walk that it must be peter, and in a moment it flashed across her mind that he had just got back from cuddingham. while she stood hesitating just within the door the man came quite close, and before she could call out the key rattled in the lock and heavy footsteps tramped away again. then it was peter. but surely he must have seen her, and if so why had he locked her in? anyhow here she was for the night, and the next thing to do was to find a bed. she groped her way past the stalls of the three pleasants, whose dwelling she had invaded, to the upright ladder which led to the loft. the horses were all lying down after their hard day's work, and only one of them turned his great head with a rattle of his halter, to see who this small intruder could be. lilac clambered up the ladder and was soon in the dark fragrant-smelling loft above, where the trusses of hay and straw were mysteriously grouped under the low thick beams. there was no lack of a soft warm nest here, and the close neighbourhood of the pleasants made it feel secure and friendly; nothing could possibly be better. she took off her shoes, curled herself up cosily in the hay, and shut her weary eyes. presently she opened them drowsily again, and then discovered that her lodging was shared by a companion, for on the rafters just above her head, her single eye gleaming in the darkness, sat peter's cat tib. lilac called to her, but she took no notice and did not move, having her own affairs to conduct at that time of night. lilac watched her dreamily for a little while, and then her thoughts wandered on to peter and became more and more confused. he got mixed up with joshua, and the cactus and none-so-pretty and heaps of white flowers. "the common things are the best things," she seemed to hear over and over again. then quite suddenly she was in mrs wishing's cottage, and the loft was filled with the heavy sickly smell of poppy tea: it was so strong that it made her feel giddy and her eyelids seemed pressed down by a firm hand. after that she remembered nothing more that night. chapter ten. the credit of the farm. "many littles make a mickle."--_scotch proverb_. she was awakened the next morning by trampling noises in the stable below, and starting up could not at first make out where she was. the sun was shining through a rift in the loft door, tib was gone, cocks were crowing outside, all the world was up and busy. she could hear ben's gruff voice and the clanking of chains and harness, and soon he and the three horses had left the stable and gone out to their day's work. it must be late, therefore, and she must lose no time in presenting herself at the house. perhaps it might be possible, she thought, to get up to her attic without seeing anyone, and tidy herself a bit first; she should then have more courage to face her aunt, for at present with her rough hair and pieces of hay and straw clinging to her clothes, she felt like some little stray wanderer. she approached the house cautiously and peeped in at the back door before entering, to see who was in the kitchen. bella was there talking to molly, whose broad red face was thrust eagerly forward as though she were listening to something interesting. they were indeed so deeply engaged that lilac felt sure they would not notice her, and she took courage and went in. "it's a mercy she wasn't killed," molly was saying. "she's no light weight to fall, isn't the missus." "it's completely upset me," said bella in a faint voice, with one hand on her heart. "i tremble all over still." "and to think," said molly, "as it was only yesterday i said to myself, `i'll darn that carpet before i'm an hour older'." "well, it's a pity you didn't," said bella sharply; "just like your careless ways." molly shook her head. "'twasn't to _be_," she said. "'twasn't for nothing that i spilt the salt twice, and dreamt of water." "the doctor says it's a bad sprain," continued bella; "and it's likely she'll be laid up for a month. perfect rest's the only thing." "_i_ had a cousin," said molly triumphantly, "what had a similar accident. a heavy woman she was, like the missus in build. information set in with _her_ and she died almost immediate." lilac did not wait to hear more; she made her escape safely to her attic, and soon afterwards found agnetta and learnt from her the history of the accident. mrs greenways had had a bad fall; she had caught her foot in a hole in the carpet and twisted her ankle, and the doctor said it was a wonder she had not broken any bones. everyone in the house had so much to say, and was so excited about this misfortune, that lilac's little adventure was passed over without notice, and the scolding she had dreaded did not come at all. poor mrs greenways had other things to think of as she lay groaning on the sofa, partly with pain and partly at the prospect before her. to be laid up a month! it was easy for the doctor to talk, but what would become of things? who would look after molly? who would see to the dairy? it would all go to rack and ruin, and she must lie here idle and look on. her husband stood by trying to give comfort, but every word he said only seemed to make matters worse. "why, there's bella now," he suggested; "she ought to be able to take your place for a bit." "and that just shows how much you know about the indoors work, greenways," said his wife fretfully; "to talk of bella! why, i'd as soon trust the dairy to peter's cat as bella--partikler now she's got that young buckle in her head. she don't know cream from buttermilk." "why, then, you must just leave the butter to molly as usual, and let the girls see after the rest," said mr greenways soothingly. "oh, it's no use talking like that," said his wife impatiently; "it's only aggravating to hear you. i suppose you think things are done in the house without heads or hands either. girls indeed! there's agnetta, knows no more nor a baby, and only that little bit of a lilac as can put her hand to anything." finding his efforts useless, mr greenways shrugged his shoulders and went out, leaving his wife alone with her perplexities. the more she thought them over the worse they seemed. to whom could she trust whilst she was helpless? who would see that the butter was ready and fit for market? not bella, not agnetta, and certainly not molly. really and truly there was only that little bit of a lilac, as she called her, to depend on--she would do her work just as well whether she were overlooked or not, mrs greenways felt sure. it was no use to shut her eyes to it any longer, lilac white was not a burden but a support, not useless but valuable, only a child, but more dependable than many people of twice her years. it was bitter to poor mrs greenways to acknowledge this, even to herself, for the old jealousy was still strong within her. "i s'pose," she said with a groan, "there was something in mary white's upbringing after all. i'm not agoin' to own up to it, though, afore other folks." when a little later lilac was told that her aunt wanted her, she thought that the scolding had come at last, and went prepared to bear it as well as she could. it was, however, for a surprisingly different purpose. "look here, lilac," said mrs greenways carelessly, "you've been a good deal in the dairy lately, and you ought to have picked up a lot about it." "i can make the butter all myself, aunt," replied lilac, "without molly touching it." "well, i hope you're thankful for such a chance of learning," said mrs greenways; "not but what you're a good child enough, i've nothing to say against you. but what i want to say is this: molly can't do everything while i'm laid by, and i think i shall take her from the dairy-work altogether, and let you do it." lilac's eyes shone with delight. her aunt spoke as though she were bestowing a favour, and she felt it indeed to be such. "oh! thank you, aunt," she cried. "i'm quite sure as how i can do it, and i like it ever so much." "with agnetta to help you i dessay you'll get through with it," said mrs greenways graciously, and so the matter was settled. lilac was dairymaid! no longer a little household drudge, called hither and thither to do everyone's work, but an important person with a business and position of her own. what an honour it was! there was only one drawback--there was no mother to rejoice with her, or to understand how glad she felt about it. lilac was obliged to keep her exultation to herself. she would have liked to tell peter of her advancement, but just now he was at work on some distant part of the farm, and she saw him very seldom, for her new office kept her more within doors than usual. the good-natured molly was, however, delighted with the change, and full of wonder at lilac's cleverness. "it's really wonderful," she said; "and what beats me is that it allus turns out the same." with this praise lilac had to be content, and she busied herself earnestly in her own little corner with increasing pride in her work. sometimes, it is true, she looked enviously at agnetta, who seemed to have nothing to do but enjoy herself after her own fashion. since lenham fete bella and she had had some confidential joke together, which they carried on by meaning nods and winks and mysterious references to "charlie." they were also more than ever engaged in altering their dresses and trimming their hats, and although lilac was kept completely outside all this, she soon began to connect it with the visits of young mr buckle. she thought it a little unkind of agnetta not to let her into the secret, and it was dull work to hear so much laughter going on without ever joining in it; but very soon she knew what it all meant. "heard the news?" cried agnetta, rushing into the dairy, then, without waiting for an answer, "bella's goin' to get married. guess who to?" "young mr buckle," said lilac without a moment's hesitation. "as soon as ever ma's about again the wedding's to be," said agnetta exultingly. "i'm to be bridesmaid, and p'r'aps charlotte smith as well." lilac, who had stopped her scrubbing to listen, now went on with it, and agnetta looked down at her kneeling figure with some contempt. "what a lot of trouble you take over it!" she said. "molly used to do it in half the time." "if i ain't careful," answered lilac, "the butter'd get a taste." "i'll help you a bit," said her cousin condescendingly. "i'll rinse these pans for you." lilac was glad to have agnetta's company, for she wanted to hear all about bella's wedding; but agnetta's help she was not so anxious for, because she usually had to do the work all over again. agnetta's idea of excellence was to get through her work quickly, to make it look well outside, to polish the part that showed and leave the rest undone. speed and show had always been the things desired in the household at orchards farm--not what _was_ good but what _looked_ good, and could be had at small expense and labour. beneath the smart clothing which mrs greenways and her daughters displayed on sundays, strange discoveries might have been made. rents fastened up with pins, stains hidden by stylish scarves and mantles, stockings unmended, boots trodden down or in holes. a feather in the hat, a bangle on the arm, and a bunched-up dress made up for these deficiencies. "if it don't show it don't matter," bella was accustomed to say. agnetta paused to rest after about two minutes. "bella won't have nothing of this sort to do after she's married," she said. "charlie says she needn't stir a finger, not unless she likes. she'll be able to sit with her hands before her just like a lady." "i shouldn't care about being a lady if that's what i had to do," said lilac. "i should think it would be dull. i'd rather see after the farm, if i was bella." "you don't mean to tell me you _like work_?" said agnetta, staring. "you wouldn't do it, not if you weren't obliged? 'tain't natural." "i like some," said lilac. "i like the dairy work and i like feeding the poultry. and i want to learn to milk, if ben'll teach me. and in the spring i mean to try and get ever such a lot of early ducks." "well, i hate all that," said agnetta. "now, if i could choose i wouldn't live on a farm at all. i'd have lots of servants, and silk gownds and gold bracelets and broaches, and satting furniture, and a carridge to drive in every day. an' i'd lie in bed ever so late in the mornings and always do what i liked." time went on and mrs greenway's ankle got better, so that although still lame she was able to hobble about with a stick, and find out molly's shortcomings much as usual. during her illness she had relied a good deal on lilac and softened in her manner towards her, but now the old feeling of jealousy came back, and she found it impossible to praise her for the excellence of the dairy-work. "i can't somehow bring my tongue to it," she said to herself; "and the better she behaves the less i can do it." one day the farmer came back from lenham in a good humour. "benson asked if we'd got a new dairymaid," he said to his wife; "the butter's always good now. which of 'em does it?" "oh," said mrs greenways carelessly, "the girls manage it between 'em, and i look it over afore it goes." lilac heard it, for she had come into the room unnoticed, and for a second she stood still, uncertain whether to speak, fixing a reproachful gaze on her aunt. what a shame it was! was this her reward for all her patience and hard work? never a word of praise, never even the credit of what she did! on her lips were some eager angry words, but she did not utter them. she turned and ran upstairs to her own little attic. her heart was full; she could see no reason for this injustice: it was very, very hard. what would they do, she went on to think, if she left the butter to bella and agnetta to manage between them? what would her aunt say then? trembling with indignation she sat down on her bed and buried her face in her hands. at first she was too angry to cry, but soon she felt so lonely, with such a great longing for a word of comfort and kindness, that the tears came fast. after that she felt a little better, rubbed her eyes on her pinafore, and looked up at the small window through which there streamed some bright rays of the afternoon sun. what was it that lighted the room with such a glory? not the sunshine alone. it rested on something in the window, which stood out in gorgeous splendour from the white bareness of its surroundings--the cactus had bloomed! yes, the cactus had really burst into two blossoms, of such size and brilliancy that with the sunlight upon them they were positively dazzling to behold. lilac sat and blinked her red eyes at them in admiration and wonder. she had watched the two buds with tender interest, and feared they would never unfold themselves. now they had done it, and how beautiful they were! how mother would have liked them! her next thought was, as she went closer to examine them, that she must tell peter. she remembered now, that, occupied with her own affairs and interests, she had never thanked him for two kind things he had done. she was quite sure that he had got the flowers for her on may day, and had brought the cactus down from the cottage, yet she had said nothing. how ungrateful she had been! she knew now how hard it was not to be thanked for one's services. did peter mind? he must be pretty well used to it, for certainly no one ever thanked him for anything, and as for praise that was out of the question. if, as uncle joshua had said, he was the prop of the house, it was taken for granted, and no one thought of saying, "well done, peter!" yet he never complained. he went patiently on in his dull way, keeping his pains and troubles to himself. how seldom his face was brightened by pleasure, and yet lilac remembered when he had been talking to her about his animals or farming matters, that she had seen it change wonderfully. some inner feeling had beamed out from it, and for a few minutes peter was a different creature. it was a pity that he did not always look like that; no one at such times could call him stupid or ugly. "anyway," concluded lilac, "he's been kind, and i'll thank him as soon as ever i can." her sympathy for peter made her own trouble seem less, and she went downstairs cheerfully with her mind bent on managing a little talk with him as soon as possible. supper-time would not do, because bella and agnetta were there, and afterwards peter was so sleepy. it must be to-morrow. as it happened things turned out fortunately for lilac, and required no effort on her part, for mrs greenways discovered the next day that someone must do some shopping in lenham. there were things wanted that dimbleby did not keep, and the choice of which could not be trusted to a man. "i wonder," she said, "if i could make shift to get into the cart--but if i did i couldn't never get in and out at the shops." she looked appealingly at her elder daughter. "the cart's _going_ in with the butter," she added. but bella was not inclined to take the hint. "you don't catch me driving into lenham with the cart full of butter and eggs and such," she said. "whatever'd charlie say? why shouldn't lilac go? she's sharp enough." there seemed no reason against this, and it was accordingly settled that lilac should be entrusted with mrs greenways' commissions. as she received them, her mind was so full of the dazzling prospect of driving into lenham with the butter that it was almost impossible to bring it to bear on anything else. it would be like going into the world. only once in her whole life had she been there before, and that was when her mother had taken her long ago. she was quite a little child then, but she remembered the look of it still, and what a grand place she had thought it, with its broad market square and shops and so many people about. when her aunt had finished her list, which was a very long one, bella was ready with her wants, which were even more puzzling. "i want this ribbon matched," she said, "and i want a bonnet shape. it mustn't be too high in the crown nor yet too broad in the brim, and it mustn't be like the one charlotte smith's got now. if you can't match the ribbon exactly you must get me another shade. a kind of a sap green, i think--but it must be something uncommon. and you might ask at jones's what's being worn in hats now--feathers or artificials. oh, and i want some cream lace, not more than sixpence a yard, a good striking pattern, and as deep as you can get for the money." agnetta having added to this two ounces of coconut rock and a threepenny bottle of scent, lilac was allowed to get ready for her expedition. the cart was waiting in the yard with the baskets packed in at the back, and ben was buckling the last strap of the harness. she expected that he was going with her, and it was quite a pleasant surprise when peter came out of the house with a whip in his hand and took the reins. nothing could have happened more fortunately, she thought to herself as they drove out of the gate, for now there would be no difficulty at all in saying what she had on her mind. this and the excitement of the journey itself put her in excellent spirits, so that though some people might have called the road to lenham dull and flat, it was full of charms to lilac. it was indeed more lively than usual, for it was market day, and as they jogged along at an easy pace they were constantly greeted by acquaintances all bent in the same direction. some of these were on foot and others in all kinds of vehicles, from a wagon to a donkey cart. mr buckle presently dashed by them in a smart gig, and called out, "how's yourself, peter?" as he passed; and farther on they overtook mrs pinhorn actively striding along in her well-known checked shawl. peter answered all greetings in the same manner--a wag of the head towards the right shoulder--but lilac felt so proud and pleased to be going to lenham with her own butter that she sat up very straight, and smiled and nodded heartily to those she knew. it seemed a wonderfully short journey, and she saw the spire of lenham church in the distance before she had said one word to peter, or he had broken silence except to speak to his horse. this did not disturb her, for she was used to his ways now, and she made up her mind that she would put off any attempt at conversation until their return. and here they were at lenham, rattling over the round stones with which the marketplace was paved. it was full of stalls, crowded together so closely that there was scarcely room for all the people passing up and down between them. they struggled along, jostling each other, pushing their way with great baskets on their arms, and making a confusion of noises. scolding, laughter, shouting filled the air, mixed up with the clatter of crockery, cracking of whips, and the shrill cries of the market women. such a turmoil lilac had never heard, and it was almost a relief when peter turned a little away from it and drew up at the door of benson's shop, where the butter was to be left. it was a large and important shop, and though the entrance was down a narrow street it had two great windows facing the market square, and there was a constant stream of people bustling in and out. lilac's heart beat fast with excitement. if she had known that the butter was to be displayed in such a grand beautiful place as this, and seen by so many folks, she would hardly have dared to undertake it. sudden fear seized her that it might not be so good as usual this time: there was perhaps some fault in the making-up, some failure in the colour, although she had thought it looked all right when she packed up at the farm. she followed peter into the shop with quite a tremor, and was glad when she saw mr benson could not attend to them just yet, for he and his boy were both deeply engaged in attending to customers. lilac had plenty of time to look round her. her eye immediately fell on some rolls of butter on the counter, and she lifted a corner of the cloth which covered her own and gave an anxious peep at it, then nudged peter and looked up at him for sympathy. "it's a better colour nor that yonder," she whispered. peter stood stolidly unconscious of her excitement, but he turned his quiet eyes upon the eager face lifted to his, and nodded kindly. mr benson caught sight of him and bustled up. "morning, peter," he said briskly. "how's your mother?" "middling, thank you," said peter, and without any further words he pointed at the basket on the counter. "butter--eh?" said the grocer. "well, i hope it's as good as the last." he unpacked the basket and proceeded to weigh the butter, talking all the time. "it's an odd thing to me how your butter varies. now, the last month it's been as good again as it used to be. of course in the winter there will be a difference because of the feed, i can understand that; but i can't see why it shouldn't be always the same in the summer. i don't mind telling you," he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential tone, "that i'd made up my mind at one time to give it up. people won't buy inferior butter, and i don't blame 'em." "it's good this time, anyhow," said peter. "it's prime," said mr benson. "is it the cows now, that you've got new, or is it the dairymaid?" "the cows isn't new, nor yet the dairymaid," said peter. "well, whichever it is," said the grocer, "the credit of the farm's coming back. orchards farm always had a name for its dairy in the old days. i remember my father talking of it when i was a boy." mrs pinhorn, who had been standing near during this conversation, now struck sharply in: "they _do_ say there was a brownie at the farm in those days, but when it got into other hands he was angered and quitted." "that's a curious superstition, ma'am," said the grocer politely. "there's folks in danecross who give credit to it still," continued mrs pinhorn. "old grannie dunch'll tell you ever so many tales about the brownie and his goings-on." "well, if we didn't live, so to say, within the pale of civilisation," said the grocer, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, "we might think you'd got him back again at the farm. what do you say to that, peter?" everyone knew that peter believed in all sorts of crazy things, and when mr benson put this jocular question to him several people turned to see how he took it. lilac looked eagerly up at him also, for she had a faint hope that he might somehow know that she was dairymaid, and would tell them so. that would be a triumph indeed. at any rate he would stop all this silly talk about the brownie. she had heard grannie dunch's stories scores of times, and they were very interesting, but as to believing them--lilac felt far above such folly, and held them all in equal contempt, whether they were of charms, ghosts, brownies, or other spirits. it was therefore with dismay that she saw peter's face get redder and redder under the general gaze, and heard him instead of speaking up only mutter, "i don't know nothing about it." moved by indignation at such foolishness, and at the mocking expression an mr benson's round face, she ventured to give peter's sleeve a sharp pull. no more words came, he only shuffled his feet uneasily and showed an evident desire to get out of the shop. "well, well," said the grocer, turning his attention to some money he was counting out of a drawer, "never you mind, peter. if you've got him you'd better keep him, for he knows how to make good butter at any rate." everyone laughed, as they always did at mr benson's speeches, and in the midst of it peter gathered up his money and left the shop with lilac. she felt so ruffled and vexed by what had passed, that she could hardly attend to his directions as he pointed out the different shops she had to go to. they were an ironmonger's, a linendraper's, and a china shop, and in the last he told her she must wait until he came to fetch her with the cart in about an hour's time. lilac stood for a moment looking after him as he drove away to put up his horse at the inn. she was angry with mr benson, angry with the people who had laughed, and angry with peter. no wonder folks thought him half-silly when he looked like that. and yet he knew twice as much as all of 'em put together. only that morning when sober had cut his foot badly with broken glass, it was peter with his clumsy-looking gentle fingers who had known how to stop the bleeding and bind up the wound in the best way. but in spite of all this he could stand like a gaby and let folks make a laughing-stock of him? it was so provoking to remember how silly he had looked, that it was only by a determined effort that lilac could get it out of her head, and bend her attention on bella's ribbons and her aunt's pots and pans. when she had once began her shopping, however, she found it took all her thoughts, and it was not till she was seated in the china shop, her business finished, and her parcels disposed round her, that the scene came back to her again. could it be possible that peter put any faith in such nonsensical tales? grannie dunch believed them; but then she was very ignorant, over ninety years old, and had never been to school. when grannie dunch was young perhaps folks did believe such things, and she had never been taught better; there were excuses for her. on one point lilac was determined. peter's mind should be cleared up as to who made the butter. what had mr benson said about it? "the credit of the farm's coming back." she repeated the words to herself in a whisper. what a grand thing if she, lilac white, had helped to bring back the credit of the farm! at this point in her reflections the white horse appeared at the door, and lilac and all her belongings were lifted up into the cart. very soon they were out of the noisy stony streets of lenham, and on the quiet country road again. she took a side glance at her companion. he looked undisturbed, with his eyes fixed placidly on the horse's ears, and had evidently nothing more on his mind than to sit quietly there until they reached home. it made lilac feel quite cross, and she gave him a sharp little nudge with her elbow to make him attend to what she had to say. "why ever did you let 'em go on so silly about the brownie?" she said. "you looked for all the world as if you believed in it." peter flicked his horse thoughtfully. "there's a many cur'ous things in the world," he said; "cur'ouser than that." "there ain't no such things as brownies, though," said lilac, with decision; "nor yet ghosts, nor yet witches, nor yet any of them things as grannie dunch tells about." peter was silent. "_is_ there?" she repeated with another nudge of the elbow. "i don't says as there is," he answered slowly. "of course not!" exclaimed lilac triumphantly. "and i don't say as there isn't," finished peter in exactly the same voice. this unexpected conclusion quite took lilac's breath away. she stared speechlessly at her cousin, and he presently went on in a reflective tone with his eyes still fixed on the horse's ears: "it's been a wonderful lucky year, there's no denying. hay turned out well, corn's going to be good. more eggs, more milk, better butter, bees swarmed early." "but," put in lilac, "aunt sprained her ankle, and the colt went lame, and you had to sell none-so-pretty. that wasn't lucky. why didn't the brownie hinder that?" peter shook his head. "i don't say as there _is_ a brownie at the farm," he said. "but you think he helps make the butter," said lilac scornfully. peter turned his eyes upon his companion; her face was hidden from him by her sunbonnet, but her slender form and the sound of her voice seemed both to quiver with indignation and contempt. "well, then, who _does_?" he asked. but lilac only held her head up higher and kept a dignified silence; she was thoroughly put out with peter, and if he was so silly it really was no use to talk to him. conscious that he was in disgrace, peter fidgeted uneasily with his reins, whipped his horse, and cast some almost frightened glances over his shoulder at the silent little figure beside him, then he coughed several times, and finally, with an effort which seemed to make his face broader and redder every minute, began to speak: "i'd sooner plough a field than talk any day, but but i'll tell you something if i can put it together. words is so hard to frame, so as to say what you mean. maybe you'll only think me stupider after i'm done, but this is how it was--" he stopped short, and lilac said gently and encouragingly, "how was it, peter?" "i've had a sort of a queer feeling lately that there's something different at the farm. something that runs through everything, as you might say. the beasts do their work as well again, and the sun shines brighter, and the flowers bloom prettier, and there's a kind of a pleasantness about the place. i can't set it down to anything, any more than i know why the sky's blue, but it's there all the same. so i thought over it a deal, and one day i was up in the high field, and all of a sudden it rapped into my head what grannie dunch says about the brownie as used to work at the farm. `maybe,' i says to myself, `he's come back.' so i didn't say nothing, but i took notice, and things went on getting better, and i got to feel there was someone there helping on the work--but i wasn't not to say _certain_ sure it was the brownie, till one night--" "when?" said lilac eagerly as peter paused. "it was last saint barnaby's, and i'd been up to cuddingham with none-so-pretty. it was late when i got back, and i remembered i hadn't locked the stable door, and i went across the yard to do it--" "well?" said lilac with breathless interest. "so as i went, it was most as light as day, and i saw as plain as could be something flit in at the stable door. 'twasn't so big as a man, nor so small as a boy, and its head was white. so then i thought, `surely 'tis the brownie, for night's his working time,' and i'd half a mind to take a peep and see him at it. but they say if you look him in the face he'll quit, so i just locked the door and left him there. when benson talked that way about the credit of the farm, i knew who we'd got to thank. howsomever," added peter seriously, "you mustn't thank him, nor yet pay him, else he'll spite you instead of working for you." as he finished his story he turned to his cousin a face beaming with the most childlike faith; but it suddenly clouded with disappointment, for lilac, no longer gravely attentive, was laughing heartily. "i thought maybe you'd laugh at me," he said, turning his head away ashamed. lilac checked her laughter. "here's a riddle," she said. "the brownie you locked into the stable that night always makes the butter. he isn't never thanked nor yet paid, but you've looked him in the face scores of times." peter gazed blankly at her. "you're doing of it now!" she cried with a chuckle of delight; "you're looking at the brownie now! why, you great goose, it's me as has made the butter this ever so long, and it was me as was in the stable on saint barnaby's!" it was only by very slow degrees that peter could turn his mind from the brownie, on whom it had been fixed for weeks past, to take in this new and astonishing idea. even when lilac had told her story many times, and explained every detail of how she had learnt to be dairymaid, he broke out again: "but how _could_ you do it? you didn't know before you came, and there's bella and agnetta was born on the farm, and doesn't know now. wonderful quick you must be, surely. and so little as you are--and quiet," he went on, staring at his cousin. "you don't make no more clatter nor fuss than a field-mouse." "'tisn't only noisy big things as is useful," said lilac with some pride. "it's harder to believe than the brownie," went on peter, shaking his head; "a deal more cur'ous. i thought i had got hold of him, but i don't seem to understand this at all." he fell into deep thought, shaking his head at intervals, and it was not until the farm was in sight that he broke silence again. "the smallest person in the farm," he said slowly, "has brought back the credit of the farm. it's downright amazing. i'm not agoin' to say `thank you,' though," he added with a smile as they drove in at the gate. a sudden thought flashed into lilac's mind. "oh, peter," she cried, "the flowers was lovely on may day, and the cactus is blooming beautiful! was it the brownie as sent 'em, do you think?" peter made no reply to this, and his face was hidden, for he was plunging down to collect the parcels in the back of the cart. lilac laughed as she ran into the house. what a funny one he was surely, and what a fine day's holiday she had been having! chapter eleven. the concert. "but i will wear my own brown gown and never look too fine." months came and went. august turned his beaming yellow face on the waving cornfields, and passed on leaving them shorn and bare. then came september bending under his weight of apples and pears, and after him october, who took away the green mantle the woods had worn all the summer, and gave them one of scarlet and gold. he spread on the ground, too, a gorgeous carpet of crimson leaves, which covered the hillside with splendour so that it glowed in the distance like fire. here and there the naked branches of the trees began to show sharply against the sky--soon it would be winter. already it was so cold, that although it was earlier than usual miss ellen said they must begin to think of warming the church, and to do this they must have some money, and therefore the yearly village concert must be arranged. "it was the new curate as come to me about it," said the cobbler to mr dimbleby one evening. "`you must give us a solo on the clar'net, mr snell,' says he." "he's a civil-spoken young feller enough," remarked mr dimbleby, "but he's too much of a boy to please me. the last was the man for my money." "time'll mend that," said joshua. "and what i like about him is that he don't bear no sort of malice when he's worsted in argeyment. we'd been differing over a passage of scripture t'other day, and when he got up to go, `ah, mr snell,' says he, `you've a deal to learn.' `and so have you, young man,' says i. bless you, he took it as pleasant as could be, and i've liked him ever since." he turned to bella greenways, who had just entered. "and what's _your_ place in the programme, miss greenways?" bella always avoided speaking to the cobbler if she could, for while she despised him as a "low" person, she feared his opinion, and knew that he disapproved of her. she now put on her most mincing air as she replied: "agnetta and me's to play a duet, the `edinburgh quadrilles,' and mr buckle accompanies on the drum and triangle." "why, you'd better fall in too with the clar'net, mr snell," suggested mr dimbleby. "that'd make a fine thing of it with four instruments." joshua shook his head solemnly. "mine's a solo," he said. "a sacred one: `sound the loud timbrel o'er egypt's dark sea.' that'll give a variety." "mr buckle's going to recite a beautiful thing," put in bella: "`the dream of eugene aram'. he's been practising it ever so long. he's going to do it with action." "i don't know as i can make much of that reciting," said joshua doubtfully. "now a good tune, or a song, or a bit of reading, i can take hold of and carry along, but it's poor sport to see a man twist hisself, and make mouths, and point about at nothing at all. i remember the first time the curate did it. he stares straight at me for a second, and then he shakes his fist and shouts out suddenly: `wretch!' or `villain!' or summat of that sort. i was so taken aback i nearly got up and went out. downright uncomfortable i was." "it's all the fashion now. but of course," said bella disdainfully, "it isn't everybody as is used to it. i'm sure it's beautiful to hear charlie! it makes your blood run cold. there's a part where he has to speak it in a sort of a hissing whisper. he's afraid the back seats won't hear." "and a good thing for 'em," muttered joshua. "it's bad enough to see a man make a fool of hisself without having to hear him as well." "but after all," continued bella, without noticing this remark, "it's only the gentry as matter much, and they'll be in the two front rows. mrs leigh's going to bring some friends." "and what's lilac white going to do?" said joshua, turning round with sudden sharpness. "she used to sing the prettiest of 'em all at school." "oh, i dare say she'll sing in the part songs with the other children," said bella carelessly. "they haven't asked her for a solo." but although this was the case lilac felt quite as interested and pleased as though she were to be the chief performer at the concert. when the programme was discussed at the farm, which was very often, she listened eagerly, and was delighted to find that mrs leigh wished her to sing in two glees which she had learnt at school. the concert would be unusually good this year, everyone said, and each performer felt as anxious about his or her part as if its success depended on that alone. mr buckle, next to his own recitation, relied a good deal on the introduction of a friend of his from lenham, who had promised to perform on the banjo and sing a comic song--if possible. "if you can get busby," he repeated over and over again, "it'll be the making of the thing, and so i told mrs leigh." "what did she say?" enquired bella. "well, she wanted to know what he would sing. but, as i said to her, you can't treat busby as you would the people about here. he moves in higher circles and he wouldn't stand it. you can't tie him down to a particular song, he must sing what he feels inclined to. after all, i don't suppose he'll come. he's so sought after." "well, it is awkward," said bella, "not being certain--because of the programme." "oh, they must just put down, _song, mr busby_, and leave a blank. it's often done." each time mr buckle dropped in at the farm just now he brought fresh news relating to mr busby. he could, or could not come to the concert, so that an exciting state of uncertainty was kept up. as the day grew nearer the news changed. busby would certainly _come_, but he had a dreadful cold so that it was hardly probable he would be able to sing. lilac heard it all with the greatest sympathy. the house seemed full of the concert from morning till night. as she went about her work the strains of the "edinburgh quadrilles" sounded perpetually from the piano in the parlour. sometimes it was agnetta alone, slowly pounding away at the bass, and often coming down with great force and determination on the wrong chords; sometimes bella and agnetta at the same time, the treble dashing along brilliantly, and the bass lumbering heavily in the distance but contriving to catch it up at the end by missing a few bars; sometimes mr buckle arriving with his drum and triangle there was a grand performance of all three, when lilac and molly, taking furtive peeps at them through the half-open door, were struck with the sincerest admiration and awe. it was indeed wonderful as well as deafening to hear the noise that could be got out of those three instruments; they seemed to be engaged in a sort of battle in which first one was triumphant and then another. "it's a _little_ loud for this room," observed mr buckle complacently, "but it'll sound very well at the concert." bella felt sure that it would be far the best thing in the programme, not only because the execution was spirited and brilliant but on account of the stylish appearance of the performers. mr buckle had been persuaded to wear his volunteer uniform on the occasion, in which, with his drum slung from his shoulders and the triangle fastened to a chair, so that he could kick it with one foot, he made a very imposing effect. agnetta and bella had coaxed their mother into giving them new dresses of a bright blue colour called "electric", which, being made up by themselves in the last fashion, were calculated to attract all eyes. these preparations, whilst they excited and interested lilac, also made her a little envious. she began to wish she had something pretty to put on in honour of the concert, and even to have a faint hope that her aunt might give her a new dress too. but this did not seem even to occur to mrs greenways, and lilac soon gave up all thoughts of it with a sigh. her sunday frock was very shabby, but after all just to stand up amongst the other children it would not show much. she took it out of her box and looked at it: perhaps there was something she could do to smarten it up a little. it certainly hung in a limp flattened manner across the bed, and was even beginning to turn a rusty colour; nothing would make it look any different. would one of her cottons be better, lilac wondered anxiously. but none of the children would wear cottons, she knew--they all put on their sunday best for the concert. the black frock must do. she could put a clean frill in the neck, and brush her hair very neatly, but that was all. there was no one she remembered to take much notice what she wore, so it did not matter. the evening came. everyone had practised their parts and brought them to a high pitch of perfection; and except mr busby, whose appearance was still uncertain, everyone was prepared to fill their places in the programme. "you won't find two better-looking girls than that," said mrs greenways to her husband, looking proudly at her two daughters. "that blue does set 'em off, to be sure!" "la!" said bella with a giggle, "i feel that nervous i know i shall break down. i'm all of a twitter." "well, it's no matter how you _play_ as long as you look well," said mrs greenways; "with charlie making all that noise on the drum, you only hear the piano now and again. but where's lilac!" she added. "it's more than time we started." lilac had been ready long ago, and waiting for her cousins, but just before they came downstairs she had caught sight of peter looking into the room from the garden, and making mysterious signs to her to come out. when she appeared he held towards her a bunch of small red and white chrysanthemums. "here's a posy for you," he said. "stick it in your front. they're a bit frost-bitten, but they're better than nothing." lilac took the flowers joyfully; after all she was not to be quite unadorned at the concert. "you ain't got a new frock," he continued, looking at her seriously when she had fastened them in her dress. "you look nice, though." "ain't you coming?" asked lilac. she felt that she should miss peter's friendly face when she sang, and that she should like him to hear her. "presently," he said. "got summat to see to first." when the party reached the school-house it was already late. the greenways were always late on such occasions. the room was full, and mr martin, the curate, who had the arrangement of it all, was bustling about with a programme in his hand, finding seats for the audience, greeting acquaintances, and rushing into the inner room at intervals to see if the performers had arrived. "all here?" he said. "then we'd better begin. drum and fife band!" the band, grinning with embarrassment and pleasure, stumbled up the rickety steps on to the platform. the sounds of their instruments and then the clapping and stamping of the audience were plainly heard in the green room, which had only a curtain across the doorway. "lor'!" said bella, pulling it a little on one side and peeping through at the audience, "there _is_ a lot of people! packed just as close as herrings. there's a whole row from the rectory. how i do palpitate, to be sure! i wish charlie was here!" mr buckle soon arrived with vexation on his brow. no sign of busby! he was down twice in the programme, and there was hardly a chance he would turn up. it was too bad of busby to throw them over like that. he might at least have _come_. "well, if he wasn't going to sing i don't see the good of that," said bella; "but it _is_ a pity." "it just spoils the whole thing," said mr buckle, and the other performers agreed. but to lilac nothing could spoil the concert. it was all beautiful and glorious, and she thought each thing grander than the last. uncle joshua's solo almost brought tears to her eyes, partly of affection and pride and partly because he extracted such lovely and stirring sounds from the clar'net. it made her think of her mother and the cottage, and of so many dear old things of the past, that she felt sorrowful and happy at once. next she was filled with awe by mr buckle's recitation, which, however, fell rather flat on the rest of the assembly; and then came the "edinburgh quadrilles", in which the performers surpassed themselves in banging and clattering. lilac was quite carried away by enthusiasm. she stood as close to the curtain as she could, clapping with all her might. the programme was now nearly half over, and mr busby's first blank had been filled up by someone else. mr martin came hurriedly in. "who'll sing or play something?" he said. "we must fill up this second place or the programme will be too short." his glance fell upon lilac. "why, you're the little girl who was queen? you can sing, i know. that'll do capitally--come along." lilac shrank back timidly. it was an honour to be singled out in that way, but it was also most alarming. she looked appealingly at her cousin bella, who at once came forward. "i don't think she knows any songs alone, sir," she said; "but i'll play something if you like." "oh, thank you, miss greenways," said mr martin hastily, "we've had so much playing i think they'd like a song. i expect she knows some little thing--don't you?" to lilac. lilac hesitated. there stood mr martin in front of her, eager and urgent, with outstretched hand as though he would hurry her at once to the platform; there was bella fixing a mortified and angry gaze upon her; and, in the background, the other performers with surprise and disapproval on their faces. she felt that she _could_ not do it, and yet it was almost as impossible to disoblige mr martin, the habit of obedience, especially to a clergyman, was so strong within her. suddenly there sounded close to her ear a gruff and friendly voice: "give 'em the `last rose of summer', lilac. you can sing that very pretty." it came from uncle joshua. "the very thing!" exclaimed mr martin. "couldn't possibly be better, and i'll play it for you. come along!" without more words lilac found herself hurried out of the room, up the steps, and on to the platform, with mr martin seated at the piano. breathless and frightened she stood for a second half uncertain whether to turn and run away. there were so many faces looking up at her from below, and she felt so small and unprotected standing there alone in front of them. her heart beat fast, her lips were as though fastened together, how could she possibly sing? suddenly in the midst of that dim mass of heads she caught sight of something that encouraged her. it was peter's round red face with mouth and eyes open to their widest extent, and it stood out from all the rest, just as it had done on may day. then it had vexed her to see it, now it was such a comfort that it filled her with courage. instead of running away she straightened herself up, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and took a long breath. when mr martin looked round at her she was able to begin, and though her voice trembled a little it was sweet and clear, and could be heard quite to the end of the room. very soon she forgot her rears altogether, and felt as much at her ease as though she were singing in uncle joshua's cottage as she had done so often. the audience kept the most perfect silence, and gazed at her attentively throughout. it was a very simple little figure in its straight black frock, its red and white nosegay, and thick, laced boots, and it looked all the more so after the ribbons and finery of those which had come before it; yet there was a certain dignity about its very simplicity, and the earnest expression in the small face showed that lilac was not thinking of herself, but was only anxious to sing her song as well as she could. she finished it, and dropped the straight little curtsy she had been taught at school. "after all it had not been so bad," she thought with relief, as she turned to go away in the midst of an outburst of claps and stamps from the audience. but she was not allowed to go far, for it soon became evident that they wanted her to sing again; nothing in the whole programme had created so much excitement as this one little simple song. they applauded not only in the usual manner but even by shouts and whistling, and through it all was to be heard the steady thump, thump, thump of a stick on the floor from the middle of the room where peter sat. lilac looked round half-frightened at mr martin as the noise rose higher and higher, and made her way quickly to the steps which led from the platform. "they won't leave off till you sing again," he said, following her, "though we settled not to have any encores. you'd better sing the last verse." so it turned out that lilac's song was the most successful performance of the evening; it was impossible to conceal the fact that it had won more applause than anything, not even excepting the "edinburgh quadrilles." this was felt to be most unjust, for she had taken no trouble in preparing it, and was not even properly dressed to receive such an honour. "i must own," said mrs greenways in a mortified tone, "that i did feel disgraced to see lilac standing up there in that old black frock. i can't think what took hold of the folks to make so much fuss with her. but there! 'tain't the best as gets the most praise." "i declare," added bella bitterly, "it's a thankless task to get up anything for the people here. they're so ignorant they don't know what's what. to think of passing over charley's recitation and encoring a silly old song like lilac's. it's a good thing mr busby _didn't_ come, i think--he wouldn't 'a been appreciated." "'twasn't only the poor people though," said agnetta. "i saw those friends of mrs leigh's clapping like anything." "ah, well," said mrs greenways, "lilac's parents were greatly respected in the parish, and that's the reason of it. she hasn't got no cause to be set up as if it was her singing that pleased 'em." lilac had indeed very little opportunity of being "set up." after the first glow of pleasure in her success had faded, she began to find more reason to be cast down. her aunt and cousins were so jealous of the applause she had gained that they lost no occasion of putting her in what they called her proper place, of showing her that she was insignificant, a mere nobody; useless they could not now consider her, but she had to pay dearly for her short triumph at the concert. the air just now seemed full of sharp speeches and bitterness, and very often after a day of unkind buffets she cried herself to sleep, longing for someone to take her part, and sore at the injustice of it all. "'tain't as if i'd wanted to sing," she said to herself. "they made me, and now they flout me for it." but her unexpected appearance in public had another and most surprising result. about a week after the concert, when the excitement was lessening and the preparations for bella's wedding were beginning to take its place, mrs greenways was sent for to the rectory--mrs leigh wished to speak to her. "i shouldn't wonder," she said to her husband before she started, "if it was to ask what bella'd like for a present. what'd you say?" "i shouldn't wonder if it was nothing of the kind," replied mr greenways. "more likely about the rent." but mrs greenways held to her first opinion. it would not be about the rent, for mrs leigh never mentioned it to her. no. it was about the present; and very fitting too, when she called to mind how long her husband had been mr leigh's tenant. to be sure he had generally owed some rent, but the greenways had always held their heads high and been respected in spite of their debts. on her way to the rectory, therefore, she carefully considered what would be best to choose for bella and charlie. should it be something ornamental--a gilt clock, or a mirror with a plush frame for the drawing-room? they would both like that, but she knew mrs leigh would prefer their asking for something useful; perhaps a set of tea-things would be as good as anything. these reflections made the distance short, yet an hour later, when, her interview over, mrs greenways reappeared at the farm, her face was lengthened and her footstep heavy with fatigue. what could have happened? something decidedly annoying, for she snapped even at her darling agnetta when she asked questions. "don't bother," she said, "let's have tea. i'm tired out." during the meal her daughters cast curious glances at her and at each other, for it was a most unusual thing for their mother to bear her troubles quietly. as a rule the more vexed she was the more talkative she became. it must therefore be something out of the common, they concluded; and before long it appeared that it was the presence of lilac that kept mrs greenways silent. she threw angry looks at her, full of discontent, and presently, unable to control herself longer, said sharply: "when you've finished, lilac, i want you to run to dimbleby's for me. i forgot the starch. if you hurry you'll be there and back afore dusk." chapter twelve. lilac's choice. "a stone that is fit for the wall will not be left in the way."--_old proverb_. as the door closed on lilac, the news burst forth from mrs greenways in such a torrent that it was difficult at first to follow, but at length she managed to make clear to her astonished hearers all that had passed between herself and mrs leigh. it was this: a lady staying at the rectory had seen lilac at the concert, and asked whom she was. whereupon, hearing her history and her present occupation at orchards farm, she made the following suggestion. she wanted a second dairymaid, and was greatly pleased with lilac's appearance and neat dress. would mrs leigh find out whether her friends would like her to take such a situation? she would give her good wages, and raise them if she found her satisfactory. "it's a great opportunity for a child like lilac," mrs leigh had said to mrs greenways; "but i really think from what i hear of her that she is quite fit to take such a place." "well, as to that," said mr greenways slowly when his wife paused for breath, "i suppose she is. if she can manage the dairy alone here, she can do it with someone over her there." "now i wonder who _could_ 'a told mrs leigh that lilac made our butter," said mrs greenways; "somehow or other that child gets round everyone with her quiet ways." "most likely that interfering old joshua snell," said bella, "or peter maybe, or ben. they all think no end of lilac." "well, i don't see myself what they find in her," said mrs greenways; "though she's a good child enough and useful in her way. i should miss her now i expect; though, of course," with a glance at her husband, "she wouldn't leave us, not so long as we wanted her." "that's for _her_ to say," said the farmer. "i'm not going to take a chance like that out of her mouth. she's a good little gal and a credit to her mother, and it's only fair and right she should choose for herself. go or stay, i won't have a word said to her. 'tain't every child of her age as has an offer like that, and she's deserved it." "and who taught her all she knows?" said mrs greenways wrathfully. "who gave her a home when she wanted one, and fed and kep' her? and now as she's just beginning to be a bit of use, she's to take herself off at the first chance! i haven't common patience with you, greenways, when you talk like that. it's all very well for you; and i s'pose you're ready to pay for a dairymaid in her place. but i know this: if lilac's got a drop of gratitude in her, and a bit of proper feeling, she'll think first of what she owes to her only relations living." "well, you ought to 'a told her how useful she was if you wanted her to know it," said mr greenways. "you've always gone on the other tack and told her she was no good at all. i shouldn't blame her if she wanted to try if she could please other folks better." there was so much truth in this, that in spite of mrs greenways' anger it sank deeply into her mind. why had she not made more of lilac? what should she do, if the child, with the consent of her uncle and encouraged by mrs leigh, were to choose to leave the farm? it was not unlikely, for although she had not been actively unkind to lilac she had never tried to make her happy at the farm; her jealousy had prevented that. and then, the money--that would be a great temptation; and the offer of it seemed to raise lilac's value enormously. in short, now that someone else wanted her, and was willing to pay for her services, she became twice as important in mrs greenways' eyes. one by one the various duties rose before her which lilac fulfilled, and which would be left undone if she went away. she sat silent for a few minutes in moody thought. "i didn't say nothing certain to mrs leigh," she remarked at length, "but i did mention as how we'd never had any thought of lilac taking service, no more nor agnetta or bella." "lor', ma!" said bella, "the ideer!" "all the same," said the farmer, "when we first took lilac we said we'd keep her till she was old enough for a place. the child's made herself of use, and you don't want to part with her. that's the long and the short of it. but i stand by what i say. she shall settle it as she likes. she shall go to mrs leigh and hear about it, and then no one shan't say a word to her, for or against. when's she got to decide?" "in a week," answered his wife. "but you're doing wrong, greenways, you hadn't ought to put it on the child's shoulders; it's us as ought to decide for her, us as are in the place of her father and mother. she's too young to know what's for her good." "i stand by what i say," repeated the farmer, and he slapped the table with his hand. mrs greenways knew then that it was useless to oppose him further, and the conversation came to an end. now, when the matter was made known to lilac, it seemed more like a dream than anything real. she had become so used to remain in the background, and go quietly on at her business without notice, that she could not at first believe in the great position offered to her. she was considered worth so much money a year! it was wonderful. after she had seen mrs leigh, and heard that it really was true and no dream, another feeling began to take the place of wonder, and that was perplexity. the choice, they told her, was to remain in her own hands, and no one would interfere with it. what would be best? to go or stay? it was very difficult, almost impossible, to decide. never in her short life had she yet been obliged to choose in any matter; there had always been a necessity which she had obeyed: "do this," "go there." the habit of obedience was strong within her, but it was very hard to be suddenly called to act for herself. and the worst of it was that no one would help her; even mrs leigh only said: "i shan't persuade you one way or the other, lilac, i shall leave it to you and your relations to consider." uncle joshua had no counsel either. "you must put one against the other and decide for yourself, my maid," he said; "there'll be ups and downs wherever you go." she studied her aunt's face wistfully, and found no help there. mrs greenways kept complete and gloomy silence on the question. thrown back upon herself, lilac's perplexity grew with each day. if she went to sleep with her mind a little settled to one side of the matter, she woke up next morning to see many more advantages on the other. to leave orchards farm, and the village, and all the faces she had known since she could remember anything, and go to strangers! that would be dreadful. but then, there was the money to be thought of, and perhaps she might find the strangers kinder than her own relations. "it's like weighing out the butter," she said to herself; "first one side up and then t'other." if only someone would say you _must_ go, or you _must_ stay. during this week of uncertainty many things at the farm looked pleasanter than they had ever done before, and she was surprised at the interest everyone in the village took in her new prospects. they all had something to say about them, and though this did not help her decision but rather hindered it, she was pleased to find that they cared so much for her. "and so you're goin' away," said poor mrs wishing, fluttering into the farm one day and finding lilac alone. "seems as if i was to lose the on'y friend i've got. but i dunno. there was your poor mother, she was took, and now i shan't see you no more. 'tain't as i see you often, but i know you might drop in anywhen and there's comfort in that. lor'! i shouldn't be standing here now if you hadn't come in that night--i was pretty nigh gone home that time. might a been better p'r'aps for me and dan'l too if i had. but you meant it kind." "maybe i shan't go away after all," said lilac soothingly. "you're one of the lucky ones," continued mrs wishing. "i allers said that. fust you get taken into a beautiful home like this, and then you get a place as a gal twice your age would jump at. some gets all the ups and some gets all the downs. but _i_ dunno!" she went on her way with a weary hitch of the basket on her arm, and a pull at her thin shawl. then bella's voice sounded beseechingly on the stairs: "oh, _do_ come here a minute, lilac." bella was generally to be found in her bedroom just now, stitching away at various elegancies of costume. she turned to her cousin as she entered, and said with a puzzled frown: "i'm in ever such a fix with this skirt. i can't drape it like the picture do what i will, it hangs anyhow. and agnetta can't manage it either." agnetta stood by, her face heated with fruitless labour, and her mouth full of pins. lilac examined the skirt gravely. "you haven't got enough stuff in it," she said. "you'll have to do it up some other way." "pin it up somehow, then, and see what you can do," said bella. "i'm sick and tired of it." lilac was not quite without experience in such things, for she had often helped her cousins with their dressmaking, and she now succeeded after a few trials in looping up the skirt to bella's satisfaction. "_that's_ off my mind, thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "you're a neat-fingered little thing; i don't know what we shall do without you." it was a small piece of praise, but coming from bella it sounded great. lilac's affairs, her probable departure from the farm and how she would be much missed there, were much talked of in the village just now. the news even reached lenham, carried by the active legs and eager tongue of mrs pinhorn, who, with many significant nods, as of one who could tell more if she chose, gave mr benson to understand that he might shortly find a difference in the butter. it was not for _her_ to speak, with ben working at the farm since a boy, but--so even the great and important mr benson was prepared to be interested in lilac's choice. she often wondered, as day after day went by so quickly and left her still undecided, what her mother would have advised her to do. but then, if her mother had been alive, all this would not have happened. she tried nevertheless to imagine what she would have said about it, and to remember past words which might be of help to her now. "stand on your own feet and don't be beholden to anyone." certainly by taking this situation she would follow that advice, and child though she was, she knew it might be the beginning of greater things. if she filled this place well she might in time get another, and be worth even more money. but then, could she leave the farm? the home which had sheltered her when she had been left alone in the world. who would take her place? no one could deny now that she would leave a blank which must be filled up. she could hardly bear to think of a stranger standing in her accustomed spot in the dairy, handling the butter, looking out of the little ivy-grown window, taking charge of the poultry. "they'll feed 'em different, maybe," she thought; "and they won't get half the eggs, i know they won't." how hard it would be, too, to leave the faces she had known from childhood, all so familiar, and some of them so dear: not human faces alone, but all sorts of kind and friendly ones, belonging to the dumb animals, as she called them. she would miss the beasts sorely, and they would miss her: the cows she was learning to milk, the great horses who jingled their medals and bowed their heads so gently as she stood on tiptoe to feed them, the clever old donkey who could unfasten any gate and let all the animals out of a field: the pigs, even the sheep, who were silliest of all, knew her well and showed pleasure at her coming. she looked with affection, too, at the bare little attic, out of whose window she had gazed so often with eyes full of tears at the white walls of her old home on the hillside. how hard it had been to leave it, and now it made her almost as sad to think of going away from the farm. but then--there was the money, and although mrs leigh said nothing in favour of her going to this new place, lilac had a feeling that she really wished it, and would be disappointed if she gave it up. everyone said it was such a chance! it was not altogether a fancy on lilac's part that everyone at the farm looked at her kindly just now, for the idea of losing her made them suddenly conscious that she would be very much missed. mrs greenways watched her with anxiety, and there was a new softness in her way of speaking; her old friends, molly and ben, were eager in showing their goodwill, and agnetta, in spite of the approaching excitement of bella's wedding, found time to enquire many times during the day if lilac "had made up her mind." "of course you meant to go from the first," she said at length. "well, i don't blame you, but you might 'a said so to an old friend like me." the only person at the farm who was sincerely indifferent to lilac's choice was bella. "it won't make any matter to me whether you're here or there," she said candidly; "but there's no doubt it'll make a difference to ma. there's some as would call it demeaning to go out to service, but i don't look at it like that. of course if it was me or agnetta it wouldn't be thought of; but i agree with pa that it's right you should choose for yourself." so no one helped lilac, and the days passed and the last one came, while she was still as far as ever from deciding. escaping from the chatter and noises inside the house she went out towards evening into the garden for a little peace and quietness. she wanted to be alone and think it over for the last time; after that she would go to mrs leigh and tell her what she meant to do, and then all the worry would be over. she strolled absently along, with the same tiresome question in her mind, through the untidy bushy garden, past peter's flower bed, gay with chrysanthemums and michaelmas daisies, until she came to the row of beehives, silent, deserted-looking dwellings now with only one or two languid inhabitants to be seen crawling torpidly about the entrances. lilac sat down on the cherry-tree stump opposite them, and, for a moment leaving the old subject, her mind went back to the spring evening when peter had cut the bunch of flowers for her, and let the bees crawl over his fingers. she smiled to herself as she remembered how suddenly he had gone away without giving her the nosegay at all. poor peter! she understood him better now. as she thought this there was a click of the gate leading into the field, she turned her head, and there was peter himself coming towards her with his dog sober at his heels. during this past week peter as well as lilac had been turning things over a great deal in his mind. not that he was troubled by uncertainty, for he felt sure from the first that she would go away from the farm. and it was best she should. from outward ill-treatment he could have defended her: he was strong in the arm, but with his tongue he was weaker than a child. many a time he had sat in silence when hard or unkind speeches had been cast at her, but none the less he had felt it sorely. after the concert, when she had sung as pretty as a bird, how they had flouted her. it was a hard thing surely, and it was best she should go away to folks as would value her better. but he felt also that he must tell her he was sorry. that was a trial and a difficulty. how should he frame it? though he could talk more easily to lilac than anyone else in the world, speech was still terribly hard, and when he suddenly came upon her this evening his first instinct was to turn and go back. sober, however, pricked his ears and ran forward when he saw a friend, and this example encouraged peter. "as like as not," he said to himself, "i shall say summat quite different the minute i begin, but i'll have a try at it;" so he went on. there was a touch of frost in the air, and the few remaining leaves, so few that you could count them, were falling every minute or so gently from the trees. a scarlet one from the cherry tree overhead had dropped into lilac's lap, and lay there, a bright red spot on her white pinafore. as peter's eye fell on it it occurred to him to say gruffly: "the leaves is nearly all gone." "pretty nigh," said lilac, looking up into the bare branches of the cherry tree. "we'll soon have winter now." there was silence. peter took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with his coat sleeve. "there's lots will be sorry when you go," he burst out suddenly. "the beasts'll miss you above a bit." lilac did not answer. she saw that he wanted to say something more, and knew that it was best not to confuse his mind by remarks. "not but what," he went on, "you're in the right. why should you work for nothing here and get no thanks? you're worth your wages, and there you'll get 'em. there's justice in that. only--the farm'll be different." "there's only the dairy," said lilac. "someone else'll have to do that if i go. and i should miss the beasts too." she put her hand on sober's rough head as he sat by her. "it's a queer thing," said peter after another pause, "what a lot i get in my head sometimes and yet i can't speak it out. you remember about the brownie, and me saying the farm was pleasanter and that? well, what i want to say now is, that when you're gone all that'll be gone--mostly. it'll be like winter after summer. anyone as could use language could say a deal about that, but i can't. i don't want you to stay, but i've had it in my mind to tell you that i shall miss you as well as the beasts--above a bit. that's all." sober now seemed to think he must add something to his master's speech, for he raised one paw, placed it on lilac's knee, and gazed with a sort of solemn entreaty into her face. she knew at once what he wanted, for though he could not "use language" any more than peter, he was quite able to make his meaning clear. in the course of many years' faithful attention to business he had become rheumatic, and this paw, in particular was swollen and stiff at the joint. lilac had found that it gave him ease to rub it, and sober had got into the habit of calling her attention to it in this way at all times and seasons. now as she took it in her hand and looked into his wise affectionate eyes, it suddenly struck her that here were two people who would really miss her, and want her if she were far away. no one would rub sober's paw, no one would take much notice of her other dumb friend, peter. she could not leave them. she placed the dog's foot gently on the ground and stood up. "i'm not going away," she said, "i'm going to bide. and i shall go straight in and tell aunt, and then it'll be settled." indoors, meanwhile, the same subject had been discussed between different people. in the living room, where tea was ready on the table, mrs greenways and her two daughters waited the coming of the farmer, agnetta eyeing a pot of her favourite strawberry jam rather impatiently, and bella, tired with her stitching, leaning languidly back in her chair with folded arms. "lilac ain't said nothing to either of you, i s'pose?" began mrs greenways. "i know she means to go, though," said agnetta. "well, i must look about for a girl for the dairy, i s'pose," said mrs greenways sadly. "i won't give it to molly again. and a nice set they are, giggling flighty things with nothing but their ribbons and their sweethearts in their heads." "lor'! ma, don't fret," said bella consolingly; "you got along without lilac before, and you'll get along without her again." "i shan't ever replace her," continued her mother in the same dejected voice; "she doesn't care for ribbons, and she's not old enough for sweethearts. i do think it's not acting right of mrs leigh to go and entice her away." "if here isn't mr snell coming in alonger pa," said agnetta, craning her neck to see out of the window. "he's sure to stay to tea." she immediately drew her chair up to the table and helped herself largely to jam. "and of all evenings in the week i wish he hadn't chosen this," said mrs greenways. "poking and meddling in other folks' concerns. now mind this, girls,--don't you let on as if i wanted to keep lilac, or was sorry she's going. do you hear?" it did not at first appear, however, that this warning was necessary, for joshua said no word of lilac or her affairs; he seemed fully occupied in drinking a great deal of tea and discussing the events of the neighbourhood with the farmer, and it was not till the end of his meal that he looked round the table enquiringly, and asked the dreaded question. "and what's lilac settled to do about going?" "you know as much about that as we do, mr snell," replied mrs greenways loftily. "there's no doubt," continued the cobbler, fixing his eye upon her, "as how mrs leigh's friend is going to get a prize in lilac white. she's only a child, as you once said, ma'am, but i know what her upbringing was: `as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined'. there's the making of a thorough good servant in her. well worth her wages she'll be." "she's been worth more to us already than ever i knew of, or counted on, till lately," put in the farmer. "just now, i met benson, and says he: `you're losing your dairymaid by what i hear, and i can but wish you as good a one.'" "that's not so easy," said joshua, shaking his head. "good workers don't grow on every bush. it's a pity, too, just when your butter was getting back its name." "i'd half a mind," said the farmer, "to offer the child wages to stop, but then i thought it wouldn't be acting fair. she ought to have the chance of bettering herself in a place like that. if she goes she's bound to rise, and if she stays she won't, for i can't afford to give her much." "and what's your opinion, ma'am?" asked joshua politely of mrs greenways. "oh, it isn't worth hearing, mr snell," she replied with a bitter laugh; "its too old-fashioned for these days. i should 'a thought lilac owed summat to us, but my husband don't seem to take no count of that at all. not that it matters to me." as she spoke, with the colour rising in her face and a voice very near tears, the door opened and lilac came quickly in. the conversation stopped suddenly, all eyes were fixed on her; perhaps never since she had been queen had her presence caused so much attention: even agnetta paused in her repast, and looked curiously round to see what she would do or say. without giving a glance at anyone else in the room, lilac walked straight up to where mrs greenways sat at the head of the table: "aunt," she said rather breathlessly, "i've come to say as i've made up my mind." mrs greenways straightened herself to receive the blow. she knew what was coming, and it was hard to be humiliated in the presence of the cobbler, yet she would put a brave face upon it. with a great effort she managed to say carelessly: "it don't matter just now, lilac. sit down and get your tea." but mr greenways quite spoilt the effect of this speech. "no, no," he called out. "let her speak. let's hear what she's got to say. here's mr snell'd like to hear it too. speak out, lilac." thus encouraged, lilac turned a little towards her uncle and joshua. "i've made up my mind as i'd rather bide here, please," she said. the teapot fell from mrs greenways' hands with such a crash on the tray that all the cups rattled, the air of indifference which she had struggled to keep up vanished, her whole face softened, and as she looked at the modest little figure standing at her side tears of relief came into her eyes. uncle joshua and her old feelings of jealousy and pride were forgotten for the moment as she laid her broad hand kindly on the child's shoulder: "you're a good gal, lilac, and you shan't repent your choice," she said; "take my word, you shan't." "and that's your own will, is it, lilac?" said her uncle. "and you've thought it well over, and you won't want to be altering it again?" "no, uncle," said lilac. "i'm quite sure now." her aunt's kind manner made her feel more firmly settled than before. "it's a harassing thing is a choice," said mr greenways. "i know what it is myself with the roots and seeds. well, i won't deny that i'm glad you're going to stop, but i hope you've done the best for yourself, my maid." "lor', greenways, don't worry the child," interrupted his wife, who had recovered her usual manner. "she knows her own mind, and i'm glad she's shown so much sense. you sit down and get your tea, lilac, and let's be comfortable and no more about it." lilac slipped into the empty place between the cobbler and agnetta, rather abashed at so much notice. agnetta pushed the pot of jam towards her. "i'm glad you're going to stop," she said. "have some jam." joshua had not spoken since lilac's entrance, but mrs greenways, eyeing him nervously, felt sure he was preparing to "preachify." she went on talking very fast and loud in the hope of checking this eloquence, but in vain; joshua, after a few short coughs, stood upright and looked round the table. "friends," he said, "i knew lilac's mother well, and i call to mind this evening what she often said to me: `i want my child to grow up self-respecting and independent. i want to teach her to stand alone and not to be a burden on anyone.' and then, poor soul, she died sudden, and the child was left on your hands. and she couldn't but be a burden at first, seeing how young she was and how little she knew. and now look at it! how it's all changed. 'tain't long ago, and she isn't much bigger to speak of, and yet she's got to be something as you value and don't want to part with. she's made her own place, and she stands firm in it on her own feet, and no one would fill it as well. it's wonderful that is, how small things may help big ones. look at it!" said joshua, spreading out the palms of his hands. "you take a little weak child into your house and think she's of no count at all, either to help or to hinder; she's so small and the place is so big you hardly know she's there. and then one day you wake up to find that she's gone quietly on doing her best, and learning to do better, until she's come to be one of the most useful people on the farm. because for why? it's her mother's toil and trouble finding their fruit; we oughtn't to forget that. when folks are dead and gone it's hard on 'em not to call to mind what we owe 'em. they sowed and we reap. lilac's come to be what she is because her mother was what she was, and i expect mary white's proud and pleased enough to see how her child's valued this day. and so i wish the farm luck, and all of you luck, and we'll all be glad to think as we're not going to lose our little bit of white lilac as is growing up amongst us." lilac's eyes had been fixed shyly on her plate. it was like being queen a second time to have everyone looking at her and talking of her. as joshua finished there was a sound at the door of gruff assent, and she looked round. it came from peter, who stood there with all his features stretched into a wide smile of pleasure. "they're all glad i'm going to bide," she said to herself, "and so am i." book was produced from images made available by the hathitrust digital library.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: the mysterious letter] the young game-warden by harry castlemon author of "the house-boat boys," "gunboat series," "rocky mountain series," etc. the john c. winston co. philadelphia chicago toronto copyright, 1896, by henry t. coates & co. contents. chapter page i. silas morgan, 5 ii. the brothers, 17 iii. the mysterious letter, 31 iv. hobson's house, 45 v. what dan overheard, 55 vi. the young game-warden, 66 vii. brotherly love, 77 viii. joe's plans in danger, 89 ix. volunteers, 100 x. why the letter was written, 109 xi. the plot succeeds, 121 xii. a mystery, 134 xiii. dan is scared, 146 xiv. the "hant," 158 xv. joe's new home, 169 xvi. joe's "first official act," 181 xvii. who fired the four shots? 194 xviii. dan's secret, 205 xix. dan tells his story, 216 xx. a run for home, 228 xxi. a treacherous guide, 240 xxii. mr. brown takes his departure, 252 xxiii. exploring the cave, 264 xxiv. robbers, 277 xxv. what the grip-sack contained, 289 xxvi. mr. hallet hears the news, 302 xxvii. joe's plans, 315 xxviii. capture of bob emerson, 326 xxix. the hunt for the robbers, 338 xxx. brierly's squad captures a robber, 350 xxxi. silas in luck at last, 362 xxxii. bob emerson's story, 374 xxxiii. turning over a new leaf, 386 xxxiv. the transformation, 399 the young game-warden. chapter i. silas morgan. "i do think in my soul that of all the mean things a white man has to do, hauling wood on a hot day like this is the very meanest." the speaker was silas morgan--a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose tattered garments and snail-like movements proclaimed him to be the very personification of indolence and shiftlessness. as he spoke, he took off his hat and drew his shirt-sleeve across his dripping forehead, while the lazy old horse, which had pulled the rickety wood-rack up the long, steep hill from the beach, lowered his head, dropped his ears, and fell fast asleep. the man had two alert and wide-awake companions, and they were a brace of finely-bred gordon setters, which, after beating the bushes on both sides of the road in the vain effort to put up a grouse or start a hare, now came in, and lay down near the wagon. they were a sight for a sportsman's eye, and that same sportsman would very naturally ask himself how it came that this poverty-stricken fellow could afford to own dogs that would have won honors at any bench-show in the land. "yes, i reckon them dog-brutes air just about nice," silas said, whenever any inquisitive person propounded this inquiry to him, "and they were given to me for a present by a couple of city shooters who once hired me for a guide. you see, birds of all sorts, and 'specially woodcock, was mighty skeerce that year, but i took 'em where there was a little bunch that i was a saving for my own shooting, and they had the biggest kind of sport. they give me them dogs in consequence of my perliteness to 'em." there was no one in the neighborhood who could dispute this story, but there were those who took note of the fact that at certain times the dogs disappeared as completely as though they had never existed, and that they were never seen when there were any strange sportsmen in the vicinity. "the luck that comes to different folks in this world is just a trifle the beatenest thing that i ever heared tell on," continued silas, leaning heavily upon the wood-rack and fanning his flushed face with his brimless straw hat. "i can think and plan, but it don't bring in no money, like it does for some folks that ain't got nigh as much sense as i have. now, there's them two setter dogs that was accidentally left on my hands last year! i thought sure that i'd make my everlasting fortune out of them; but if there's been a reward offered for their safe return to their master, i never seen or heared of it. i've tried every way i can think of to make something, so't things in and around my house won't look so sorter peaked and poor, but i'm as fur from hitting the mark now as i was ten year ago. i wish i could think up some way to make a strike, but i can't; and so here goes for that wood-pile. it won't always be as hot as it is to-day. winter will be here before long, the roads will be blocked with drifts, and if this wood ain't down to the beach directly, me and the ole woman will have to shiver over a bare hearth." with this reflection to put life and energy into him, silas straightened up and turned toward the wood-pile with slow and reluctant steps, all unconscious of the fact that every move he made was closely watched by two recumbent figures, who, snugly concealed by a thicket of evergreens, a short distance away, had distinctly caught every word of his soliloquy. the dogs knew they were there, for they had run upon their hiding-place, but as the recumbent figures were neither birds nor hares, they did not even bark at them, but gave a friendly wag with their tails, as if to say that it was all right, and returned to their master, to whom they gave no sign to indicate that they had discovered anything. silas went about his work in that indescribably lazy way that a boy or man generally assumes when he is laboring under protest. every stick he lifted from the pile to the wagon seemed to tax his strength to the very utmost, and he was often obliged to stop and rest; but still he made a little headway, and when the rack was about half-loaded he concluded that he could do no more until he had refreshed himself with a smoke. "i have always heared," said silas, aloud (whenever he thought himself safely out of hearing, he invariably gave utterance to the thoughts that were in his mind)--"i have always heared 'em say that all this country around here is historical, and that if these mountings could speak, they'd tell tales that would make your eyes stick out as big as your fist. "they do say that there's been a heap of stealing and plundering going on about here in the days gone by"--as silas said this he glanced around him a little apprehensively--"and that there's heaps and stacks of gold and silver hid away where nobody won't ever think of looking for 'em. if i thought that was so, wouldn't i try my level best to find some of it? i'd leave joe and dan to run the ferry, and then i'd put a shovel on to my shoulder and come up here, and never leave off digging till i'd turned some of these mountings t'other side up. but i guess i won't smoke. i was fool enough to come away and leave my matches to home." silas held his pipe in his hand, and ran his eye along the wood-pile as if he were looking for a light. as he did so, he gave a sudden start, his eyes opened to their widest extent, his under jaw dropped down, and the hand in which he held the pipe fell to his side. the object that riveted his gaze was a letter. it had been thrust into a crack in the end of a stick of wood, and looked as though it might have been placed there on purpose to attract his attention. "now, don't that beat you?" exclaimed silas, who was greatly astonished. "who in the world has been using my wood-pile for a post-office, i'd like to know?" if the truth must be told, silas was frightened as well as surprised. like all ignorant men, he was superstitious, and whenever he saw or heard anything for which he could not account on the instant, he was sure to be overcome with terror. his first thought was to take to his heels, make the best of his way to the cabin, and send his boys back after the wagon; but if he did that, they would be sure to see the letter--they couldn't help it, if they kept their eyes open--and might they not read it and make themselves masters of some information that he alone ought to possess? "it's mighty comical how that thing come there, and who writ it," said silas, "and somehow i can't get my consent to tech it." and he didn't touch it, either, until he had viewed it from all sides. first, he bent down, with his hands upon his knees, and twisted his body into all sorts of shapes in the vain effort to see the other side of the letter. then he straightened up and made a wide circle around it; and finally, he climbed upon the wood-pile and looked at it from another direction. at last, he must have satisfied himself that it was a letter and nothing else, for he reached out his hand and took possession of it. "it's mighty comical," repeated silas, looking first at the letter, and then turning suspicious glances upon the surrounding woods, "and i can't for the life of me think who put it there. now, who'll i get to read it for me? i can spell out printing with the best of them, but i can't say that i know much about them turkey-tracks they call writing." as silas was walking around the wood-pile toward his wagon, he turned the letter over in his hands, and then he saw that there was something inscribed upon the envelope. the characters were printed, too, and the man had little difficulty in deciphering the following: "notis "to the luckey person in to whose hans this dockyment may happen to fall. thare is a big fortune for you in this mounting if you have got the pluck to do what i have writ on the inside. thare is danger in it, but mebbe that hant won't bother you as it has bothered me ever since i pushed him in to the gorge." silas was in another profuse perspiration long before he spelled out the last word in the "notis," but now the cold chills began creeping all over him. his breath came in short, quick gasps, and his hand trembled visibly, as he thrust the letter into his pocket. then he cast frightened glances on all sides of him, glided back to his wagon with long noiseless footsteps and reached for the reins. the commands which he usually shouted at his aged and infirm beast, were uttered in a whisper, and the horse, not being accustomed to that style of driving, had to be severely admonished with a hickory switch before he would settle into the collar and start the very light load behind him. silas never could have told how he got down the hill without breaking his crazy old wagon all to pieces, for his mind was so completely taken up with other matters that he never thought to look out for the rough places in the road, or to give a wide berth to the stumps. he seemed to be treading on air. he hoped and believed that he was on the point of making a most important discovery; but, great as was his desire to make himself the possessor of the fortune that was hidden somewhere in the mountain he had just left, he could not screw up courage enough to stop and read the letter. he wanted to put the woods far behind him before he did that. the "notis" he had read contained some words that he did not like to recall to mind. "didn't i say that there had been a heap of plundering and stealing a going on in this country in bygone days?" said silas to himself. "this letter proves it, and the words that's printed onto the envelope tells me some things that i don't like to hear tell of. there's likewise been some killing a going on up there. a feller has been shoved into one of the gorges, and his hant (some folks calls it a ghost or spirit) has come back, and keeps a bothering of the feller that pushed him in. i don't know whether or not i can get my consent to go up there and dig for that fortune, even if i knew where to look for it, which i don't." at the end of half an hour, silas morgan drew a long breath of relief, and stopped looking behind him. he was safely out of the woods, and moving quietly along the river road, within shouting distance of his cabin. then his courage all came back to him, and he was ready for any undertaking, no matter how dangerous it might be, so long as there was money behind it. "now, silas, let's look at this thing kind o' sensible like," said he to himself. "there must be as much as a thousand dollars up there in the mounting. if there wasn't, it wouldn't be a fortune, would it? and what's to hender you from getting it for you own? if you go up there in the daytime, that hant can't bother you none, 'cause i've heard folks say that they never show themselves except on dark and stormy nights; but if this one comes out and tells you to leave off digging for that fortune, you can fill him so full of bird shot that he won't be of no use as a hant any more, can't you? get along with you!" he shouted, bringing the heavy switch down upon the horse's back with no gentle hand. "i ain't got much more wood hauling for you to do, 'cause i'm going after them thousand dollars." a few minutes later silas reached his home. dropping the reins and whip to the ground, he bolted into the cabin, closing the door behind him. chapter ii. the brothers. "toot! toot! t-o-ot!" this was the third time the horn had been blown--first warningly, then persuasively, and at last angrily. the hunters on the other side of the river, who had been trying for more than twenty minutes to bring the ferryman over to them, were beginning to get impatient. so was joe morgan, the ferryman's youngest son--a sturdy, sun-browned boy of fifteen, who stood in the flat, holding one of the heavy sweeps in his hand, all ready to shove off. he looked toward the men on the opposite shore, and then he looked at his brother, who sat on the bank, with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands. "there's eighty cents in that load," said joe, who was in a great hurry to respond to the angry blasts of the horn. "if they get tired of waiting, and go down to the bridge, we shall be just that much out of pocket." "let 'em go, if they want to," replied the boy on the bank, in a lazy, indifferent tone. "there's no law to hinder 'em that i know of. pap don't seem to be in no great hurry, and neither be i. i'm sick and tired of pulling that heavy flat over the river every time anybody takes a fool notion into his head to toot that horn. some day i'll get mad and sink it so deep that it can't never be found again--i will so!" "now, dan, what's the use of talking that way?" exclaimed joe, impatiently. "you know well enough that as long as we run the ferry, we must hold ourselves in readiness to serve any one who may call upon us; and if you should destroy the flat, we would have to get another or give up the business." "and that's just what i want to do," answered dan. "then how would we make a living?" "easy enough. can't we all shoot birds and rabbits when the season's open, and snare 'em when it's shut? and can't mother earn a dollar every day by washing for them rich--" "dan, i'm ashamed of you," interrupted joe. "what mother wants is rest, and not more work. come on; what's the use of being so lazy? you've got to make a start some time or other." but dan made no move, and joe, who was very much disgusted with his brother's obstinacy, threw down the sweep, sprang ashore and ran up the bank toward the little board cabin that stood at the top. finding that the door would not open for him, joe ran around the corner of the building, and looked in at a convenient window, just in time to catch his father in the act of thrusting a letter into his pocket. the ferryman's face was flushed, and his movements were nervous and hurried. the boy saw at a glance that he was greatly excited about something. "as long as i have been acquainted with him, i never knew him to get a letter before," said joe to himself. "he has heard some very good or some very bad news, for he is so upset that he doesn't seem to know what he is about." "i heard 'em blowing, joey," said silas, without waiting for the boy to speak, "and now we'll go and bring 'em over. thank goodness, i won't have to follow this mean business much longer. i don't like it, joey. i wasn't born to wait on other folks, and i'm going to quit it." "then you will have to quit ferrying," said joe, as he followed his father down the bank. "that's just what i intend to do," answered silas, and then the boy noticed that there was a triumphant smile on his face, and that he rubbed his hands together as if he were thinking about something that afforded him the greatest satisfaction. "i've got an idee into my head, and if i don't make the folks around here look wild some of these days, i'm a goat," added the ferryman. and then he raised a yell to let the men on the other side of the river know that he had at last made up his mind to respond to their signals. but before he did so, he shaded his eyes with his hand, and took a good look at the group on the opposite bank, after which he walked around the cabin, snapping his fingers as he went. this was a signal to the dogs that it was time for them to retire from public gaze for a short season; in other words, to go into a miserable lean-to behind the cabin, which silas called a wood-shed, and stay there until the hunters, who were now on the other side of the river, should have passed out of sight. they went in in obedience to a sign from the ferryman, and the latter closed the door and put a stick of cord-wood against it to hold it in place. "if them setter brutes was a present to pap, like he says they was, it's mighty comical to me why he takes so much trouble to hide 'em every time some of them city shooters comes along and toot that horn," soliloquized dan, as he slowly, almost painfully, arose from the ground, and, after much stretching and yawning, followed his father and brother down the bank toward the flat. "he says he's scared that somebody will take a notion to 'em and steal 'em; but that's all in my one eye, 'cording to my way of thinking. now, i'll just tell him this for a fact. if he don't quit being so stingy with the money i help him earn with this ferry, i'll bust up the plans he's got into his head about them dogs--i will so. i wonder what's come over him all of a sudden? here he's been clear up the mounting and come back with only an armful of wood on his wagon, and he don't generally whoop in that there good-natured way, less'n he's got something on his mind." that was true enough. the ferryman's replies to the hails that came to him from over the river, usually sounded more like the complaints of a surly bear than anything else to which we can compare them. the tone in which they were uttered seemed to say, "i'll come because i can't help myself," and he was so long about it, and made himself so very disagreeable in the presence of his passengers, that those who knew him would often go ten miles out of their way to reach a bridge rather than put a dime into his pocket. but on this particular morning, his voice rang out so cheerily that it attracted joe's attention as well as dan's. silas was always good-natured when he had something besides his poverty to think about, and joe would have known that his father had some new idea in his head, even if he had not said a word about it. "lively, dannie!" exclaimed silas, seizing the steering-oar and pushing the flat away from the bank. "put in your very best licks, 'cause there won't none of us have to follow this miserable business much longer. there'll be a day when we won't have to go and come at everybody's beck and call, and that day ain't so very far away neither." the two boys took their places at the sweeps, and the flat moved out into the river. joe did his best to make a quick passage, as he always did, while the lazy dan, who had the current in his favor, merely put his oar into the water and took it out again, without exerting himself in the least. his father's hopeful and encouraging words did not infuse a particle of energy into him. he had heard him talk that way too often. "it ain't right that we should be so poor, while other folks, who never did a hand's turn in their lives, have got more than they know what to do with," continued silas, as he dropped the steering-oar into the water. "i've got just as much right to have money, and the fine things that money'll buy, as anybody has, and i'm going to have 'em, too. i ain't going to live like the pigs in the gutter no longer. just think of the hundreds and thousands of dollars that's spent down to the beach every summer by the city chaps who come there to loaf! _i_ can't lay around under the shade of the trees or swing in a hammock just 'cause the weather's hot. i've got to work. i've got to cut cord-wood in winter and run this ferry during the summer, in order to make a living; but other fellows can stay around and do nothing, just 'cause they've got money. i say again, that such things ain't right." "it makes me savage every time i go down to the beach," chimed in dan, "when i see them city folks, who ain't a cent's worth better than i be, wearing their good clothes, and walking around with their fine guns and fish-poles on their shoulders--" "like them over there," said his father, nodding his head toward the bank, which was now but a short distance away. dan faced about on his seat, and took a good look at the party in question. there were ninety cents in the load instead of eighty. there were three sportsmen in brown hunting-suits, who were walking restlessly about as if they did not know what to do with themselves, and they had a double team, with a negro to drive it. with them were half a dozen setters and pointers, which were exercising their muscles by racing up and down the bank. the sight of the negro set the ferryman's tongue in motion again, while the good clothes the strangers wore had about the same effect upon dan that a piece of red cloth is supposed to have upon a pugnacious turkey gobbler. "more 'ristocrats!" sneered silas. "why don't they drive their own team?" "probably they don't want to," replied joe. "besides, they are able to hire some one to drive it for them." "of course they are!" exclaimed silas, who was angry in an instant. "but i ain't able to hire a nigger to run this ferry for me. i say that such a state of things ain't right." "well, it isn't their fault, is it?" said joe. "i didn't say it was," snapped his father. "it ain't my fault, neither, that i haven't got as much money as the richest of them, but it will be my fault if i don't have it before the season's over. they're going after woodcock," added silas, who was a market-shooter as well as a ferryman and wood-cutter. "i would like to bet them something that they won't get enough birds to pay them for crossing the river. i've got all the covers pretty well cleaned out." "them's the sort of fellers i despise," said dan, turning around on his seat and resuming his work at the sweep--or, rather, his pretence of it. "the money them dogs cost would keep me in the best kind of grub and clothes for a whole year. just look at the clothes they've got on, and then cast your eye at these i've got on. dog-gone such luck! i hope they won't get nothing, and if they should hire me for a guide, i would take good care to lead them where such a bird as a woodcock wasn't never seen." "perhaps they don't need a guide," said joe. "because they wear good clothes and own fine dogs, it is no sign that they don't know woodcock ground or a snipe bog when they see it, as well as you do. perhaps they are all better hunters and wing-shots than you ever dare be." "not much they ain't," exclaimed dan, who got fighting mad whenever his brother threw out a hint of this kind. "i can beat any feller who wears them kind of clothes; and as for them fine dogs of their'n, i'll take bony and get more partridges in a day than they can shoot in a week." "well, then, why ain't you satisfied? what are you growling about?" "'cause they're 'ristocrats--that's what i'm growling about," answered dan, looking savagely across the flat at his brother, while silas nodded a silent but hearty approval. "i am getting tired of seeing so much style every day, while i am so poor that i can't hardly raise money enough to buy powder and shot, and some fine day i'll bust up some of these hunting parties. i've got just as much right to see fun as they have." "so you have, dannie," said his father. "there ain't no sense in the way things go in this world anyway, and i am glad to see you kick agin it. i have always told you, that i would be better off some day, and i have hit upon the very idee at last. me and you will stick together, and i'll warrant that we will make more money than joe does by toadying to these 'ristocrats who come here to take the bread out of our mouths, by shooting the game that rightfully belongs to us." "i don't toady to anybody," replied joe, with some spirit. "i am glad of the chances they give me to earn something now and then, and i am sure we need it bad enough." "i have thought up a way to get more out of them than you do, and the first good chance i get i am going to try it on," observed dan. "i won't go halvers with you, neither, and you needn't expect me to. you never give me a cent." "of course i don't. you are as able to make something for yourself as i am to make it for you. mother gets all i earn." by this time the flat was within a few lengths of the shore, and the crew were obliged to give their entire attention to the sweeps, in order to make a landing. the ferryman, who up to this time had been in a state of nervousness and expectancy, now began to act more like himself--that is to say, he greeted his passengers with an angry scowl, and gave them about as much polite attention as he would have bestowed upon so many bags of corn. he had kept his gaze fastened upon them, and he was both relieved and disappointed to discover that the owner of the dogs that were shut up in his woodshed was not among them. at the proper moment the "apron"--a movable gangway which could be raised and lowered at pleasure--was dropped upon the bank, and in five minutes more the team and the passengers were all aboard, and the flat was moving back across the river. chapter iii. the mysterious letter. having landed his passengers and pocketed his money, silas morgan made his way toward the cabin with so much haste that he again drew the attention of the boys, who gazed after him with no little surprise and curiosity. silas was as lazy as a man ever gets to be, and joe and dan could not imagine what had happened to put so much life into him. "i knew that something or 'nother had come over pap when he yelled in that good-natured way to let them fellers on t'other side know that he was coming," observed dan, who walked back to his seat on the bank, and sunned himself there like a turtle on his log, while joe hauled in the sweeps and made the flat secure. "he's got another of them money-making plans into his head, i reckon." those who were well acquainted with silas morgan knew that he always had plans of that kind in his head. he was full of schemes for getting rich without work, some of which, if carried into execution, would have brought him into serious trouble with the officers of the law; but the idea that occupied his busy brain on this particular morning was a little ahead of anything he had ever before thought of. you will probably laugh at it when you know what it was, but silas didn't. of all the thousand and one plans which he had conjured up and pondered over, this one, which had come into his possession by the merest accident, seemed to hold out the brightest promises of success. "but it wasn't accident, neither," silas kept saying to himself. "there isn't a day during the shooting season that them mountings ain't just covered with hunters, and how did the man that put this letter into my wood-pile know that i was the one who was to take it out? he didn't know it. i found it 'cause it was to be so, that's the reason." the first thing the ferryman did when he reached the cabin was to close and fasten the door, to prevent interruption, and the next to draw from his pocket the mysterious letter, which he spread upon the table before him. to make himself master of its contents was a work of no little difficulty. silas did not know much about books, and, besides, some of the characters that were intended to represent letters were so badly printed that it was hard to tell what they were intended for. he read as follows: "december 15--in the mountings. "i write this to inform whoever finds it that i have a secret to tell you. i was born in europe, and am now forty years of age. i am a gentleman, and my father is a rich man and a large land-owner. i am the second son, and fell in love with a girl when i was twenty years of age. "everything went well till my older brother came home from the war, and when she found out that i was not entitled to the estates, she left me, and went to concerts and balls with my brother, and that was something i could not stand. so i sent her a bottle of sody-water, with my best wishes, and i put in strickning, and the next day she was dead. the doctors said she died of heart disease, but i knew better. so i told my father that i was going to america. so he gave me five hundred pounds in money--" "five hundred pounds of money!" exclaimed silas, after he had spelled the words over three times to satisfy himself that he had made no mistake. "how did he ever make out to carry that heft of greenbacks clear across the ocean and up into these mountings? if i find it, i'll have to bring it down on my wagon, won't i? and where'll i put it after i get it so that it will be safe? that's what's a bothering of me now." silas was already beginning to feel the responsibilities that weigh upon capitalists, one of whom assures us that he finds it harder work to take care of his money than it was to accumulate it. silas made a note of all the good hiding-places which he could recall to mind on the spur of the moment, and then went on with his reading: --"and the next day i shipped for new york. i wish i had never done it. a coming over the ocean, i made the acquaintance of a man who coaxed me to go to californy with him, and there we fell in with two more who were as bad as we was, and we went into a bank there, and took out seventy thousand dollars. so we went to canady, and stayed there till the country got too hot for us, and then we come to these mountings. so we went along till we come to the old indian road. one day my chum dropped his pipe down a crack in the rocks, and he said he would have it again if he broke his neck a getting it. so he slid down about twelve feet, and there was as nice a cave in the rock as you ever see. "there is a crack in the ground that goes down about twelve feet, and then you come onto the level, and can go a hundred feet before you come to the place where a lot of sand and stones has fell in. the cave has been lived in before, by robbers most likely, 'cause we found a lot of money and some guns and pistols there, of a kind that we never see before. i and my chum lived in this cave about three weeks, and then we started to go to the lake. "when we got to the top of the indian road, i refused to go any farther, and when my chum made as if he were going to shoot me for being a coward, i give him a shove, and down he went into the gulf. he's there now, where nobody will ever find him; but his hant (ghost) comes back to me every day and night, and that's why i am going to jump into the lake--just to get away from that hant. now i must tell you about the money. "there is twelve thousand in bills, and about three hundred in gold and silver. it is in a leather satchel in the bottom. it has a false plate on the bottom, put on with screws. and there you will find the money. i will and bequeath it to you and your heirs and assanees forever. i leave this in a wood-pile, and the one who draws the wood will find it. "the cave is about a quarter of a mile from the wood-pile, near a large hemlock tree. there is a rope that goes down into the cave, and it hangs under the roots of the tree. look close or you can't find it. i leave a map of the route from the pile of wood to the cave in this letter. i hope the hant won't bother you while you are getting the money, as he has bothered me ever since i have been writing this letter. "julius jones." words would fail us, were we to attempt to tell just how silas felt after he had finished reading this interesting communication. he hoped it might be true--that there was a cave with a fortune in it which he could have for the finding of it--and consequently it was very easy for him to believe that it _was_ true; but there were one or two things that ought to have attracted his attention and aroused his suspicions at once. in the first place, there was the document itself. it was now the latter part of august, and if the letter was left in the wood-pile on the day it purported to be written, it had been exposed for eight long months to some of the most furious snow and rain storms that had ever visited that section of the country, and yet the writing looked fresh, and there was not a single wrinkle or even the suspicion of a stain upon the envelope. it could not have been cleaner if it had but just been taken out of the post office. another thing, the writer would have found it an exceedingly difficult task to drown himself in the lake during the month of december, for he would have been obliged to cut through nearly two feet of ice in order to reach water. but the ferryman did not notice these little discrepancies. he gave his imagination full swing, and worked himself into such a state of excitement that his nerves were all unstrung; consequently, when hasty steps sounded outside the cabin, and dan's heavy hand fumbled with the latch, it was all silas could do to repress the cry of alarm that trembled on his lips as he sprang to his feet. finding that the door was fastened on the inside, dan came around the corner, and looked in at the window. "say, pap," he whispered excitedly, "dog-gone my buttons, what did you go and lock yourself up for? think somebody was about to steal all the gold dishes? open up, quick! here's a go--two of 'em." although the ferryman heartily wished dan a thousand miles away, he complied with this peremptory demand for admission, whereupon the boy stepped quickly across the threshold and locked the door behind him. "say, pap," he continued, in a hurried whisper, "don't it beat the world how some folks can make money without ever trying? now, there's that joe of our'n. he don't never seem to do much of nothing but just loaf around in the woods with them city fellers that come up here to show their fine guns, and yet he's always got money. he takes mighty good care to keep it hid, too, 'cause i can't never find none of it." "is that all you've got to say?" exclaimed silas impatiently. "i know it as well as you do." "well, it ain't all i've got to say, neither," replied dan. "i've got a heap more, if you will only let me tell you. old man warren is out there talking with joe now. you remember them blue-headed birds you killed for him last year, don't you?" "them english partridges?" said silas with a grin. "i ain't forgot 'em. old man warren offered me ten dollars a month if i wouldn't shoot over his grounds, 'cause he wanted them birds pertected till there were lots of 'em; but i wouldn't agree to nothing of the kind. he brung them birds from england on purpose to stock his covers with. they cost him six dollars a pair, and i made more'n forty dollars out of 'em. well, what of it? i don't care for such trifling things any more." "well," answered dan, "he's gone and got more of them to take the place of them you shot--old man warren has--a hundred pair of 'em--six hundred dollars worth, and--" "ah! that makes it different," said silas, rubbing his hands and looking up at his old muzzle-loader, which rested on a couple of wooden hooks over the door. "it's true that six hundred dollars ain't no great shakes of money to a man who--hum! but still i am obliged to old warren. they won't bring me in no such sum as that, them birds won't, but they'll be worth a dollar a brace this season easy enough, and that'll pay me for the trouble i'll have in shooting them. ain't i going to make a power of money this winter?" "no, you ain't," snapped dan, who had made several ineffectual attempts to induce his father to stop talking and listen to him. "and you ain't by no means as smart as you think you be, neither." "what for?" demanded his father. "'cause you keep jawing all the while and won't let me tell you. he's going to have them birds pertected, the old man is, and you can't shoot them loose and reckless like you did last winter." "_that_ for his pertection!" cried the ferryman, snapping his fingers in the air. "he can't do it, and i won't pay no heed to him if he tries it." "then he'll have the law on you." "he can't do that, neither, 'cause there ain't no close season for english partridges. there's no such birds in this country known to the law. besides, how is old man warren going to tell whether it was me or some of them city sportsmen that shot 'em?" "he's going to post his land, and put a game-warden up there in the woods to watch them partridges," observed dan. "what kind of a feller is that?" asked silas. "is it the same as a game-constable?" "just the same, only the old man will pay him out of his own pocket, instead of looking to the county to pay him. he's going to have that there game-warden shoot every dog and 'rest every man who comes on to the grounds with a gun in his hands, if he don't go off when he's told to." "well, i'd like to see him shoot one of my dogs, and i wouldn't go off, neither, less'n i felt like it," said silas, doubling his huge fists and looking very savage indeed. "do you know how much he is going to give him?" "fifteen dollars a month from the first of september to the first of may," answered dan, "and his grub is throwed in--the best kind of grub, too." "well, that ain't so bad," said silas, slowly. "fifteen dollars a month and grub for eight months--that would be a hundred and twenty dollars, wouldn't it, dannie? that's more'n i could make by shooting the birds. is old man warren out there now? if he is, i'll go and tell him that i'll take the job. you and joe can run the ferry during the rest of the summer, and pocket all you can make. i don't care for such trifling things any more." "whoop! hold me on the ground, somebody!" yelled dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together. this was the expression he always used and the performance he went through whenever he got mad and became possessed with an insane desire to smash things. "now i'll just tell you what's a fact, pap," continued dan, spreading out his feet, and settling his hat firmly on his head. "me and joe won't run the ferry, and neither will you get the chance to grow fat off good grub this winter, less'n you earn it yourself. didn't i tell you the very first word i said that old man warren had give the job to joe?" "not our joe!" exclaimed silas, who was fairly staggered by this unexpected piece of news. "yes, our joe--nobody else." "no, you didn't tell me that," replied his father. "then it's 'cause you want to do all the talking yourself, and won't let me say a word," retorted dan. "yes, that joe of our'n has got the job. he's going to have a nice house, with a carpet onto the floor, to live in, and the grub he'll have to eat will be just the same kind that old man warren has onto his table at home. just think of that, pap! you'll have to look around for some cheap boy to help you run the ferry from now till winter, 'cause i'm going up there to live with joe, and help him keep an eye on them birds." "dan!" shouted mr. morgan, pushing up his sleeves, and looking about the room as if he wanted to find some missile to throw at the boy's head--"dan, for two cents i'd--" the ferryman suddenly paused, for he found he was talking to the empty air. when he began pushing up his sleeves, dan jumped for the door, and now all that silas could see of him was one of his eyes, which looked at him through a crack about half an inch wide. he noticed, however, that dan held the hook in his hand, and that he was all ready to fasten the door on the outside in case his father showed a disposition to follow him. chapter iv. hobson's house. "and that ain't all i've got to tell you, neither," shouted dan. "the road commissioners has come up here with some surveyors and a jury, and they're going to build a bridge across the river so's to bust up the ferrying business." silas would have been glad to thrash the boy for bringing him so unwelcome news as this, and the only reason he did not attempt it was because he knew he could not catch him. he did not like the "ferrying business," for it was very confining, and, besides, there wasn't money enough in it to suit him; but still it enabled him to eke out his slender income, and the mere hint that the authorities were about to take away this source of revenue by building a bridge across the river at that point surprised and enraged him. "that's just the way the thing stands, pap," continued dan, who looked upon his sire's exhibition of bewilderment and anger as a highly edifying spectacle. "if you think i am trying to make a fool of you, look out the winder." silas looked, and a single glance was enough to satisfy him that there was something unusual going on outside the cabin. there were at least a score of men gathered about the flat, and among them silas saw the town commissioner of highways. he could easily pick out the surveyor and his party, for the former held a tripod in his hand, and a queer-looking brass instrument under his arm, while one of his men carried a chain and the rest had axes on their shoulders. a few steps away from this party, and apparently not in the least interested in what they were saying or doing, were mr. warren and joe morgan, who were talking earnestly about something. mr. warren was the richest man in the country for miles around. he owned the hotel and most of the cottages at the beach; but he was seldom seen there, because he said he could find more rest and recreation in the woods, with his dog and gun for companions, than he could at a fashionable watering-place. the cabin which the morgans occupied, rent free, belonged to him, and so did the ground on which it stood; and it was owing to his influence that silas had been permitted to establish his ferry. but still silas hated him, as he hated every one who was better off in the world than he was. a little distance farther away stood a solitary individual, who, if the expression of his countenance could be taken as an index to his feelings, was mad enough to do something desperate. he took the deepest interest in all that was going on before him, and indeed he had good reason for it. his livelihood depended upon what the commissioner and his jury of twelve disinterested freeholders might decide to do. a bridge at that particular place would ruin his occupation as effectually as it would break up the business of ferrying. "that's hobson," said silas, looking around for his hat. "i don't wonder that he's mad. what do they want to put a bridge across here for, anyway? ain't there a good ferry right in front of the door, and can't we take care of them that wants to go back and forth?" "we can, but we don't," answered dan. "when that horn toots, you never move till you get a good ready." "i know that," assented silas. "i ain't hired myself out for a slave yet, and them that expect me to jump the minute a man who has got more money than i have chooses to call on me, will find themselves fooled. i have always run this ferry to suit silas morgan, and nobody else." "that there is just the p'int," observed dan, sagely. "the way you run it may suit you, but it don't by no means suit the public. that's the reason they want a bridge here." "but there ain't no good road." "no, odds; they're going to build one out of the old log road, and make the distance from bellville to the beach shorter by five good long miles than it is now. they're going to tear t'other bridge down, and make all the travel come this way." "why, that will shut hobson out in the cold entirely," exclaimed the ferryman. "he'll have to quit keeping hotel." "that's just what old man warren and them fellers down to the beach wan't to do," said dan. "i heared 'em say so. he always keeps a crowd of loafers around him, hobson does, and there's so many shooting-matches going on in the grove behind his hotel, that it ain't safe for folks to drive past there with skittish horses. there's been five or six runaways along that road already." "that's only an excuse for shutting him up, dannie," said the ferryman, with a knowing wink at his hopeful son. "hobson keeps the halfway house, and it's natural for folks who are going to and from the beach to stop there to water their horses and get a bite of lunch. they spend money with hobson that they would otherwise spend at the beach, and that's why old man warren wants that hotel closed. it's about time for poor people to rise up and pertect themselves, seeing that the law won't do nothing for them. i don't wonder hobson looks mad." having found his hat, silas went out to exchange a few words of condolence with the man whose name he had just mentioned. he glanced at joe's face as he passed, and the pleased expression he saw there was very different from the malevolent scowl with which he was welcomed by the proprietor of the halfway house. the latter was quite as angry as he looked to be, and the first words he uttered as the ferryman came up were: "now what i want to know is this: are me and you obliged to stand here with our hands in our pockets, and see these rich men take the bread and butter out of the mouths of our families?" "they are going to do worse by me than they are by you," answered silas. "i can't start again if they break up my ferry, but you can." "how, i'd like to know?" growled hobson. "why, all the land around here belongs to old man warren. folks say that he's a mighty kind-hearted chap, though i never saw any signs of it in him, and you might buy or rent a piece of land, and build another and better hotel. you have the money to do it, for you have made many a dollar over your bar during the last two years." "that's just what's the matter," cried hobson, who became so angry when he thought of it that it was all he could do to restrain himself. "that's the reason old man warren wants to shut me up--because he knows that i am making a little money. he won't sell or rent me a foot of land, for i tried him as soon as i found out that a new road was coming through here." "that's worse than i thought for," said the ferryman, in a sympathizing tone which was more assumed than real. hobson's business interests were likely to suffer more severely than his own, and he was glad of it. "it is bad enough, i tell you," said the proprietor of the halfway house. "but you can say to your folks that it is going to be a dear piece of business for old man warren. if i don't damage him for more thousands than he does me for hundreds, it will not be because i don't try." "it looks mighty strange to me that he should go out of his way to be so scandalous mean to some, while he is so good to others," said silas, reflectively. "i don't pertend to understand it. here he is, robbing me of the onliest chance i had to make a living during the summer, and yet he's standing over there now, offering that joe of our'n a chance to make a hundred and twenty dollars." "what doing?" inquired hobson, who was paying more attention to the surveyor's movements than he was to silas. "you remember them english pa'tridges he brought over here to stock his woods, the same year he built that big hotel down to the beach, don't you?" asked silas, in reply. "i should say i did," answered hobson. "you shot the most of them, and i got the rest, all except the few that dan managed to catch with his snares and that little black dog of his'n. i wish i could see him cleaned out of everything as slick as he was cleaned out of them birds." "well, he's got a new supply of them, old man warren has--six hundred dollars' worth." hobson opened his eyes and began taking some interest in what the ferryman was saying to him. "i am powerful glad to hear it," said he. "if he won't let me keep hotel and support myself, he can just make up his mind that he's got to keep me in grub. i won't allow myself to go hungry while his covers are well stocked, i bet you. i'll earn a tolerable good living by shooting over his grounds this fall and winter." "but you will have more bother in doing it than you did last season," said silas, who then went on to repeat what dan had told him concerning the game-warden who was to live in mr. warren's woods, and devote his entire time and attention to keeping trespassers at a distance. this seemed a novel idea to hobson, who finally said: "if that's the case, we'll have to go somewhere else to do our shooting." "what for?" demanded the ferryman, who was not a little surprised. "do you think that that little joe of our'n could 'rest us if we didn't want him to?" "of course not; but he could report us, and the sheriff could arrest us," answered hobson. silas clenched both his fists and glared savagely at joe, who was just then holding an animated colloquy with his brother dan upon some point concerning which there was evidently a wide diversity of opinion. chapter v. what dan overheard. "if i thought that joe of our'n would be mean enough to carry tales on me and have me 'rested, i'd larrup him 'till his own mother wouldn't know him," declared silas, who grew so angry at the mere mention of such a thing, that he wanted to catch up a stick and fall upon the boy at once. "and make the biggest kind of a fool of yourself by doing of it," said hobson, calmly. "look a-here, silas, you want to keep away from old man warren's woods this winter." "with them six hundred dollars' worth of birds running around loose and no law to pertect 'em?" cried the ferryman. "i'll show you whether i will or not. i tell you i'll have the last one of them before the winter's over. it is true that i don't care for such trifling things as the ferry any more, 'cause i've got a plan in my head that'll--hum! but i want to get even with old man warren for breaking up my business, don't i?" "of course you do; and the best way to do it is to make him give something toward your support. joe ain't of age yet, and you can compel him to hand over every cent he earns." "that's so!" exclaimed the ferryman, who now began to see what his friend hobson was aiming at. "that joe of our'n makes right smart by acting as guide and pack-horse to the strangers who come here to shoot and fish; but i never thought to ask him for any of it. he always gives it to his mother." "why don't you make him give it to you, and then you can spend it as you please?" said hobson, hoping that the ferryman would act upon his advice, and so increase his wealth by the addition of joe's hard earnings that he could squander more at the bar of the halfway house than he was in the habit of doing. "the head of the family ought to have the handling of all the money that comes into the house--that's my creed." "and a very good creed it is, too," replied silas, who told himself that he must be very stupid indeed not to have seen the matter in its true light long ago. "i'll turn over a new leaf this very day. joe shall give me every cent of them hundred and twenty dollars, and i'll have what i can make out of them birds besides." "there you go again," said hobson, in a tone of disgust. "you mustn't go to work the first thing and kill the goose that lays the golden egg. if you begin on the first day of september, when the pa'tridge season opens, and shoot all them birds, there won't be none left for joe to watch; and then old man warren will tell joe that he don't need him any longer. see the point?" "i'd be stone blind if i couldn't see it," answered silas, "and it makes me madder than i was before. don't you understand that old warren means to perfect them birds till they have increased to as many as a million, mebbe, and then he'll bring in a lot of his city friends and shoot 'em for fun--for fun, mind you--while poor folks like me and you, who need the money we could make out of 'em to buy grub and clothes--we'll be took up if we so much as set foot on t'other side his fences. dog-gone such doings! 'tain't right nor justice that it should be so, and i ain't going to stand it no longer. thank goodness, i won't have to! i've got a plan in my head that'll--hum!" hobson made no response. indeed, he did not seem to hear what silas said to him, for he was straining his ears to catch the conversation that was-carried on by mr. warren and the surveyor, who were now coming up the bank. he must have heard more than he wanted to, for, with an oath and a threat that made the ferryman's hair stand on end, hobson hurried toward the place where he had left his horse. he mounted and rode away. mr. warren and the surveying party left a few minutes later, followed by the commissioner and his jury; and silas turned about and walked slowly toward his cabin. he had not made many steps before he found himself confronted by his hopeful son dan. "well," said silas, cheerfully, "we won't have to pull that heavy flat across the river many more days, and the next time you go over you can take your gun with you and put a charge of shot into that horn, if you feel like it. hallo! what's the matter of you?" dan's clenched hands were held close by his side, his black eyes were flashing dangerously, and he stood before his father, looking the very picture of rage and excitement. "can't you speak, and tell me what's the matter of you?" demanded silas, who could not remember when he had seen dan in such a towering passion before. "i know it's mighty hard to give up the ferry just 'cause them rich folks down to the beach have took it into their heads that they don't want one here, but we can make enough out of them birds of old man warren's to--" dan interrupted his father with a gesture of impatience, and snapped his fingers in the air. "i don't care _that_ for the ferry," he sputtered. "i am glad to see it go, for it has brung me more backaches than dimes, i tell you." "well, then, what's the matter of you?" silas once more inquired. "you'd best make that tongue of your'n more lively, if you want me to listen to you, 'cause i ain't got no time to waste. i'm going in to talk to that joe of our'n about the job that old man warren offered to give him." these words had a most surprising effect upon dan. he bounded into the air like a rubber ball, knocked his heels together, and yelled loudly for somebody to hold him on the ground. "of all the mean fellers in the world that i ever see, that joe of our'n is the beatenest," said he, as soon as he could speak. "now, pap, wait till i tell you, and see if you don't say so yourself." the ferryman, recalling some words that dan let fall during their hurried interview in the cabin, told himself that he knew right where the trouble was; but he listened attentively to the story, which the angry boy related substantially as follows: while dan was taking his ease on the bank, and joe was hauling in the sweeps and making the flat secure, mr. warren came up, arriving on the ground five or ten minutes before the commissioner and the surveying party got there. he hitched his horse to the nearest tree, walked down the bank, and greeted joe with a hearty good-morning, paying no attention to dan, who was so highly enraged at this oversight or willful neglect on the part of the wealthy visitor, that he shook his fist at him as soon as he turned his back. he was not long in finding out what brought mr. warren there, for he distinctly overheard every word that passed between him and joe. as he listened, the expression of rage that had settled on his face gradually gave place to a look of surprise and delight; and finally dan became wonderfully good-natured, and showed it by rubbing his hands together, grinning broadly, and winking at the trees on the opposite bank of the river. "well, joseph," said mr. warren, cheerfully, "going to school next term?" "i am afraid i can't," replied joe, sadly. "i don't see how i can afford it. mother needs every cent i can give her. i must work every day, and shall be glad to cut some wood for you, if you will give me the chance." "then you can cut it by yourself, i bet you," muttered dan. "i won't help you; i'd rather hunt and trap." "i shall need a good supply of wood," said mr. warren, "but i thought of giving your father and dan a chance at that." "thank-ee for nothing," said dan, under his breath. "pap can take the job if he wants to, but i won't tech it. i am getting tired of doing such hard work, and am on the lookout for something easy." "i think i have better work for you, joe," continued the visitor; whereupon dan, who had thrown himself at full length on the bank, straightened up and began listening with more eagerness. "it is something that will take up every moment of your time during the day, and if you do your duty faithfully, you will find the work quite as hard and wearisome as chopping wood, and more confining; but you will have your evenings to yourself, and abundant opportunity to do as much reading and studying as you please. you know that one of our greatest men, martin van buren, laid the foundation of his knowledge by studying by the light of a pine-knot on the hearth after his day's work was over. but you will not have to do that. i will give you a warm, comfortable house to live in, supply your table from my own, lend you books from my library, and furnish you with a lamp to read and study by. if you lay up a little information on some useful subject every day, you will have quite a store on hand by the time winter is over." "what sort of a job is that, do you reckon?" said dan to himself. "it's a soft thing, so far as the perviding goes, but what's the work? that's the p'int." it must have been the very question joe was revolving in his mind, for when mr. warren ceased speaking, he asked: "what will you expect me to do in return for all this?" "i am coming to that," answered the visitor, moving a step or two nearer to joe, while dan leaned as far forward as he could, stretched out his long neck and placed one hand behind his ear, so that he might catch every word. "you know that i have about six thousand acres of woodland, which is so utterly worthless that no man, who had his senses about him, would take it as a gift if he had to clear and cultivate it. it isn't even good enough for pasture; but it was a tolerably fair shooting-ground until i was foolish enough to build that hotel down there at the beach. that brought in a crowd of city sportsmen, and between them and the resident market-shooters, the game, both large and small, has been pretty well cleaned out." "well, what of it," muttered dan. "if i know anything about such matters, them deer and birds and rabbits belonged to us poor folks as much as they did to you." "i like to shoot occasionally," mr. warren went on, "but the last time i went up there with a party of friends, we did not get enough to pay us for the tramp we took; so two years ago i went to considerable expense to restock those woods, and even offered to pay the market-shooters if they would let the birds alone until they had time to increase. but they wouldn't do it, and the consequence was that the english partridges and quails that cost me six dollars a pair were served up on somebody's dinner-table." "six dollars a pair!" whispered dan, who could hardly believe that he had heard aright. "pap didn't by no means get that much for them he shot. it's nice to be rich." "my experience with those birds," continued mr. warren, "proved to my satisfaction that they are hardy and able to endure our severe winters. so i determined to try it again, and day before yesterday i turned down a hundred pairs of english partridges and quails--six hundred dollars' worth." dan was almost ready to jump from the ground when he heard this, and it was all he could do to refrain from giving audible expression to his delight. chapter vi. the young game-warden. "whoop-pee!" was dan's mental exclamation. "i've struck a banana. me and pap i'll get rich the first thing you know. but what makes old man warren come here to tell us about it?" "i certainly hope you will be able to preserve them this time," said joe, who could not see what these expensive birds had to do with the comfortable home, the unlimited supply of books, and the good living, of which his visitor had spoken. "it would be a great pity to lose them after going to so much trouble and paying out so much money for them." "that's what i think, and it is what mr. hallet thinks, also. you know his wood-lot adjoins mine--there is no fence between them--and he has turned down the same number." the eavesdropper fairly gasped for breath when he heard this; but quickly recovering from his amazement, he raised his hands before his face, with all the fingers spread out, and began a little problem in arithmetic. "that makes--makes--le' me see! by moses it makes twelve--twelve hundred dollars' worth of birds. i'm going to sell that old muzzle-loader of mine the first good chance i get, and buy a breech-loader, and one of them j'inted fish-poles, and some of them fine hunting clothes, and--whoop-pee! i've struck two bananas; and i'll look as spick and span as the best of them city sportsmen by this time next year. but look a-here, a minute, dan," he added, to himself, confidentially, "don't you say a word to pap about them birds that's been turned loose on hallet's place. them's your'n, and you don't go halvers with no living person." "the difficulty in preserving them lies right here," said mr. warren. "our native birds are protected by law during certain months in the year, but the law doesn't say a word about imported game. if i catch a man shooting over my grounds in the close season, i can have him arrested and fined; but he could shoot these english birds before my face, and i could not help myself. we hope some day to induce the legislature to pass a law protecting imported as well as native game; but until we can do that, we must protect it ourselves to the best of our ability. we have men at work now posting our land, and hereafter any one who sets a foot over my fence or hallet's will be liable for trespass. "i reckon you'll have to catch him before you can prove anything agin him, won't you?" soliloquized dan. "but why don't he tell that joe of our'n what he wants of him?" "of course, mr. hallet and myself have enough to do without spending valuable time in watching these birds," added the visitor, "and so we have decided to employ game-wardens to do it for us. there will be two wardens, one for each place, and we shall pay them out of our own pockets. i have selected you because i believe you to be honest and faithful, and i know that you are ambitious to better your condition. i am always on the lookout for such boys, and when i find one i like to give him a helping hand." "then it's mighty strange that you never diskivered me," said dan, to himself. "if there's anybody in the world who wants awful bad to be something better'n the ragged vagabone he is, i am that feller. dog-gone such luck as i do have, any way! why didn't he offer that soft job to me, instead of giving it to that joe of our'n? i am older'n he is, and it would be the properest thing for me to have the first chance." "it is worth something to live up there in the woods alone for eight months--from the first of september to the last of april--but your surroundings will be as pleasant as they can be made under the circumstances. in the first place, there is a tight log-house, with a carpet on the floor, and a lean-to behind it to serve as a wood-shed. you know that the fierce winter winds drive the snow into pretty deep drifts up there in the mountains, and if you are as provident as i think you are, you will keep that shed full. you don't want to turn out of a stormy morning, when the mercury is below zero, to cut fire-wood, when you ought to be scattering grain around for the birds to eat. there is plenty of furniture in the cabin, and all the dishes you will be likely to need. i have spent a good many months in camp, first and last, and being posted, i don't think i have forgotten anything. your pay, which you can have as often as you want it, will be fifteen dollars a month," said mr. warren in conclusion. "that is as much as farm-hands command hereabout, and you will be much better off than a woodchopper, because you will be earning money all the while, no matter how bad the weather may be. what do you say?" dan listened with all his ears to catch his brother's reply, but, to his great surprise, joe did not make any reply. "what's the fool studying about, do you reckon?" was the inquiry which dan propounded to himself. "why don't he speak up and say he'll take it? if he does, me and pap will have easy times with them birds, 'cause of course joe wouldn't be mean enough to pester us. but if he don't take it, and old man warren gets somebody else for game-warden, then the case will be different, and me and pap will have to watch out." "you don't say anything, joe," continued mr. warren, seeing that the boy hesitated and hung his head. "if you must work during the coming winter instead of going to school, i don't think you can find any employment that will be more to your liking." "i know i couldn't, sir," replied joe, quickly; "but that isn't what i am thinking about. the fact is--you see--" the boy paused and looked down at the ground again. he knew that his own father was more to blame than any one else for the loss of the birds that had been "turned down" in mr. warren's wood-lot two years before, and it was not quite clear to joe how his wealthy visitor could have so much confidence in him. why should he wish to employ the son of the man who had robbed him, to keep trespassers off his grounds, and exercise supervision over the new supply of game he had just purchased? and there was another thing that came into his mind: silas morgan and dan were two of the most notorious poachers in the county, and joe knew that when the grouse season opened, they would be the very first to shoulder their guns, call their dogs to heel and start for mr. warren's woods. if he accepted the position offered him, it would be his duty to order them off. they wouldn't go, of course, and the next thing would be to report them to mr. warren, who, beyond a doubt, would have warrants issued for their arrest. that would be bad indeed, joe told himself; but would it cause him any more sorrow than he felt whenever he saw his mother setting out on one of those long fatiguing walks to the house of a neighbor, where she earned the pitiful sum of a dollar by doing a hard day's work at washing or scrubbing? the money he could give her every month would save her all that, and provide her with many things that were necessary to her comfort. when joe thought of his mother, his hesitation vanished. "i'll take it, mr. warren," said he, with an air of resolution, "and i am very grateful indeed to you for offering it to me. now, will you tell me when you want me to go up there, and just what you expect me to?" to dan's great disappointment and disgust, mr. warren took joe by the arm, and led him away out of earshot; but he heard him say something about shooting all the stray dogs that came into the woods, because they would do more damage among the few deer that were left, than so many wolves, and that was all he learned that day regarding joe's instructions. "luck has come my way at last!" exclaimed dan, who, for some reason or other seemed to be highly excited. "i can't hardly hold myself on the ground. i'll go down to old man hallet's this very minute, and tell him that if he's needing a game-warden, i'm the chap he's waiting for. then mebbe i won't have a nice little house all to myself, and good grub to grow fat on, as well as that joe of our'n. i won't do no shooting, 'cause that would make too much noise, and give me away to old man hallet; but i'll do a heap of trapping and snaring, i bet you. hallo! who's them fellers?" dan had just caught sight of a large party of men, who were coming along the road which led from the ferry to the beach. believing that they were about to cross the river, and that there was another hard pull in prospect with no money (for him) behind it, dan was about to take to his heels, when some words that came to his ears arrested his footsteps. the new-comers were the road commissioner and his party. they did not look toward dan at all, and neither did they take the least pains to conceal the object of their visit from him. "this is the place for the new bridge," said the surveyor. "it will cost the town a good deal less money to fix up the old log road in good shape, than it will to cut out and grade a new highway." "and when the bridge is up, we shall be well rid of two nuisances--hobson's grog-shop and morgan's ferry, neither of which ought to have been tolerated as long as they have been," remarked one of the twelve freeholders, who had been summoned by the commissioner to determine where the bridge and the new road should be located. "when the other bridge is demolished, and the lower road shut up, the travel will have to come this way." when dan heard this, he felt like throwing his hat into the air. he hated the tooting of that horn, which was kept hung up on the limb of a tree on the other side of the river, as he hated no other sound in the world; and he was glad to know that he would soon hear it for the last time. he did not make any demonstrations of delight, however, but stole silently away to carry the news to his father. joe's good fortune, and his own bright dreams of becoming mr. hallet's game-warden, at fifteen dollars a month, and the best kind of food thrown in, were uppermost in his mind, and they were the first things he intended to speak about when his father admitted him into the cabin; but he was so long in coming to the point that silas grew impatient, and did not give him an opportunity to mention his own affairs at all. "no matter; they'll keep," thought the boy, as the ferryman put on his hat and went out to talk to hobson. "now i wish old warren would hurry up and go about his business, so't i can find out what 'rangements he's made with that joe of our'n." dan had not long to wait. even while he was communing with himself in this way, mr. warren took his leave, first shaking joe warmly by the hand, and dan lost no time in stepping to his brother's side. chapter vii. brotherly love. "i don't wonder that you look like you was half tickled to death," was the way in which dan began the conversation with his brother. "did you ever dream that me and you would have such amazing good luck as has come to us this day? now, let me tell you, it bangs me completely. don't it you?" joe did not know how to reply to this. he had seldom seen dan in so high spirits, and he could not imagine what he was referring to when he spoke of the good luck that had fallen to both of them. "say--don't it bang you?" repeated dan. "ain't me and you going to live like the richest of them this winter?" "you and i?" said joe, with no suspicion of the truth in his mind. "that's what i remarked," exclaimed dan, who could hardly keep from dancing in the excess of his joy. "i tell you, joe," he added, confidentially, "if there's anything in life i take pleasure in, it's living in the woods during the winter, when you've got a tight roof to shelter you and plenty of firewood to burn, so't you don't have to go through the deep snow to cut it. that's what i call living, that is." "i don't see how you happen to know so much about it. you never tried it." "i know i never did; but didn't i tell you almost the very first word i said, that i'm going to try it this winter?" "oh!" said joe, who now thought he began to understand the matter. "are you going to be mr. hallet's game-warden?" "perzackly. you've hit centre the first time trying." "then i wonder why mr. warren did not say something to me about it." and there was still another thing that caused joe to wonder, although he made no reference to it. how did it come that mr. hallet, who knew how persistently dan broke the law in regard to snaring birds and hares, and shooting out of season--how did it come that he had selected this poacher to act as his game-warden? he might as well have hired a wolf to watch his sheep. "now wait till i tell you," said dan hastily. "the thing ain't quite settled yet, 'cause i ain't had no time to run down and see old man hallet; but--" "aha!" exclaimed joe. "there ain't no 'aha' about it," cried dan, who was angry in an instant. "wait till i tell you. i ain't been down to see old man hallet yet, but i'm going directly, and i'm going to say to him that if he wants somebody to keep an eye on them birds of his'n, i'm the man he's looking for. he'll be glad to take me, of course, 'cause if there's any one in the whole country who knows all about a game-warden's business, its me. but if he can't take me--if he has picked out another man before i get a chance to speak to him--me and you will go halvers on them hundred and twenty, won't we?" "no, we won't," replied joe, promptly. "what for, won't we?" demanded dan. "for a good many reasons. in the first place, mr. warren seems to think that he needs but one warden, and that i can do all the work myself." "well, you can't, and you shan't, neither," dan almost shouted. and in order to show his brother how very much in earnest he was about it, he struck up a war-dance, and called loudly for somebody to hold him on the ground. "and in the next place," continued joe, who had witnessed these ebullitions of rage often enough to know that they never ended in anything more serious than an unnecessary expenditure of breath and strength on dan's part--"in the next place, every cent i make this winter will go to mother, with the exception of the little i shall need to clothe myself." "i'll bet you a good hoss that it don't," roared dan, who was so angry that it was all he could do to keep from laying violent hands upon his brother. "now let me tell you what's the gospel truth, joe morgan: if you don't go pardners with me in this business, i'll bust up the whole thing. if i don't get half them hundred and twenty dollars, you shan't have a cent to bless yourself with. i've been kicked and slammed around till i am tired of it, and i ain't going to ask my consent to stand it no longer." "if you want money, go to work and earn it for yourself," said joe. "you can't have any of mine." "i'll show you whether i will or not. now, let me tell you: i'll make more out of them birds this winter than you will. you're awful smart, but you'll find that there are them in the world that are just as smart as you be." "i know what you mean by that," answered joe, who had fully made up his mind to see trouble with dan. "now let me tell _you_ something: if i catch you on mr. warren's grounds after i take charge of them, you will wish you had stayed away, mind that. i took this position because mother needs money, and having accepted it, i shall look out for my employer's interests the best i know how. but why do you go against me in this way? you ought to help me all you can." "then why don't you help me?" retorted dan. "you don't need it. you are able to help yourself, because you have no one else to look out for." "then i won't help you, neither. you want to keep a close watch over that shanty of your'n, or the first thing you know, you will come back to it some dark, cold night, almost froze to death, and it won't be there." joe walked off without making any reply, and dan stood shaking his fists at him until he disappeared. then he turned about to find himself face to face with his father, to whom he told his story, not forgetting to make a few artful additions, which he hoped would have the effect of making the ferryman as angry at joe as he was himself. a disinterested listener would have thought that joe was the meanest brother any fellow ever had, and that dan was deserving of better treatment at his hands. "now, i just want you to tell me what you think of that," said dan, as he brought his highly-seasoned narrative to a close. "he's a most scandalous stingy chap, that joe of our'n is. he wants to keep his good things all to himself. and--would you believe it, pap, if i didn't tell you?--he said he would as soon shoot your dog or mine as look at 'em, and that if we come fooling around where he was, he'd have us tooken up, sure pop." silas morgan's eyes flashed, and an angry scowl settled on his swarthy face. dan was succeeding famously in his efforts to arouse his father's ire against the unoffending joe--at least he thought so--and he hoped to increase it until it broke out into some violent demonstration. "them's his very words, pap," continued dan, with unblushing mendacity. "since he took up with that rich man awhile ago, he has outgrowed his clothes, and me and you ain't good enough for him. me and joe could have had just the nicest kind of times up there in the woods, and by doing a little extry work on the sly, we could have snared enough of old man warren's birds, and hal--um!" dan caught his breath just in time. he was about to say that he and joe could have snared enough of mr. warren's birds and hallet's to run the amount of their joint earnings up to two hundred dollars; but he suddenly remembered that his father was not yet aware that mr. hallet's covers had been freshly stocked, and that _that_ was a matter that was to be kept from his knowledge, so that dan could have the field to himself. but the ferryman was quick to catch some things, if he was dull in comprehending others, and dan had inadvertently given him an idea to ponder over at his leisure. "but then i don't care for such trifling things as birds any more," said silas to himself. "if hallet has been fooling away his money for more pa'tridges, dan can have the fun of shooting 'em, if he wants it; and while he is tramping around through the cold looking for 'em, i'll be snug and warm at home, living like a lord on the money i took out of that cave up there in the mountings. what was you saying, dannie?" "i said that me and joe could have made right smart by doing a little trapping on the quiet," answered dan. "but he wouldn't hear to my going up there to live with him. what's grub enough for one is grub enough for two, and i could have had piles of things that come from old man warren's table, and never cost you a red cent the whole winter. more than that, being on the ground all the while, it wouldn't be no trouble at all for me to knock over one of them deer now and then, and that would save you from buying so much bacon; but that mean joe of our'n he wouldn't hear to it, and now i'm going to knock all his 'rangements higher'n the moon." "what be you going to do, dannie?" silas asked, in a voice so calm and steady that the boy backed off a step or two and looked at him suspiciously. was his father about to side with joe? dan was really afraid of it, and his voice did not have that resolute ring in it when he answered: "i'm going to set some snares up there where joe won't never think of looking for them, and by the time christmas gets here i'll have every one of them english birds in the market and sold for cash." the ferryman thrust one hand deep into his pocket, and shook the other menacingly at dan. "look a-here, son," said he, in a tone which he never assumed unless he meant that his words should carry weight with them, "you just keep away from old man warren's woods, and let them english birds be. are you listening to your pap?" "what for?" dan almost gasped. "'cause why; that's what for," was the not very satisfactory answer. "you want to pay right smart heed to what i'm saying to you, 'cause if you don't, i'll wear a hickory out over your back, big as you think you be." "well, if this ain't a trifle the beatenest thing i ever heard of, i don't want a cent," began dan, who was utterly amazed. "do you want them--that rich feller to have all the fine shooting to himself?" "that ain't what i'm thinking about just now," replied the ferryman. "i want joe to earn them hundred and twenty dollars; see the p'int?" "not all of it?" exclaimed dan. "yes, every cent." "can't i make him go pardners with me?" "no, you can't. i want joe to have the handling of it all." "then you won't never see none of it; you can bet high on that." "yes, i reckon i'll see the whole of it. you and joe ain't twenty-one year old yet, and the law gives me the right to take every cent you make." for a moment dan stood speechless with rage and astonishment; but quickly recovering the use of his tongue, he squared himself for a fight, and demanded furiously: "and is that the reason you never give me a red for breaking my back with that ferry? whoop! hold me on the ground, somebody!" "if i had a good hickory in my hands, i reckon i could very soon make you willing to hold yourself on the ground," said his father, calmly. "whoop!" yelled dan, jumping into the air, and knocking his heels together. "this bangs me; don't it you? the men who was here just now said you was one nuisance, and hobson was another; and i am so glad that the business is clean busted up, that--" silas suddenly thrust out one of his long arms, but his fingers closed upon the empty air instead of upon dan's collar. the boy escaped his grasp by ducking his head like a flash, and then he straightened up and took to his heels. chapter viii. joe's plans in danger. silas morgan made no attempt at pursuit, for he had learned by experience that he could not hold his own with dan in a foot-race; but he knew how to bide his time. "never mind, son," he shouted. "i'll catch you to-night after you have gone to bed." "these threatening words arrested dan's headlong flight, and he stopped to shout back: "you just lay an ugly hand onto me, and it'll be worse for you and them setter dogs that you've got shut up in the wood-shed. i know well enough that nobody ever give 'em to you, and that that man with the long black whiskers who was here last year would be willing to give something handsome--" the ferryman couldn't stand it any longer, for the boy was getting too near the truth to suit him. he began looking about on the ground for something to throw at him; whereupon dan turned and took to his heels again, and quickly disappeared around the corner of the cabin. "i wish that black-whiskered man had them setter dogs, and that i was shet of them," muttered silas, as he walked slowly up the bank. "i did think that mebbe i could get a big reward for giving them back; but i don't care for such things now. the money that's hid in the cave is what i'm thinking of these times." the ferryman was left to his own devices for the rest of the day; for joe, highly elated over his unexpected fortune, had gone to meet his mother, so that he might tell her the good news without being overheard by any of the rest of the family, and dan was on his way to mr. hallet's to offer him his services as game-warden. but silas was glad to be alone at this particular time, for he had something mysterious and exciting to think about--a cave in the mountains that had an abundance of treasure in it. he had long looked forward to something of this sort, for he had often dreamed about it; and when he read in a torn newspaper, which came from the store wrapped around one of his wife's bundles, that some workmen, while digging for the foundations of a public building in a distant city, had come upon an earthen jar that was filled to the brim with american and mexican coins of ancient date--when he read this, silas took it as an omen that his bright dreams of acquiring wealth without labor were on the eve of being realized. the man's first care was to let out the dogs and unhitch the horse from the wood-rack, and his second to hunt up a shady spot on the bank and look for the letter which he had stowed away in his pocket. but it was not to be found. the ferryman's clothes, like all the other things that belonged to him, were sadly in need of repairs, and when he went to shut up the dogs, the letter had worked its way through his pocket, down the leg of his trowsers, and fallen to the ground in front of the wood-shed door, where it lay until dan came along and picked it up. meanwhile joe was strolling leisurely along the road in the direction from which he knew his mother would come, when her day's work was over. "she will be glad to learn that she has done her last washing and scrubbing for other folks," the boy kept saying to himself. "when winter comes, and the roads are blocked with drifts, she can sit down in front of a warm fire and stay there, instead of wading through the deep snow to earn a dollar. i am in a position to take care of her now, and i could do it easy enough if father and dan would only let me alone. they call me stingy because i will not share my hard earnings with them; but they never think of sharing with me, nor did i ever see one of them give mother anything. on the contrary, if they know that she's got a dime or two saved up for a rainy day, they never give her a minute's peace till they get it for themselves. now, is there any way i can work it so that mother can have everything she wants, and yet be able to say that she hasn't got a cent in the house?" while joe was revolving this problem in his mind, he heard a familiar bark behind him, and faced about to see his brother dan approaching on a dog-trot. he was followed by the only friend and companion he had in the world--a little black cur, which no self-respecting boy would have accepted as a gift. but mean and insignificant as he looked, bony was of great use to his master. he was the best coon, grouse and squirrel dog in the country for miles around, and it was by his aid that dan earned money to buy his clothes and ammunition. bony got more kicks than caresses in return for his services, but that did not seem to lessen his affection for dan. "i allowed that i knew where you was gone, and that i'd come up with you directly," said the latter, as soon as he arrived within speaking distance. "say, joe, have you thought over that little plan of mine?" joe replied that he had not. "then, why don't you think it over?" continued dan. "of course, i don't expect you to go pardners with me for nothing. i've got my consent to do all i can to help you. i'll even agree to cut the wood, cook the grub, keep the shanty in order, and do all the rest of the mean work, while you are taking your ease or looking after the birds. all you've got to do is to say the word, and me and you will have the finest kind of times this winter." but joe didn't say the word. in fact, he did not say anything, and, of course, his silence made dan angry again. the latter was bound to handle at least a portion of his brother's wages, and he did not care what course he took to accomplish his object. "you ain't forgot what i told you awhile back, i reckon, have you?" said dan, with suppressed fury. "no, i haven't forgotten it. i can recall everything you said to me." "then, why don't you pay some heed to it? do you want to see your business busted up? look a here, joe morgan: you say you are going to give all that there money to mam. if you do, i'll have some of it in spite of you. i'll tell mam that i want my share, and she'll hand it over without no words, 'cause she knows well enough that i'll turn the house out doors if she don't do as i say. she's heard me calling for somebody to hold me on the ground, and she don't like to see me that way, 'cause she knows i'm mad." "i know that you have worried a good deal of money out of mother, first and last," said joe, angrily, "but you needn't think you can frighten her into giving you any of mine, because she won't have any." "you stingy, good-for-nothing scamp! you're going back on your mam, are you?" shouted dan, who could scarcely believe that he was not dreaming. "i never thought that of you. you're going to have the softest kind of a job all winter, and make stacks and piles of money, and never give a cent of it to mam, be you?" "mother will have everything she wants, but still she will not touch a cent of my earnings," answered joe, calmly. "whoop! hold me on the ground, somebody!" yelled dan, striking up his war dance. "then how'll mam get the things she wants?" "on a written order, and in no other way." "who'll give that there order?" "mr. warren, whom i shall ask to act as my banker. i've got to do something to keep you from bothering the life out of mother, and that is what i have decided upon." "whoop!" shouted dan again. "pap won't agree to no such bargain as that there, i bet you, and neither will i." "what has father got to say about my business?" "he's got a good deal to say about it, the first thing you know," answered dan, with a triumphant air. his only object in hastening on to overtake his brother was that he might torment him by calling his attention to a point of law that joe had never thought of before. "you ain't twenty-one year old yet, my fine feller, and pap's got the right to make you hand over every red cent you earn. he told me so; and he furder said that he was going to take the last dollar of them hundred and twenty that you are going to make this winter. so there, now. i told you that there was them in the world that's just as smart as you think you be, and me and pap are the fellers. he's a mighty hard old chap to get the better of, pap is, and so be i. you can't do it nohow you fix it." it looked that way, sure enough, thought joe, who was greatly surprised and bewildered. he knew very well that his father could take his earnings, if he were mean enough to do it, but, as we have said, the matter had never been brought home to him before. he had always given his money to his mother, and silas had never raised any objection to it. the reason was because he did not think of it, and besides, the amounts were too small to do him any good; they were not worth the rumpus which the ferryman knew would be raised about his ears if he interfered and tried to turn joe's earnings into his own pocket. but things were different now. the young game-warden's prospective wages amounted to a goodly sum in the aggregate, and silas was resolved to "turn over a new leaf," and assert his authority as head of the house. joe, on the other hand, was fully determined that his mother alone should profit by his winter's work, and as he was a resolute fellow, and as fearless as a boy could be, it was hard to tell how the matter was destined to end. but there was trouble in store for him; there could be no doubt about that. "what do you say now?" asked dan, who had little difficulty in reading the thoughts that were passing through his brother's mind, they showed so plainly on his face. "you're thinking of kicking agin me and pap, but i tell you that you'd best not do it. will you be sensible and go pardners, or have your business busted up?" "neither," answered joe, turning so fiercely upon his persecutor that the latter recoiled a step or two. "now, if you don't let me alone, i will go to mr. warren and see if he can find means to make you." "sho!" said dan, with a grin, "you don't mean it?" "yes, i do. it may surprise you to know that you have put yourself in danger of being locked up." "not much, i ain't," said dan, confidently. "i ain't done a single thing yet." "but you have made threats, and mr. warren could have you put under bonds." "he'd have lots of fun trying that," replied dan, who laughed loudly at the idea of such a thing. "why, man, i ain't got none." "of course you haven't, and you couldn't furnish them either, so you would have to go to jail." "great moses!" dan managed to ejaculate. there was no grin on his face now, nor even the sign of one. he was astonished as well as frightened. it had never occurred to him that his brother could invoke the law to protect him, but he saw it plainly enough now, and he knew by the way joe looked at him that he had been crowded just about as far as he intended to go. when the latter moved on down the road, dan made no attempt to stop him. he backed toward a log, sat down on it, and kept his eyes fastened upon joe until a bend in the road hid him from view. chapter ix. volunteers. "i don't know what answer to make you, boys. i have no desire to interfere with your pleasures, and i think you have always found me ready to listen to any reasonable proposition; but this latest scheme of yours looks to me to be a little--you know. i don't believe that bob's father will consent to it." "suppose you give your consent, and then we will see what we can do with bob's father. if we can say that you are willing, he'll come to terms without any coaxing." "i don't see what objection there can be to it. we can't get into mischief up there in the mountains, and we'll promise to study hard every spare minute we get. there!" "and be fully prepared to go on with our class when the spring term begins. now!" the first speaker was mr. hallet, who leaned back in his easy-chair and twirled his eye-glasses around his finger, while he looked at the two uneasy, mischief-loving boys who stood before him. tom hallet was his nephew and ward, and bob emerson was the son of an old school-friend who lived in bellville, ten miles away. bob, who was a fine, manly fellow, was a great favorite with both uncle and nephew, and had a standing invitation to spend all his vacations with them at their comfortable home among the summerdale hills. to quote from bob, mr. hallet's house was eminently a place for a tired school-boy to get away to. the fishing in the lake, and in the clear, dancing streams that emptied into it, was fine; young squirrels were always abundant after the first of august; and when september came, the law was "off" on grouse, wild turkeys and deer. hares and 'coons were plenty, and tom's little beagle knew right where to go to find them. better than all, according to the boys' way of thinking, mr. hallet was a jolly old bachelor, who thoroughly enjoyed life in a quiet way, and who meant that every one around him should do the same. taking all these things into consideration, it was little wonder that bob emerson looked forward to his yearly "outings" with the liveliest anticipations of pleasure. the summerdale hills, in days gone by, had been a hunter's paradise; but, sad to relate, their glory was fast passing away, like that of many another place which had once been noted for the abundance of its game and fish. mr. warren, to use his own language, had been foolish enough to build a hotel at the beach, and to connect it with bellville by a stage route. this brought an influx of strangers, some of whom called themselves sportsmen, who did more to depopulate the woods and streams than silas morgan, hobson, and a few others of that ilk, could have accomplished in a year's steady shooting and angling. their advent gave rise to a class of men who had never before been known in that region--to wit, guides. there were some good and honest ones among them, of course; but, as a rule, they were a shiftless, lawless class--men who lived from hand to mouth, and who looked upon game laws as so many infringements of their rights, which were to be defied and resisted in any way they could think of. up to the time the hotel was built, these men lived in utter ignorance of the fact that there were laws in force which prohibited hunting and fishing at certain seasons of the year; but one year the district game protector came up on the stage to look into things, and when he went back to bellville he took with him a guide and his employer, whom he had caught in the act of shooting deer, when the law said that they should not be molested. this unexpected interference with their bread and butter astonished and enraged the rest of the guides, who at once held an indignation meeting, and resolved that they would not submit to any such outrageous things as game laws, in the making of which their opinions and desires had not been consulted. they boldly declared that they would continue to hunt and fish whenever they felt like it, and any officer who came to the hills to stop them would be likely to get himself into business. a few of the residents, including mr. warren and mr. hallet, had tried hard to bring about a better state of things. they had gone to the expense of restocking their almost tenantless woods, and had been untiring in their efforts to have every poacher and law-breaker arrested and punished for his misdeeds; but all they had succeeded in doing thus far was to call down upon their heads the hearty maledictions of the whole ruffianly crew, who owed them a grudge and only awaited a favorable opportunity to pay it. this was the way things stood on the morning that tom hallet, accompanied by his friend bob, presented himself before his uncle, with the request that he would permit them to keep an eye on his english partridges and quails during the ensuing winter--in other words, that he would empower them to act as his game-wardens. mr. hallet was not at all surprised, for the boys had sprung so many "hare-brained schemes" on him, that he was ready for anything; but still he took a few minutes in which to consider the proposition before he made them any reply. "what in the world put that notion into your heads, anyway?" said mr. hallet, continuing the conversation which we have so unceremoniously interrupted. "is it simply an excuse to get out of school for the winter?" the boys indignantly denied that they had any idea of such a thing. they liked their school and everything connected with it; but they thought it would be fun to spend a few months in the woods. and since uncle hallet would have to employ somebody to act as game-warden, or run the risk of having all his costly birds killed by trespassers, why couldn't he employ them as well as any one else? "well, you two do think up the queerest ways for having fun that i even heard of," said mr. hallet. "i know something about camp-life, and you don't; and i tell you--" "why, uncle," exclaimed tom, "haven't we already spent a whole week in camp since bob came up here?" "a whole week!" repeated mr. hallet. "yes, and it tired you out, and you were glad enough to get home. i know that 'camping out' looks very well on paper, but i tell you that it is the hardest kind of work, even for a lazy person, to say nothing of a couple of uneasy youngsters, who can't keep still for five minutes at a time to save their lives. besides, how do i know that you wouldn't shoot some of my blue-headed birds, as morgan calls them?" "don't you suppose that we know a ruffed grouse from an english partridge or quail?" demanded tom. "we are not so liable to make mistakes in that regard as others might be. who is mr. warren going to hire for his warden?" "i believe he has gone up to morgan's to-day to speak to joe about it." "i don't know how that will work," said bob, reflectively. "joe is all right, but his father and brother are not, and i am afraid they will make trouble for him." "i thought of that, and so did warren," answered mr. hallet, "and it is a point that you two would do well to consider before you insist on going into the mountains this winter. i am told that hobson is furious over the opening of the new road, and that he and a few of his friends have threatened to burn the houses warren and i built up there in the woods, and to drive out anybody we may put there to act as game-wardens." when tom and bob heard this, they exchanged glances that were full of meaning. uncle hallet's words showed them that there was a prospect for excitement during the coming winter, and the knowledge of this fact made them all the more determined to carry their point. "oh, you needn't look at each other in that way," said mr. hallet, with a laugh. "i know what you are thinking about, and i have no notion of allowing you to do something to get these poachers and law-breakers down on you. however i am going to the village directly, and perhaps i'll drop in and see what bob's father thinks about it." "don't forget to tell him that we have your full and free consent," began tom. "but i haven't given it," interrupted mr. hallet, adjusting his eye-glasses across the bridge of his nose and reaching for his paper. "and that we shall go along with all our lessons just as fast as the boys in school will," chimed in bob. "i'll not forget it; but i shall be much surprised at your father if he believes it." uncle hallet resumed his reading, and the boys, taking this as a hint that he had said all he had to say on the subject, put on their hats and left the room. "it's all right, bob," said tom, gleefully. "i am sure of it," replied bob. "we've got uncle hallet on our side, and it will be no trouble for him to talk father over. now let's finish that letter to mr. morgan, and then go up and put it in his wood-pile." so saying, bob went up the stairs three at a jump, tom following close at his heels. chapter x. why the letter was written. when the boys reached the landing at the head of the stairs, they turned into tom's room, the door of which stood invitingly open. bob seated himself at a table and picked up a pen, while tom leaned over his shoulder and fastened his eyes upon the unfinished letter, to which reference was made at the close of the last chapter. "let's see--how far did we get?" said the latter. "i believe we were talking about a bank they were supposed to have robbed somewhere in california. well, say that they took a pile of money--seventy thousand dollars out of it. but i say, bob! that's awful bad printing. i don't know whether silas can make out to read it or not." "then let him get somebody to help him," answered bob. "i can't be expected to furnish him with the key, after going to so much trouble to write the letter." "but if he can't read it, what use will it be to him?" asked tom. "probably he's got friends who can spell it out for him, and i'm sure i don't care how much publicity he gives it. 'and there we took out seventy thousand dollars,'" said bob. "go on; what next? they went to canada after that, didn't they? there is where all the crooks go these days." "put it down, anyway. 'so we went to canady (be careful about the spelling) and staid there till the country got too hot for us.' that reads all right," said tom, throwing himself into the big rocking-chair, and wondering, like the minister in the "one-hoss shay," what the moses should come next. "don't forget to say something about the 'hant' who guards the treasure in the cave." "can't you wait till i come to the cave?" replied bob, who could not print the letter as fast as his friend could think up things to put into it. "i don't altogether approve of this ghost business, anyway. i am afraid it will scare the old fellow so badly that he will make no attempt to find the treasure that is concealed in the cave." "don't you worry about that," tom replied. "all we've got to do is to word the letter so that he will believe the money is really there, and he will go after it, even if he knew that he would have to face all the ghosts that ever haunted the summerdale hills; and their name is legion, if there is any faith to be put in the stories i have heard." "i say, tom," exclaimed bob, throwing down his pen and settling-back in his chair, "wouldn't it be a joke if some of those same ghosts should take it into their heads to visit us during the winter? it must be lonely up there in the mountains, when the roads are blocked with drifts, and all communication with the outside world is cut off, and wouldn't we feel funny if we should hear something go this way some dark and stormy night--b-r-r-r?" here bob uttered a hollow groan, drew his head down between his shoulders, and tried to shiver and look frightened. "no doubt it would; but we shan't hear anything go this way--b-r-r-r," replied tom, imitating bob's groan as nearly as he could. "now i think you had better go on with that letter, and i will draw the map that is to guide him in his search for the robbers' cave and plunder. we've wasted a good hour and a half already; and if we don't hurry up, we shan't be able to give him the letter to-day. let me think a moment! there's a deep gorge about a quarter of a mile from morgan's wood-pile, and i don't believe it has ever been explored. that would be a good place to put the cave, wouldn't it?" bob said he thought it would, and went on with his writing, while tom hunted up a piece of paper and began drawing the map. bob pronounced it perfect when his friend presented it for his inspection, and indeed it ought to have been. there was no one in the neighborhood who was better acquainted with the hills than silas morgan, and if the map had guided him to a place that really had no existence, except in tom's imagination, he would have known in a minute that somebody was trying to play a trick upon him. the letter was finished at last, to the entire satisfaction of both the boys, and the next thing was to put it where the man for whom it was intended would be sure to find it. do you ask what it was that suggested to them the idea of making the shiftless and ignorant ferryman the victim of one of their practical jokes? simply an accident, coupled with the want of something to do, and their innate propensity to get fun out of everything that came in their way. on the previous day they made it their business to stand guard over the english partridges and quails which uncle hallet had "turned down" in his wood-lot, and it so happened that they stopped to eat their lunch within a short distance of silas morgan's wood-pile, but out of sight of it. they heard the creaking of the ferryman's old wagon, as his aged and infirm beast pulled it laboriously up the steep mountain-side, and not long afterward the setters, which accompanied silas, wherever he went, spied out their resting-place. but the animals did not give tongue, as they would no doubt have done if the boys had been utter strangers to them. they thankfully ate the bits of cracker and broiled squirrel that were tossed to them, and then went back to wait for silas. "that man has no more right to those valuable dogs than i have," said bob. "they're worth a hundred dollars apiece, and no one ever gave a guide that much money in return for a single day's woodcock shooting. who is he talking to, i wonder?" "to no one," answered tom. "he likes to talk to a sensible man, and he likes to hear a sensible man talk; consequently, he has a good deal to say to silas morgan. that's the fellow he is talking to." and so it proved. the ferryman was engaged in an animated conversation with the ferryman, asking and answering the questions himself, and so fully was his mind occupied with other matters, that it never occurred to him that possibly his words might be falling upon ears for which they were not intended. tom and his companion had no desire to play the part of eavesdroppers. they were not at all interested in what silas was saying to himself--at least they thought so; but it turned out otherwise. having finished their lunch, they began making preparations to set out for home; but in the meantime silas reached the wood-pile, and, leaning heavily upon his wagon, he gave utterance to his thoughts in much the same words as those we used at the beginning of this story. "i just know that i wasn't born to do no such mean work as i've been called to do all my life," declared silas, stooping over, and throwing the perspiration from his forehead with his bent finger. "i can't get my consent to slave and toil in this way much longer, while there are folks all around me who never do a hand's turn. they can loaf around and take their ease from morning till night, while i--wait till i tell you. such things ain't right, and i won't stand it much longer. the other night i dreamed of that robber's cave, with piles of gold and greenbacks into it, and yesterday i read about the finding of that earthen crock that was plumb full of money; so't i know i shall be a rich man some day. 'pears to me that day isn't so very far off, neither. if i should come up here some time and find a letter telling me where there was a robber's cave with stacks and piles of money in it, i shouldn't be at all astonished; would you?" "not in the least," whispered bob, giving his friend a prod in the ribs with his elbow; whereupon tom laid his finger by the side of his nose and winked first one eye and then the other, to show that he fully understood bob. "stranger things than that have happened," continued silas, in a voice that was plainly audible to the two boys behind the evergreens, "and i don't see why it can't happen to me as well as to anybody else. wouldn't that be a joyful day to me, though? i'd bust up that flat the very first thing i did, and tell the fellers that tooted the horn that i was done being servant for them or anybody else. no, i wouldn't do that, either," added silas, after reflecting a minute. "i'd give it to dan and joe to make a living with, and then i wouldn't have to spend any of my fortune on their grub and clothes." "what a stingy old hulks he is!" whispered bob, as the ferryman took a reluctant step toward the wood-pile. "i say, tom, don't you think there is a robber's cave about here somewhere? i should think there ought to be, with so many ghosts hanging around. it don't look to me as though they could be here for nothing." "that's what i think," replied tom, in the same cautious whisper. "i shouldn't wonder a bit if there was a freebooter's stronghold somewhere in these mountains." "with lots of money in it?" continued bob. "piles of it," said tom. "as much as there is in the treasury at washington." bob turned toward his friend with a look of indignant astonishment on his face. "and you knew it all the time, and never told silas about it!" he exclaimed. "can't you see how badly he wants it, and how confident he is that he is going to get it? you ought to have attended to it long ago." "you're very right," said tom, meekly. "now i will tell you what i'll do: if you will print a letter--it must be printed, you know, for silas can't read writing--telling how the money got into the cave in the first place, i'll draw a map that will aid him in finding it." bob said it was a bargain, and the two boys shook hands on it; after which they again turned their attention to the ferryman, who kept up his soliloquy while he was loading the wood on the wagon. the burden of it was that his lot in life was a very hard one, that he never worked except under protest, and that he firmly believed that the future had something better in store for him. tom and his companion went home, fully determined that if they lived to see the dawn of another day, silas should find the wished-for letter in his wood-pile. they took one night to "sleep on it," and make up their minds just what they wanted to say to him, and bright and early the next morning they went to work. by their united efforts they finally produced the letter which we laid before the reader in the third chapter; but they were a long time about it. every sentence and suggestion had to be weighed and discussed at length, and it was when tom remarked that he would like to see the upshot of the whole matter, that a bright idea suddenly occurred to bob. "we can stay up there to-morrow, and see what he will do when he finds the letter," observed the latter, "but we can't run to the top of the summerdale hills every day to watch him go after the money, can we? it's too far, and-say, tom, let's ask uncle hallet to make us his game-wardens." "oh, let's!" exclaimed tom, who was always ready for anything that had a spice of novelty or adventure in it. "of course, we shall have to live up there in the woods, the same as mr. warren's man does." "to-be-sure. then we shall be right on the ground, and it will be but little trouble for us to keep track of morgan's movements. if he tries to find the cave, we may be on hand to give him a scare." "well, that's a black horse of another color," said tom, looking down at the floor, in a deep study. "silas morgan never goes into the woods without his double-barrel for company, and he is so sure a shot that i don't think it would be quite safe for the spectre of the cave to materialize while he is around." bob hadn't thought of that before, nor did he stop to think of it now, because it was a matter that could be settled at some future time. it was enough for him to know that tom was strongly in favor of the rest of his scheme, and the two posted off to find uncle hallet, and see what he thought about it. the result of the conference they held with him, so far as it was reached that day, we have already chronicled. we must now hasten on and tell what happened in and around the summerdale hills after silas found and lost the letter, and dan got hold it. chapter xi. the plot succeeds. tom's map having been duly examined and approved, and bob's letter read and commented upon, the latter folded them both up together and placed them in an envelope, which he sealed with a vigorous blow of his fist. "i suppose it ought to have a stamp on it, in order to make it look ship-shape," said he, "but i haven't got two cents to waste in addition to the time and exhausting mental effort i have spent upon the production of this interesting and important communication. i ought to put a hint of its contents upon the envelope, i should think." "by all means," answered tom. "print anything that occurs to you, so long as it will excite his curiosity and impel him to a further examination. how does this strike you: 'notis to the lucky person in to whose han's this dockyment may hapen to fall.' that sounds all right, doesn't it? well, put it down, and then add something about the 'hant' that watches over the cave." for a few minutes bob's pen moved rapidly, and at last he drew a long breath of relief and slammed the blotting-paper over what he had written. "it's done, i'm glad to say, and the next time we find it necessary to communicate with mr. morgan, or with any other gentleman who has not gone deep enough into the arcana of letters to be able to read good, honest writing, we'll hire a cheap boy to do the printing for us. now, what shall we take besides our lunch? i don't want to carry my breech-loader up to the top of the mountains for nothing. i know it weighs only seven and a quarter pounds, but i'll think it weighs a hundred before i get back." "if you will sling your pocket-rifle case over your shoulder, i'll take my little tackle-box, and then we shall be fully equipped," replied tom. "we'll be sure to get a young squirrel or two while we are going by the corn-field, and i know a stream in which there are still a few trout to be found." acting upon his friend's advice, bob put the letter into his pocket, and picked up the neat leather case in which his little rifle reposed, while tom seized his tackle-box and led the way to the kitchen. a few minutes later they left the house, with a substantial lunch stowed away in a fish-basket which tom carried under his arm, and bent their steps toward silas morgan's wood-pile, where they arrived after an hour's fatiguing walk up the mountain. the first thing in order was a reconnaissance in force, followed by a careful inspection of the ground, both of which satisfied them that they had reached the spot in ample time to carry out all the details of their scheme. the wheel-marks in the ground were not fresh, and neither were the footprints, and this proved that the ferryman had not yet been up after his daily load of wood. "he is later than usual," said bob. "i hope nothing has happened to keep him away, for i wouldn't miss being around when he gets the letter for anything. it will be as good as a circus." "there he comes now!" exclaimed tom, as a series of dismal wails arose from the valley below. "don't you hear the creaking of his wagon? shove the letter into the end of this stick, and then we'll dig out for the place where we ate lunch yesterday. we can hear and see everything from there." bob hastily complied with his friend's suggestion, inserting the letter into a crack in a protruding stick in so conspicuous a position that silas would be sure to see it, if he made any use whatever of his eyes, and then the two boys betook themselves to their hiding-place behind the evergreens. in due time the ferryman came in sight. he was clinging with both hands to the hind end of the wagon, and if he had let go his hold he would, beyond a doubt, have rolled clear back to the bottom of the hill, not being possessed of sufficient life and energy to stop himself. whenever the horse halted for a short rest, which he did as often as the idea occurred to him, silas raised no objections, but leaned heavily upon the wood-rack and rested, too, talking earnestly to himself all the while. he was so long in reaching the wood-pile that the boys became very impatient; but when he got there and found the letter, the fright and excitement he exhibited, and the extraordinary contortions he went through, amply repaid them for their long waiting. bob's prediction, that "it would be as good as a circus," was abundantly verified. they observed every move he made, and heard every word he said. they were especially delighted to see him climb the wood-pile, and reach over and take possession of the letter; and when he snatched up the knotted reins and fell upon the horse with his hickory, because the animal would not move in obedience to his whispered commands, bob caught tom around the neck with both arms, and the two rolled on the ground convulsed with merriment. when they recovered themselves sufficiently to get up and look through the evergreens again, they saw silas disappearing around the first turn in the road; but he was in sight long enough for them to take note of the fact that he was stepping out at a much livelier rate than they had seen him accomplish for many a day. when the trees hid him from view, tom and bob sat down on the ground and looked at each other. "well," said the former, wiping the tears from his eyes, "so far so good. now, what comes next?" "nothing more of this sort to-day; at least i hope not," answered bob. "i couldn't stand another such a laughing spell right away, unless i could give full vent to my feelings. i thought i should split when i heard silas say that he didn't know whether or not he could get his consent to touch that letter." silas being safely out of hearing by this time, there was no longer any reason why bob should restrain his risibilities, and he gave way to a hearty peal of laughter, in which tom joined with much gusto. "it was when he went through his antics on top of the wood-pile that i came the nearest losing control of myself," said the latter, as soon as he could speak. "i didn't suppose that there was so much ignorance and superstition in this whole country as that man has given us proof of this day." and neither did tom imagine that while he and bob were writing that letter, "just for the fun of the thing," they were setting in motion a series of events which were destined to create the greatest excitement far and near, and to come within a hair's-breadth of ending in something very like a tragedy. it was a long time before the boys had their laugh out. tom, who was an incomparable mimic, went through the whole performance again, for his own delectation as well as for bob's benefit, reaching for invisible letters, and climbing imaginary wood-piles, and so perfectly did he imitate the ferryman's actions, and even the tones of his voice, that bob at last jumped to his feet, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and hastened away, declaring that he could not stand it any longer. the first thing the two friends did, after they became sobered down so that they could do anything, was to retrace their steps to the corn-field, where they hoped to secure an acceptable addition to the lunch that was in tom's creel. nor were they disappointed; the game they sought was out in full force; bob's diminutive rifle spoke twice in quick succession, and two young squirrels, after being neatly dressed and wrapped in buttered tissue-paper, were placed in the basket with the lunch. then the boys went in quest of the trout stream of which tom had spoken. when bob got down to it, and saw what a place it was in, he did not wonder that there were still a few fish to be found in it. on the contrary, he wondered if there had ever been any taken out of it. he had never seen an angler, no matter how enthusiastic and long-winded he might be, who would willingly stumble through five miles of trackless woods, climb over as many miles of tangled wind-fall, and scramble down the almost perpendicular side of that deep gorge, for the sake of catching a few trout, and he did not hesitate to tell tom so. "wait till you see the beauty i am going to snatch out from under that log in less than a minute after i drop in my hook," said the latter, who carried his open knife in his hand, and was looking about among the bushes for a pole to take the place of the split bamboo he had left at home. "but you needn't grumble, young man. you may see the day when you will be willing to tramp farther than this to have the pleasure of depositing a single trout in your creel." "when things get as bad as that i won't go trout-fishing," said bob, in reply. "i'll take it out on black bass in the lake. besides, these trout are not at all high-toned. they don't know enough to take a fly, and there's no fun in fishing with any other bait." "we're not looking for fun now; we're after our dinner," answered tom, who, having found a pole to suit him, was kicking the bark off a decayed log in search of a grub to put on his hook. "would it inconvenience you to stir around and get a fire going? you might as well have your scales ready, too; there's a trout under that log that weighs about-there he is!" sure enough, there he was. while tom was speaking he dropped his hook into the water, and before the white grub on it had sunk out of sight, it was seized by a monster trout, which turned and started for the bottom with it, only to find himself yanked unceremoniously out of his native element, and by a dexterous movement of his captor's wrist, landed at bob's feet on the opposite bank. "i haven't elbow-room for any display of science in handling fish," said tom, as his companion unhooked the prize and quieted his struggles by a blow on the head with the handle of his heavy knife. "main strength and awkwardness are what do the business in these tangled thickets. what do the scales say in regard to his weight?" "a pound and nine ounces," replied bob. "now suppose you hand over that pole and see if i can catch one to match him." tom, who was quite willing to comply, jumped across the brook and set to work to kindle a fire and get the dinner going, while bob took the rod and threaded his way through the thick bushes toward another promising hole which his friend told him of, farther up the stream. he was not gone more than twenty minutes, and when he came back he brought with him three trout, one of which was larger and heavier than tom's. bob could easily have taken more but did not do it, because he knew that he and tom could not dispose of them. he knew, too, that they would be a drug in the home market, uncle hallet having often declared that he had eaten so many trout since bob came to his house that it was all he could do to keep from jumping into every puddle of water he saw. the boys were adepts at forest cookery, and hungry enough to do full justice to their dinner. when the meal was over, the only dish they had to wash was the small tin basin in which their tea was made, the squirrels and trout having been broiled over the coals on three-pronged sticks cut from the neighboring bushes. after an hour's rest they put out the fire by drenching it with water, which they dipped from the brook with their drinking-cups. bob often paused in his work to look up at the high bank above, which was so steep that the top seemed to hang over the bed of the stream, and finally he declared that it would take so much of his breath and strength to get up there that he wouldn't have any left to carry him over the five miles of wind-fall that lay between the gorge and silas morgan's wood-pile. "well, then, we'll follow the brook," said tom. "it will take us to the lake, if we stick to it long enough, or we can turn out of the gorge when we reach the place where our robber's cave is supposed to be located. what kind of traveling we shall find i don't know, for i have never been down this gulf; but i do know that we shall have farther to walk than if we go back the way we came." bob at once declared his preference for the "water route," reminding his companion that the longest way around is often the shortest way home. he felt relieved after that, for he dreaded the almost impassable wind-fall over which his tireless friend had led him a few hours before; but whether or not it was worse than some things that happened as the result of his decision, and which he was destined to encounter before the winter was over remains to be seen. chapter xii. a mystery. the traveling in the gorge was quite as difficult as the two friends expected to find it. the bushes on each side were so thick that they could not walk on the bank, and the bed of the stream was covered with rocks and boulders, over which they slipped and stumbled at every step. now and then the way was obstructed by deep, dark pools which would have gladdened the eye of an angler, for it is in such places that the "sockdolagers" of the brook abide. but tom and his companion looked upon them as so many obstacles that were to be overcome with as little delay as possible. they floundered through them without stopping to see how deep they were, and before they had left their camp half a mile behind, their high rubber boots were full of water. the gorge was beginning to grow dark when tom, after taking a survey of the bank over his head, announced that they were just about opposite silas morgan's wood-pile, and that it was time for them to find a place to climb out. "i am overjoyed to hear it," said bob, seating himself on the nearest boulder. "but it's going to be hard work to get up there, the first thing you know, because we've got several pounds more weight to carry than we had when we started. this is worse than the windfall." while bob was resting, tom walked slowly down the gorge, hoping to find a spot where the bushes were not so thick, and the bank easy of ascent; but before he had gone a dozen yards, his footsteps were arrested by an occurrence that was as startling as it was unexpected. the thicket in front of him was suddenly and violently agitated, and an instant afterward there arose from it the most blood-curdling sound the boys had ever heard. an indian war-whoop could not compare with it--they were certain of that. it was not a shriek, a laugh or a groan, but it was a combination of all three; and it was so loud and penetrating that the echoes caught it up and repeated it, until the hideous sound seemed to fill the air all around them. tom came to a sudden standstill, and the face he turned toward his companion was as white as a sheet. bob was frightened, too, but he retained his wits and his power of action, and his first thought was to put a safe distance between himself and the thing, whatever it was, that could make a noise like that. without saying a word he arose from his seat, dived into the bushes and began scrambling up the bank. how he got to the top he never knew (he afterward affirmed that in some places the bank was as straight up and down as the side of a house), but he reached it in an incredibly short space of time, and turned about to find tom close at his heels. "what in the name of sense and tom walker was it?" panted bob, pulling out his handkerchief and mopping his forehead, on which the perspiration stood in great beads. "i give it up," gasped tom. "it must be something awful, if one may judge by the screeching it is able to do. i heard a couple of laughing hyenas give a solo and chorus in a menagerie once, and i thought i should never get the sound out of my ears; but that thing in the gulf can beat them out of sight. i'm going home now, but i'll come up here to-morrow with bugle and uncle hallet's winchester, and if i can make the dog drive him out of the bushes so that i can get a fair sight at him, i'll pump him so full of holes that he'll never make any more of that noise." tom at once drew a bee line for his uncle's house, and bob fell in behind him. when they reached the wood-pile, he proposed that they should sit down and rest and compare notes. he was still quite nervous and uneasy, while bob, who had had leisure to look at the matter in all its bearings, was as serene and unruffled as usual. "well, what do you think of it by this time?" inquired the latter. "i don't think anything about it," replied tom; "it is quite beyond me. but this much i know: that thing has got to be 'neutralized' before i will consent to come up here and live as uncle hallet's game-warden." "aha!" exclaimed bob, with a laugh, "didn't you assure me that we wouldn't hear anything go b-r-r-r?" "yes, and i'll stick to it; but there's something in these mountains that i don't want to hear screaming around our cabin this winter, now i tell you. what kind of a beast do you think it was, anyway? you heard a panther screech while you were hunting in michigan last winter. did he make a noise like that?" "no," answered bob; "it wasn't a beast, either." "what makes you say that?" "i have two very good reasons. in the first place, if there are any animals in these mountains that are more to be feared than the wolves, they have found hiding-places so secure that the hunters have not been able to discover them for ten years and better. in the next place, if that thing in the gulf is a beast of prey, he would not have given us notice of his presence. he would have waited till we came close to the bushes so that he could jump out and grab one of us." "that's so," said tom. "well, go on; what was it?" "you placed our robbers' cave down there, didn't you?" "oh, get out!" exclaimed tom; "i'm in no humor for nonsense. i was badly frightened, and i haven't got over it yet." "neither have i. i am in dead earnest. there's somebody down there in the gulf, and he took that way to let us know that he didn't want us to come any nearer to him." "it was silas morgan, for a million dollars!" exclaimed tom, who needed no more words to convince him that his friend's reasoning was correct. "it's perfectly clear to me now. he didn't waste any time in going after that money, did he?" "quite the contrary. he has been so very quick about it, that i'm inclined to believe it wasn't silas at all; but if it was he, why is he camping there?" "camping?" repeated tom. "yes. just before that horrid shriek came out of the bushes, i thought i could smell burning wood; but i didn't have time to call your attention to it." "perhaps the mountain is on fire somewhere." "oh, i guess not. if that was the case, we'd smell the smoke now, wouldn't we?" "that's so," said tom, again. "well, who's down there?" "i'm sure i don't know; but i am satisfied that it is some one who has reasons for keeping himself hidden from the world. now, what's to be done about it?" "i don't see that we are obliged to do anything, unless we want to make ourselves a laughing stock for the whole country," replied tom, who had had time to form some ideas of his own. "i couldn't be hired to tell uncle hallet of it, because he would ask, right away, 'why didn't you go ahead and find out what it was that frightened you? you are pretty fellows to talk about living up there alone in the woods this winter, are you not?' and he'd never leave off poking fun at us. no doubt there is a party of guests from the hotel down there, and one of them yelled at us just for the fun of seeing us scramble up the bank. i only wish they might stay there long enough to play the same game on silas morgan when he comes after the money that is hidden in the cave." the two friends spent half an hour or more in comparing notes after this fashion, but they did not succeed in wholly clearing up the mystery. they both agreed that it was a man, and not a savage beast of prey, that was hidden in the gulf; but who the man was, where he came from, and what he was doing there, were other and deeper questions, which probably never would be answered. "i'll tell you what's a fact, bob," said tom, as he arose from the ground and led the way down a well-beaten cow-path that ran toward his uncle's barn, "we are not the only fellows in the world who like to play tricks upon others, and i'll venture to say that there is some one in the gorge at this minute who is laughing at us as heartily as we laughed at silas morgan when he found the letter that we put in his wood-pile. the guests at the hotel come up here to have fun, and they don't care much how they get it." "perhaps you're right," replied bob, who nevertheless still held to the belief that there was some one in the gorge who was hiding there because he dared not show himself among his fellow-men. "but if i were sure of it, i should be very much ashamed of myself and you, too. however, i don't see how we are to get at the bottom of the matter, unless we go back and interview the party in the gulf; and i can't say that i am anxious to do that." there was still another point on which the boys fully agreed, and that was that they would not say a word to uncle hallet about it; but the latter heard of it, all the same, and it turned out that tom was wide of the mark when he insisted that some one had played a joke upon himself and his companion. the boys reached home just at supper-time, and found that uncle hallet had returned from bellville with good news for them. he had seen bob's father, and the latter, after declaring that it was one of the wildest things he had ever heard of, and wondering what foolish notion those two boys would get into their heads next, finally decided that since tom had made up his mind to live in the woods during the winter, bob might stay and keep him company. "he desired me to tell you that he shall expect to hear a good account of you, both as student and game-warden," said uncle hallet, shaking his finger at bob. "if you don't keep up with your class, or if you neglect your business and allow some pot-hunter to kill off all my english birds, so that there won't be any left for your father to shoot when i invite him up here, he will be sorry that he didn't keep you in school. what's the matter with you two anyway?" suddenly demanded uncle hallet, who had a faint suspicion that the boys were not as highly elated as they ought to have been. "this morning you were fairly carried away with this new idea of yours, and now you don't seem to say anything. have you thought better of it already?" the boys hastened to assure uncle hallet that they had not--that they were just as eager to assume the duties of game-wardens as they had ever been, and that that was the last night they expected to pass under his roof for eight long months. it was all true, too; but each of them made a mental reservation. if the man in the gulf was a fugitive from justice, as bob thought he was, he might prove to be a very unpleasant fellow to have around, and until he had been "neutralized," as tom expressed it, they could not hope to enjoy themselves. they did not want to enter upon their duties feeling that there was a portion of mr. hallet's preserves from which they were shut off by the presence of one who had no business there. "he suspects something," whispered tom, as he and his friend arose from the supper-table and made their way to their rooms. "now i'll just tell you what's a fact. i am going wherever i please in my uncle's woods, and any one who tries to turn me back will get himself into trouble." "i am with you," was bob's reply. "if that howling dervish has settled down there for the winter, how shall we get rid of him?" tom couldn't answer that question, so he said that perhaps they had better sleep on it, and that was what they decided to do. chapter xiii. dan is scared. when mr. warren's newly-appointed game-warden turned away from dan and went on down the road to meet his mother, he left behind him one of the maddest boys that had ever been seen in that part of the country. in spite of all he had said to the contrary, dan had no intention of asking mr. hallet to employ him to watch his birds and keep trespassers out of his wood-lot, for he knew very well that if he proffered such a request he would be met by a prompt and emphatic refusal. mr. hallet was too well acquainted with his poaching propensities to give his imported game into his keeping, and dan was painfully aware of the fact. what he wanted more than anything else was that his brother should accept him as a partner, so that he could handle half the earnings, while joe did all the work and shouldered all the responsibility; that was the plain english of it. but joe was resolved to paddle his own canoe, and more than that, he had threatened to call upon a powerful friend to make dan behave himself, if he didn't see fit to do it of his own free will. "i've got be mighty sly about what i do," thought dan, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at the ground, after kicking bony out of his way. "don't it beat you when you think of the luck that comes to some fellers, while others, who are just as good as they be, and who work just as hard, can't make things go right no way they can fix it? i tell you it bangs me. i ought to have help to drive that joe of our'n out of them woods, for, to tell you what's the gospel truth, i don't quite like the idee of facing him alone. i can't fight agin him and pap, with old man warren throwed in." while dan was talking to himself in this way, he stretched his leg out before him and drew from his pocket the letter he had found in front of the door of the wood-shed. he little dreamed what an astounding revelation it contained. he had not the slightest idea where it came from, and neither could he have told why he picked it up. he proceeded to examine it now, simply because he had nothing else to occupy his mind, except his many and bitter disappointments, and he had already expressed himself very feelingly in regard to them. with great deliberation dan spread the letter upon his knee, and, with a caution which had become habitual to him, looked up and down the road to make sure that there was no one in sight. then he addressed himself to the task of reading the "notis" that was scrawled upon the envelope; but no sooner had he, with infinite difficulty, spelled out all the words in it, than the letter fell from his nerveless fingers, and dan jumped to his feet and whooped and yelled like a wild indian. "now don't it bang you what mean luck some fellers do have? here's a--" dan checked himself very suddenly when he became aware that he was shouting out these words with all the power of his lungs. filled with apprehension he looked up and down the road again, but as there was no one in sight, he resumed his seat and went on with his soliloquy; but this time he spoke in a much lower tone of voice. "there's a fortune up there in the mounting, as much as two or three hundred dollars mebbe, but i dassent go after it on account of the hant that's up there," said dan, to himself. "i've heared 'em say that them hants cuts up powerful bad when anybody comes fooling around where they be, and it ain't no use to think of driving them away, 'cause bullets will go through 'em as slick as you please and never hurt 'em at all. how come this dockyment in front of the wood-shed, do you reckon?" dan was greatly confused and excited, and it was a long time before he could control himself sufficiently to pick up the envelope, take out the inclosure and read it through to the end--or, to be more exact, nearly to the end; for, as we shall presently see, dan never had a chance to read the whole of it. he kept up a running fire of comments as he went along, and to have heard him, one would suppose that he had long been looking for something of this sort. that was hardly to be wondered at, for he had often heard his father indulge in the most extravagant speculations concerning the future, and dan certainly had as good a right to waste his time in that way as silas had. but when he came to read about the "hant" which bothered the writer so persistently that he was obliged to jump into the lake in order to get rid of him, dan could stand it no longer. he got upon his feet, at the same time returning the letter to the envelope and making a blind shove with it at his pocket, and drew a bee-line for home. he was so badly frightened that he could not run, and he was afraid to look behind him. he glided over the ground with long, noiseless footsteps, his lank body bent nearly half double, and his wild-looking eyes roving from thicket to thicket on each side of the road in front of him. presently the climax came. a squirrel, detecting his approach, sought to escape observation by jumping from one tree to another, and he made a great commotion among the light branches as he did so. the noise was too much for dan's overtaxed nerves. "it's the hant, as sure as i'm a foot high," said he, in a frightened whisper. "he can't pester t'other feller any more, 'cause he's gone and drownded himself in the lake; but he's going to foller whoever has got the letter telling where the fortune is, and that's me. i wonder could i out-run him?" dan thought this a good idea, and he lost not a moment in acting upon it. he was noted far and near for his lightness of foot, but no one in the summerdale hills had ever seen him run as he ran that day. he hardly seemed to touch the ground; and the farther he went the faster he went, because his increasing fear lent him wings. he was so hopelessly stampeded that if the road had been crowded with teams or people he would not have seen one of them. he did not slacken his pace until he reached the wood-shed, and then he came to an abrupt halt and looked behind him. there was no one in the road over which he had passed in his headlong flight, and the woods were silent. "well, i done it, didn't i?" exclaimed dan, drawing a long breath of relief, and thrusting his hand into the pocket in which he thought he had put the letter. "it ain't no use for anything that gets around on two legs to think of follering me when i turn on the steam. now, then, where's that there--" "that there what? and who's been a-follering of you?" demanded a familiar voice, almost at his elbow. dan was frightened again. he looked up, and there stood his father, who had been keeping up a persistent but of course fruitless search for the letter ever since dan went away. one glance at his angry face was a revelation to the boy. he knew now that silas had lost the letter where he found it. dan would have been glad to take it out and hand it over to him--he didn't want anything more to do with it after the experience he had already had with the "hant"--but he found, to his unbounded amazement and alarm, that he could not do it. he had dropped the letter somewhere along the road. "who's been a-follering of you? and what have you lost?" repeated silas, who began to have a faint idea that he understood the situation. "there was a hant follering of me," replied dan, as soon as he could speak. "he was coming for me, 'cause i could hear him slamming through the bushes; but i can run faster'n him, else i wouldn't be here now." "you can't bamboozle your pap with no tale about a hant, for i don't believe in such things," declared silas, but his face told a different story. he looked fully as wild as dan did, and he was almost as badly frightened. "why don't you come to the p'int, and tell me that you have lost the letter that was left in my wood-pile last winter, and which i never seen till this morning? if you will tell me the truth about it, i will tell you something that will make your eyes stick out as big as your fist." "and won't you larrup me for losing of it?" asked dan, who saw very plainly that it was useless for him to deny that he had once had the letter in his possession. "no, i won't do nothing to you; honor bright. did you read what was into it?" "not all of it. i didn't have time, on account of that hant, who rattled the bushes behind me. when i heared that, i just shoved the letter into my pocket and skipped out," replied dan, who could not for the life of him tell a thing just as it happened. "but it bangs me where that letter is now, 'cause i ain't got it." dan expected that his father would go into an awful rage when he heard this, and held himself in readiness to take to his heels at the very first sign of a hostile demonstration; consequently he was very much surprised to hear silas say, without the least show of anger: "it don't much matter, 'cause i had a chance to read all that was into the letter, and take a good look at the map that come with it. i know right where to look for that robbers' cave, but i shan't go down that there rope, i bet you, for i don't want to dump myself into the presence of that hant before i have a look at him. we'll go in at the mouth of the gulf, and work our way up till we come to the hiding-place of the money." "we?" echoed dan. "yes, me and you." "not much we won't," declared dan, throwing all the emphasis he could into his words. "what for?" demanded silas. "'cause why. it's enough for me, to hear hants a chasing of me. i ain't got no call to go where they be, so't i can see 'em. i wouldn't go up to that there cave if i knowed there was a thousand dollars into it." "a thousand dollars!" repeated silas. "didn't you read in the letter about the grip-sack with a false bottom to it?" "i don't reckon i did," answered dan, after thinking a moment. "the hant scared me away before i got that far." "well, there's a grip-sack there," continued silas, "and there's twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold into it. i was calkerlating all along that me and you would go snucks on it. now, will you hand over that letter, so't i can take another look at the map and make sure that i know where the cave is?" "twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred more dollars in gold!" gasped dan, who could hardly believe his ears. "pap, i would give you the letter in a minute, but it's the gospel truth that i ain't got it." and to prove his words, dan turned all his pockets inside out, to show that they were empty. "then i reckon we'll have to go back along the road and look for it," said silas, desperately. "that's a power of money, more'n i ever thought to have in my family, and sposen somebody should come along and find that there letter, and go up to the cave and steal it away from us? just think of that, dannie!" dan did think of it, and it was the only thing that kept him from beating a hasty retreat when his father spoke of going back to look for the letter. chapter xiv. the "hant." "now, let me tell you what's a fact," said dan, after he had taken a few minutes in which to consider his father's proposition. "i don't reckon it will be any use for us to go back and try to find that there letter. i'll bet anything that the hant has found it and carried it miles away before this time." "dannie, what's the use of talking that way?" exclaimed silas, impatiently, "don't you know that hants can't tote nothing away, 'cause they're sperits? all they can do is to jump up in front of a feller and frighten him; but they can't do no harm to you. we'll take our guns along, and if he's fool enough to show himself we'll pepper him good fashion." "and never hurt him at all," said dan. "he'll be just as sassy with his hide full of bird-shot as he was before. now, pap, you wait and see if i ain't right." silas did not pay much attention to these words of warning, but they were afterward recalled to his mind in a manner that was most unexpected and startling. what he was thinking of just now was the letter. he was very anxious to find it, for he was afraid that it might fall into the hands of some one who would use it to his injury. when he turned about and led the way into the cabin, dan followed him with reluctant steps. "you needn't be no ways skeery about going up the road in broad daylight," said silas, encouragingly. "it ain't likely that that there hant will go away from the cave and roam around the country, scaring folks, for the fun of the thing. he ain't out there in the woods, and you never heard him." "i did, for a fact," protested dan. "i don't believe it, all the same," answered silas, as he took down his heavy double-barrel and measured the loads in it with the ramrod. "he's come back to the cave to watch them five hundred pounds of money, and see that nobody don't carry 'em away; and he'll never leave there." "then how are we going to get that fortune?" inquired dan. "we'll just walk right in and take it without saying a word to him," said silas boldly. "i've heard my father tell that them hants can't harm you if you ain't afraid of 'em." "well, i'll tell you one thing, and that ain't two," said dan, as he shouldered his gun and followed his father from the cabin. "i ain't a going to run no risk. i'll help you find the cave, but i won't go into it, i bet you. i don't want to hear something screeching at me through the dark, and see great eyes of fire--" "don't dannie!" exclaimed silas, shivering all over, as if some one had drawn an icicle along his back. "well, that's the way them hants do, ain't it?" asked the boy. "i'd as soon be knocked in the head with a club as to have something scare me to death. come on, if you're coming. i ain't going ahead, and that's all there is about it." the two brave fellows were by this time fairly in the road, and silas was prudently slackening his pace, to allow dan to get in advance of him. the latter's description of the greeting that would be extended to them by the guardian spectre, when they went into the cave after the money that was supposed to be concealed there, had taken all his courage away from him, and, if there was any danger ahead, silas did not want to be the first to meet it. dan, who was quick to notice this, also slackened his own pace, and the two walked slower and slower, until they came to a dead stop. "i see what you're up to, old man," said dan, shaking his clenched hand at his sire, "and you might as well know, first as last, that you can't play no such trick onto me. i'll stick close to you, and face the music as long as you do; but you shan't shove me in front of you not one inch." it was no use for silas to protest that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind, for the case was too clear against him; so he pushed ahead again, and dan, true to his promise, kept close at his side. they walked on for a quarter of a mile or more, holding their guns in readiness for instant use, and never saying a word to each other, and at last the deep silence that brooded over the surrounding woods became too much for the ferryman's nerves. he broke it by saying, in a suppressed whisper: "you read far enough in that letter to know that there's five hundred pounds of money into that there cave, didn't you? that's as much as me and you both can pack away on our backs in one trip, and it beats me how that feller could have toted it so far. now where be we going to hide it? that's what's been a bothering of me. can't you think up some good--laws a massy! what's the matter of you?" exclaimed silas; for dan suddenly seized his father's arm with a grip that made him wonder. they were just going around the first turn in the road. instead of replying to his father's question in words, dan raised his hand and pointed silently toward the bushes a short distance away. silas looked, and was just in time to catch a glimpse of something which got out of the range of his vision so quickly that he could not tell what it was. he turned to dan for an explanation. "it's the hant," whispered the latter. "i know it is, for didn't he go into them evergreens without making the least stir among the branches?" silas couldn't say whether he did or not, and neither did he stop to argue the matter. forgetting that he had brought his double-barrel with him on purpose to "pepper" the ghost, in case he saw fit to make himself visible, silas faced about and took to his heels; but before he had taken half a dozen steps, dan flew past him as if he had been standing still. his father made a desperate effort to catch him as he went by, but dan sprang out of his reach and bounded onward with increased speed, never stopping to take breath or to look behind him, until he found himself safe in the cabin. when his father stepped across the threshold, a few minutes later, dan made all haste to close and lock the door. "you're a purty son, you be, to run off and leave your poor old pap to face the danger alone," said the ferryman, sinking into the nearest chair and fairly gasping for breath. "i won't give you none of my fortune when i get it, just to pay you for that mean piece of business." "i don't care," answered dan, doggedly. "you run first, and i wasn't going to stay behind with that thing there in the bushes. i reckon you're willing to believe now that he was a chasing of me a while ago, ain't you? i tell you, pap, he follers the letter, and he'll never leave off pestering the man that's got it. i'm glad it's lost." "so be i," said silas, who had not thought of this before. "he bothered his pardner, who was the only one who knew that there was a fortune in the cave, and his pardner had to jump into the lake to get shet of him. it stands to reason, then, that he'll show himself to every one who finds out about that money. i 'most wish that that letter hadn't been put in my wood-pile, 'cause i can't rest easy while that hant is loafing about here." "now i'll tell you this for a fact," added dan. "you'd best let the whole thing drop right where it is. the hant will be sure to foller the money wherever it goes, and as often as you step out to your hiding-place to get a dollar or two, you will find him there waiting for you." "dannie," said silas, slowly, "i'll bet you have hit centre the first time trying. but it 'pears to me that if he wanted to keep the secret of that cave hid from everybody, he ought by rights to have scared me away when he saw me taking the letter out of my wood-pile." "you can't never get the money, and that's all there is about it," said dan, confidently. "yes, we can!" exclaimed silas, jumping up to put his gun back in its place. "i've just thought of something, and i want you to tell me if you don't think it about the cutest trick that was ever played on a hant or anything else. he'll stay around where that letter is till some one finds it, won't he?" dan thought it very likely. "then he'll go with the feller, to keep track of the letter, won't he?" dan was sure he would. "and if it ain't found right away, he'll hang around so's to keep an eye on it and see where it goes to. don't you think he will?" dan replied that he did. "well, now, that's what i am going to work on," continued silas, gleefully. "the hant is out of the cave now--we're sure of that, for we both seen him when he went into them bushes--and we must work things so's to keep him out." "you keep saying 'we' all the time," interrupted dan, "and i tell you, once for all, that i ain't going to have nothing to do with it. you can have all the money, for i won't go nigh the cave." "i don't ask you to," silas hastened to assure him. "that's the trick i was telling you about. all i want you to do is to walk up and down the road to-morrow--it's getting too late to do anything to-day--and make the hant believe that you're looking for the letter you lost." "well, i won't do it," said dan, promptly. "that'll keep him away from the cave," continued the ferryman, paying no attention to the interruption, "and while he is watching you, i'll slip up and gobble that fortune without asking any other help from you. and i'll give you half, the minute i get my hands on to it--the very minute." "well, i won't do it," said dan, again. "why don't you stay and watch the hant, and let me go after the money?" this proposition almost took the ferryman's breath away. he wouldn't have agreed to it if the robber's treasure had been twice twelve thousand dollars. "why, you don't know where the cave is," he managed to articulate. "no more do you," retorted dan. "yes, i do, 'cause i looked at the map. i can go right to it on the darkest of nights." "here comes mam and that joe of our'n, and so you'd best hush up," said dan, in a hurried whisper. "i ain't a going to play 'hi-spy' all alone with that there hant, and that's all there is about it. but i do hate to give up my good clothes, and breech-loader and j'inted fish-pole," he added, after thinking a moment, "and mebbe i'll go with you up to the cave to-morrow, and make him keep his distance while you go in and bring out the money. who knows but what the smell of powder and the whistle of shot about his ears will scare him so't he will go away and never come back?" silas caught the idea at once, and felt greatly encouraged by it; but before he could say anything the door, which dan had unlocked while he was talking, was thrown open, and mrs. morgan and joe came in. the latter looked cheerful and happy, but it was plain that his mother was worried and anxious. she knew that there would be trouble in that house in just one month from that day. chapter xv. joe's new home. the ferryman and his family always arose at an early hour, and it was probably more from force of habit than for any other reason, for joe and his mother were the only ones who did any work. the former kindled the fire and laid the table, while dan and his father loafed around and watched them. but on the morning following the events we have recorded in the last chapter, these two worthies had something to talk about, so they went out and sat under a tree on the bank of the river, and far enough away from the cabin to escape all danger of being overheard. joe and his mother, however, did not bother their heads about them, for they had their own affairs to talk over. joe was to enter upon his duties as game-warden that very day. of course he was impatient to see his new home, and to get his hands upon some of those books that mr. warren had promised to lend him; but, above all, he was anxious to earn something for his mother. she needed a good long rest, and joe was rejoiced to know that he would soon be in a position to give it to her. a night's refreshing sleep had an astonishing effect upon dan and his father. they did not talk or act much like the frightened man and boy we saw running along the road a few hours before. they were as brave as lions. twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold were well worth working for, and they repeatedly assured each other that they were willing to face any danger in order to obtain them for their own. but there was one thing that dan held to in spite of all the appeals and arguments that his father could bring to bear upon him, and that was, that the hant must be met and overcome, or outwitted, as circumstances might seem to require, by their united forces. he wasn't going philandering away in one direction, while his father went on a wild-goose chase in another, because that wasn't the way to fight ghosts. "then we'll stick together," said silas, at length. "we'll hang around the house till that joe of our'n goes away, and then we'll fire off our guns and load 'em up with heavier charges of shot, so't we'll be ready for anything that comes along." "i did want powerful bad to live up there in the woods this winter with that joe," said dan, with something like a sigh of regret. "what he's going to get he's sure of, but we ain't. i am going into this thing to win, i tell you," he added, sticking out his lips and calling a very reckless and determined look to his face. "i ain't a-going to let no little brother of mine beat me. when i get started for that there money, i'm going to have it before i turn back." "that's the way to talk," said silas, approvingly. "joe's going to give all he earns to mam, but i ain't," continued dan. "i am going to spend all my six thousand dollars for myself. i'm going to have good clothes, and a breech-loading bird gun, and a j'inted fishing-pole, and by this time next summer i'll be so much of a gentleman that the folks who come here to hunt and fish will be glad to hire me for a guide, 'cause they won't know that i am dan morgan at all. they'll take me for somebody else." "course they will!" exclaimed silas, bringing his heavy hand down upon dan's shoulder with such force that the boy shook all over. "just bear that in mind, son, when we find the cave. i'm 'most certain that the hant won't show himself to us, for he'll be down the road somewhere, looking for the letter you lost yesterday; but if he does come out, you just say, 'six thousand dollars' to yourself, and walk right into him with the bird-shot that's in your gun." "and what'll you be doing?" queried dan. "oh, i'll be there, and i'll shoot, too," replied silas; and a stranger would have thought that he was a man who never got frightened at anything. just then joe came to the door of the cabin and shouted, "breakfast!" and that put a stop to the conversation. there was little said while they were seated at the table, for they were all busy with their own thoughts. silas and dan wished from the bottom of their hearts that the day was over, and that the robbers' treasure was safely stowed away in a hiding-place of their own selection. wouldn't they make good use of some of it before many hours had passed away? "that joe of our'n feels mighty peart this morning," thought dan, glancing at his brother's radiant face. "he thinks he's smart because he is going to earn a hundred and twenty dollars; but what would he think of himself if he knew that i am going to have six thousand dollars before night comes? now i'll tell you what's a fact," added dan, who was firmly resolved that he would not come home empty-handed. "when we get that money i'll make pap count out my share at once, and then i'll take care to see that he don't know where i hide it. he'll bear a heap of watching, pap will." "i wonder what has come over dan all on a sudden?" said joe, to himself. "i don't know when i have seen him look so pleasant before. he's got an idea of some kind in his head, and if i am not constantly on my guard i shall hear from him to my sorrow i wonder if there's another boy in the world who has a brother as mean as dan is?" the latter, who was impatient to begin the serious business of the day and get through with it, and have it off his mind, did not eat a very hearty breakfast. he simply took the sharp edge off his appetite, and then pushed back his chair and arose from the table. silas groaned inwardly, for now the ordeal was coming. he would have been glad to put it off a little longer, but he knew that if he did he would be accused of cowardice. everything depended upon keeping up dan's courage. if the boy saw the least sign of faltering, the whole matter, so far as he was concerned in it, would end then and there. he would refuse to take a step toward the cave, and no amount of money would have tempted silas to go there alone. so he got upon his feet, took down his gun and game-bag, and followed dan out of the cabin. joe looked through the window without leaving his chair, and saw that they were striking a straight course for mr. warren's wood-lot. "now just watch them," said he, bitterly. "they're going to begin the slaughter of those english birds before i have time to get up there and order them away. i don't see why they can't lend me a helping hand, instead of trying by every means in their power to get me into trouble. but i told dan yesterday, that if i caught him in mr. warren's woods i would report him, and he will find that i meant every word of it. i shall not try to shield them any more than i would if they were utter strangers to me. good-by, mother; i must be off; i am sorry to see you look so downhearted and sorrowful when you ought to be smiling and happy, but i will do everything i can to bring about a different state of affairs. you'll get the money i earn, in spite of all that father and dan can do to prevent it; you may depend upon that." "it isn't the money i care for, joe," said mrs. morgan between her sobs. "i know it," replied joe, hastily. "you want father and dan to behave themselves, and let me alone. so do i; and if they won't do it, i'll make them." joe caught up the small bundle of clothing that had been made ready for him while he was setting the table, shouldered his long, single-barreled gun, kissed his mother good-by, and hurried away. he did not follow directly after his father and dan, but took a short cut through the woods, and, at the end of an hour, had his first look at the snug little cabin that was to be his home during the winter--that is, if his brother or some other desperate poacher did not get mad at him and burn it down. mr. warren's double team stood in front of the open door, and that gentleman and one of his hired men were busy transferring baskets and armfuls of things from the wagon to the interior of the cabin. "well, joe, you're on hand bright and early," was the way in which mr. warren greeted his young game-warden, "and you are in light marching order, too," he added, glancing at the boy's bundle, and wondering at the size of it. "mr. hallet had to take one of his teams to move tom and bob up to their house." "tom and bob?" repeated joe. "yes. oh, you didn't know that hallet had hired them for wardens, did you? well, he has; so you will have good neighbors, almost within reach of you." "why, what in the world possessed them--" "what possesses them to do a thousand and one things that nobody else would ever think of," exclaimed, mr. warren, who knew what joe was going to say. "it looks to me like a foolish notion, and i'll venture to say, that they will be glad enough to go home and stay there, after they have stood one snow-storm up here in the mountains. they came well prepared, though. they had two trunks, and they were full to the top. but i like your way the best. when you go into the woods, go light, even if you know that you are going to spend the most of your time in a permanent camp. come in, and see if we have forgotten anything." joe followed mr. warren into the cabin, and listened attentively while he described the contents of the different bundles and baskets that were scattered about the floor. "your carpet is in there--it was made to fit, so you will not have any trouble with it--and in one of those baskets you will find a hammer and tacks to put it down with. i have brought a few books and papers, which will keep you busy until you can come down and make a selection from my library to suit yourself. this is your cot, and i guess the bedding is in there. that's a side of bacon, and here are your dishes and a supply of provisions. when you get out, come down to my house and ask for more." as mr. warren spoke, he opened the door of a small safe that stood in one corner near the fire-place, and showed joe an array of well-filled shelves. among other things, there were a number of paper-bags, which gave promise of better meals than the boy was accustomed to sit down to at home. "that door leads into your wood-shed, which i would advise you to fill up with the least possible delay," continued mr. warren, "and there's the axe to do it with. hallet has given his nephew and that chum of his permission to shoot all the grouse and squirrels they can eat, and i will extend the same privilege to you; but you mustn't make a mistake and knock over one of my english partridges for your dinner. of course, you know enough to shoot wolves, foxes, minks, and such varmints, without being told, and if you see a half-starved hound in these woods, hunting deer on his own hook, put a bullet into him without a moment's delay." "you mean a charge of buck-shot," said joe. "no, i mean a bullet; and there's the rifle, right there," replied the gentleman, pointing to a marlin repeater, which stood in the corner opposite the safe. mr. warren continued to talk in this way, while the hired man was unloading the wagon, and when the last bundle had been carried into the cabin, he bade his game-warden good-by, and drove off leaving him to his reflections. chapter xvi. joe's "first official act." joe morgan stood in front of the cabin, watching his employer as long as he remained in sight, and then he went in and picked up the rifle. "my first official act is going to be one that i would rather leave for some one else to perform," said he, to himself. "i must hunt up father and dan, and tell them to make themselves scarce about here. i could be as happy and contented as i want to be during the next eight months, if they would only let me alone. with a business i like, to keep me occupied while daylight lasts, plenty of books and papers to help me pass the evening hours pleasantly, and a fair prospect of earning money enough to make mother comfortable during the coming winter--what more could a boy ask for? if father and dan get into serious trouble by trying to upset my arrangements, they must not blame me for it." while joe communed with himself in this way, he filled the magazine with cartridges, which he took from a box he found on the table, and went out, locking the door behind him. but where should he go? that was the question. mr. warren's wood-lot covered a good deal of ground, and the birds he was employed to protect might be at the farthest end of it. if that was the case, silas and dan with the aid of the three dogs they had brought with them, could easily find some of the flocks, and create great havoc among them with their heavy guns, before joe could put a stop to their murderous work. "when snow comes i shall not have any of this trouble," soliloquized the young game-warden. "i shall feed the birds near the cabin twice each day, and that will get them in the habit of staying around so that i can keep an eye on them; and i shall know in a minute if there are any pot-hunters about, for i can see their tracks." for an hour joe worked hard and faithfully to find the two hunters, who as he believed, had come up there to kill off mr. warren's imported game, but he could neither see nor hear anything of them. finally he told himself that he did not think his father and dan had come to those woods, because the birds he put up did not act as though they had been frightened before. if they had been shot at, joe would have heard the report of the gun. "i'd give something to know what it was that took those two off in such haste this morning," thought he. "they're up to some mischief or other, or else the face that dan brought to the table belied him. well, it's none of my business what they do, so long as they let my birds alone. hallo, here! i'm afraid that i am going to have more to do than i thought for. go back where you came from!" as joe said this he bent over quickly, caught up a stick, raised it threateningly in the air, whereupon a brace of pointers, which had just emerged from a thicket a short distance away, turned and beat a hasty retreat, giving tongue vociferously as they went. a moment later, suppressed exclamations of surprise arose from a couple of men who were following the dogs, and who forthwith set themselves to work to find out what it was that had sent the pointers back to them in such a hurry. joe heard them making their way through the bushes in his direction, but he did not say anything until he became aware that the invisible hunters were stalking him with the same caution they would have exhibited if he had been some dangerous beast of prey. fearing that in their excitement one or the other of them might send a charge of bird-shot at his head without taking the trouble to ascertain who or what he was, joe called out: "go easy, there! there's nothing around here for you to shoot at." the reply that came to his ears was the heaviest kind of an oath, and the man who uttered it came through the thicket with such energy that one would have thought he meant to do something desperate as soon as he reached the other side of it. when he came into view, joe recognized him as a guide who had more than once been arrested and fined for hounding deer and shooting game during the close season. "what air you doing here, joe morgan?" he demanded, in savage tones. "you thought to steal them p'inters, i reckon, didn't you? get out o' this, and be quick a doing of it, too!" "get out yourself," answered the game-warden. "i've more right here than you have, and i'm going to stay; but if you know when you are well off, you will lose no time in putting yourself on the other side of mr. warren's fence. this land is posted, and you are liable for trespass." the guide was both angry and astonished; but before he could make a suitable rejoinder to what he regarded as joe's insolence, the bushes parted again, and the second hunter came out. he was the guide's employer; joe saw that at a glance. "what's the trouble here?" were the first words he uttered. "it's a pretty state of affairs, i do think," answered the guide. "here's this joe morgan, who takes it upon himself to say that we shan't stay in these woods." "why not, i'd like to know?" brierly--that was the guide's name--turned toward joe, and intimated that, if he could, he had better explain the situation. "i am mr. warren's game-warden," said the boy, taking the hint. "i have been put here to watch his birds, and warn off all trespassers. this land is posted, and you must know it. there's a notice on that tree over there," he added, indicating the exact spot with his finger. "i can see it from here; and when you saw it, you ought to have turned back." "how is this, brierly?" exclaimed the guide's employer. "i paid you handsomely for a good day's shooting, and you assured me that you knew right where i could get it, without interference from any one." "and you shall get it in these very woods, mr. brown," was the guide's reply. "you told me that you didn't care how much them english birds cost, or how bad old man warren wanted to keep 'em for his own shooting, you would just as soon have them as any other game; and seeing that there ain't no law to pertect 'em, what's to hender you from getting 'em? send out the p'inters and come on. this fool of a boy ain't got no power to make an arrest, and i'll slap him over if he gives us a word of sass." "i know that i have no authority to take you into custody, but i can report you to one who has, and i'll do it before you are two hours older, if you don't get out of these woods at once," said joe, resolutely. "you will, eh?" brierly almost shouted. "then why don't you report _them_ fellers?" when the guide began speaking, it was with the intention of abusing joe roundly for his interference with their day's sport, but just then there came an unexpected interruption. it was a regular fusilade--four shots, which were fired as rapidly as the men who handled the guns could draw the triggers. joe's heart sank within him. his father and dan were slaughtering mr. warren's blue-headed birds at an alarming rate in a distant part of the wood-lot, and he was not there to stop them. the guide must have been able to read the thoughts that were in joe's mind, for he repeated, with a ring of triumph in his tones: "why don't you report them fellers, and have them arrested?" "four shots," said mr. brown, admiringly. "they got in their work pretty lively, didn't they? i have heard that these english partridges and quails are the nicest birds in the world to shoot, and i'd give twenty dollars if we could get a chance to empty four barrels at them in that fashion. i wonder if they are good shots, and how many birds they got." when mr. brown said that he had given brierly a handsome sum of money to lead him to a place where he could have a good day's shooting among mr. warren's imported game, he had given joe a pretty good insight into his character; but now, the boy was quite disgusted with him. could it be expected that ignorant fellows like brierly would yield willing obedience to the laws, when intelligent men deliberately violated them because they wanted to brag over the size of the bags they had made? "they are good shots, mr. brown," said brierly, with a grin. "i could tell the noise them guns make among a million, and i know the names of the man and boy who were behind them when they were fired. they were silas and dan morgan--this chap's father and brother." "well, he's a pretty specimen for a game-warden, i must say!" exclaimed mr. brown. "no doubt he wants to keep all the fine shooting for his own family. i don't believe a word he has said to us, and i think we can go on with our sport without wasting any more time with him." "i don't care whether you believe me or not," answered joe, the hot blood mantling his face as he spoke. "if you shoot over these grounds, you will find out before night that i have told you nothing but the truth." "look a-here, joe," said brierly, shaking his fist in the boy's face. "it was your father and dan who fired them guns a bit ago, wasn't it?" "i don't know--i have no proof of it, and neither have you." "you do know it," replied the guide. "i've got all the proof i want that it was them, 'cause i know them guns of their'n when i hear 'em go off. now let me tell you what's a fact, joe morgan. if you say a word to anybody about seeing me and mr. brown up here, i'll report silas and dan for trespass and shooting out of season; and if i do, they'll have to go to jail, and salt won't save 'em. there ain't nary one of 'em worth five cents a piece, and where be they going to get the money to pay their fines? answer me that. now, will you hold your tongue, or not?" "no, i won't," answered joe, without the least hesitation. "if i can find any evidence against them, i will report them myself as quick as i will report you if you don't get off these grounds." "i hardly think you will," replied mr. brown, with something like a sneer. "it ain't no ways likely, for it don't stand to reason that he would be willing to say the words that would put some of his own kin into the lock-up," assented brierly. "but i'll do the work for him as soon as we go home, and what's more, i'll report him, too, for--for--" "neglect of duty," prompted mr. brown. "perzactly. them's the words i was trying to think of. then, old man warren, he'll say to him that he ain't got no use for such a trifling game-warden as he is--that is, if he _is_ one, which i don't believe. now, joe, will you hold your jaw?" joe replied very decidedly that he would not. he knew what his duty was better than they could tell him, and brierly might as well hold his own jaw, and stop making threats, because he couldn't scare him into saying anything else. "i don't want to get into any trouble with the officers, for it is absolutely necessary that i should start for home bright and early to-morrow morning," said mr. brown, who could not help admiring joe's courage, although he would have been glad to see his guide thrash him soundly for his obstinacy. "it is very provoking to have this boy show up just in time to spoil all our fun. let's go over to hallet's woods, and see if we can scare up another so-called game-warden." "well, you can," said joe, who wanted to laugh when he saw the look of surprise that settled on the guide's face. "you'll scare up two over there, and, brierly, one of them is a chap that you will not care to fool with. when you find him, it will be very easy for you to ascertain whether or not i have told you the truth; that is, if you care enough about it to ask him a few questions." "who is he?" asked brierly. "tom hallet," answered joe; and, without waiting to listen to the expressions of anger and disgust that came from the lips of the guide, he shouldered his rifle and hurried off. "i wonder what they will conclude to do about it?" thought joe, as he threaded his way through the thick woods in the direction from which the poachers' guns sounded. "brierly agreed to give his employer a good day's sport, and now that he can't keep his promise, will he hand back the money that mr. brown paid him? i don't think he will." he didn't either, and joe afterward learned how he got out of it. chapter xvii. who fired the four shots? it is hardly necessary to assure the reader that the young game-warden's heart was not in the task he had set himself. he believed that his father and dan had come upon a bevy of mr. warren's imported birds and fired both barrels of their guns into it; and, as they were both good wing-shots, it was not probable that very many of the birds had escaped unhurt. joe's business was to intercept them if he could, and to report them, regardless of consequences, if he found anything except squirrels in their game-bags. "but i don't expect to find the least evidence against them," said joe, to himself, "and there's where they are going to take advantage of me. what is to hinder them from doing as much shooting as they please at one end of the wood-lot, while i am skirmishing around the other end? they know well enough that the sound of their guns will draw my attention, and as soon as they have killed the birds they'll gather them up and dig out before i can stop them. it seems as though every business has its drawbacks." and the longer joe lived the firmer grew this opinion. half an hour's rapid walking took the young game-warden past his father's wood-pile, which now stood a good chance of staying where it was until it mingled with the mold beneath it, and down a little declivity to the brink of the gorge in which tom hallet had located the robbers' cave. although he made constant use of his eyes and ears, he could not see or hear anything of the poachers, and neither were there any suspicious sounds behind him to indicate that mr. brown and his guide had kept on to mr. hallet's woods "to scare up another so-called game-warden." "this is the way it is going to be all winter," said joe, to himself. "anybody who feels like it can slip in here, shoot all the birds he wants and slip out again before i can get a sight at him. there's brierly, now; and that's his employer, looking out from behind that big tree on the right. they have followed me to see what i would do if i found father and dan shooting mr. warren's birds." while joe was walking along the brink of the gorge, wondering if it would pay to scramble down one side of it and up the other, when he was sure that he couldn't catch the poachers if he did, he suddenly became aware that he was an object of interest to a couple of persons who were so anxious to avoid discovery that they kept themselves concealed--all except their heads, and them they concealed, too, when they saw that joe was looking in their direction. but joe was wide of the mark when he declared that they were mr. brown and his guide, who were watching his movements in the hope of finding some grounds for complaint against him. the concealed parties were watching him, it is true, but for a different purpose, and instead of seeing any reason for finding fault with him, they told each other that mr. warren's game-warden was wide awake, and that the fellow who shot any birds on those grounds would have to be lively in getting away with them, or joe would catch him sure. when they saw the latter looking at them, they moved out from behind their respective trees, and stood forth in full view. they were tom hallet and his friend bob emerson. "look here!" shouted joe, who little dreamed what it was that brought the two boys on his grounds, and so far from their own quarters. "these woods are posted, and you can't get out of them too quick." "you don't say so!" replied tom. "come up here and talk to us. you've had visitors already, haven't you? who fired those four shots a while ago, and what did they shoot at?" joe slowly mounted to the top of the hill, and shook hands with tom and bob, before he made any reply to these questions. then he said: "i have had visits from two parties. one of them i saw, and the other i didn't see, and they were the fellows who did the shooting. they are on the other side of the gulf, most likely, and when i saw you dodging behind trees, i was trying to make up my mind whether or not i ought to cross over and hunt them out." "what's the use of going to all that trouble?" exclaimed tom. "i don't believe they got any birds; but if they did, they made all haste to pick them up and run with them. you say you saw the other party. who were they? did they have any birds?" joe answered the last question first. "i took particular pains to see that their game-bags were empty," said he. "the guide was brierly, and he called his employer mr. brown. he's no sportsman, whoever he is; he's a butcher," added joe, who then went on to give the particulars of the interview, and to rejoice in the fact that mr. brown was several dollars out of pocket, having been confiding enough to pay brierly in advance for the day's sport he thought he was going to have among the imported game that had just been "turned down" in mr. warren's woods and hallet's. "hallet's!" exclaimed tom. "did they have the impudence to go over there after you left them." "mr. brown suggested it, but i didn't see them go anywhere," was joe's reply. "i warned them that they would find two game-wardens there instead of one, adding that if they wanted to know whether i had told the truth regarding myself they had better question you." "let's go back and see what they are up to," suggested bob. "i say, joe," he added suddenly, but not without a certain hesitation and constraint of manner that was too plain to escape the young game-warden's attention, "while you were walking along the gulf, you didn't--er--you didn't see anything at all suspicious, did you?" "i didn't see anything but trees and bushes." "and you didn't hear anything either, i suppose?" continued bob. "not a sound. why do you ask?" "oh--er--the idea just occurred to me, that's all." "do you think that the men who fired those guns are hiding in the gulf?" exclaimed joe. "perhaps i had better go down there and see." this proposition called forth so emphatic a protest from both the boys, that joe did not know what to make of it. they declared with one voice that such an idea had never occurred to them--that the poachers were safe out of harm's way long ago, and, besides, it would be putting himself to altogether too much trouble. he'd find it awful hard work to make his way through the thick bushes and briars that covered the steep sides of that gorge, and long before he reached the bottom, he would wish he had let the job out. they knew all about it, for they had tried it. with this piece of advice the boys bade joe good-by, and hastened away in search of brierly and his employer. "do you think joe suspects anything?" asked tom, as soon as mr. warren's game-warden had been left out of hearing. "i thought he looked at us as if he had a vague idea that we had other reasons than those we gave for telling him to keep out of the gulf." "that's my opinion," answered bob; and his companion took note of the fact that his voice trembled when he spoke. "i hold to my belief that those guns were fired by silas morgan and some one he has taken into his confidence. but of this i am certain: silas went after that money this morning, and shot at the man who ran us out of the gulf yesterday." "you still think it was a man, and not a wild beast that yelled at us?" said tom. "i know it as well as if i had been at his side when he did it," replied bob, positively. "and, tom, if silas and his friend have shot somebody-great scott! if i ever take a hand in any more jokes of that sort, i hope i shall be shot myself." "seems to me, that tom and bob don't take any too much interest in their business," thought the young game-warden, as he started down the mountain toward his cabin. "the gorge runs through mr. hallet's wood-lot, and if those boys are going to confine their scouting to the covers on the lower side of it, i don't see how they are going to protect the birds. well, it shan't stop me. as soon as i get around to it, i am going to cut a path down one side and up the other, and after that i shall cross over every day to take a look at things." joe was hungry when he reached his cabin, and then he found that there was one thing that had been forgotten--a clock. he had already laid out a regular routine of work--setting aside certain things that were to be done at certain hours of the day or evening; but how was he going to follow it without the aid of a timepiece? a few minutes reflection showed him a way out of his quandary. among the other relics of better days that were to be found in his father's cabin was an old-fashioned bull's-eye watch which had not seen the light of day for many a long year. joe wasn't sure that it would run, but it wouldn't cost him anything more than a two-hours' walk to find out, and he decided that he would go down and ask his mother for it as soon as he had eaten his dinner. "i can't set my house to rights to-day anyhow," thought he, "because i have wasted too much time in looking for father and dan; but i'll have it all in order to-morrow, unless some other law-breakers call me up the mountain, and the day after that, i'll begin on my routine, and stick to it as long as i am here." if you had been there, reader, to take a look around joe's cabin, you would have told yourself that there was another and still more important thing that had been forgotten--a cooking-stove. but joe didn't miss it, for never in his life had he seen a meal prepared over a stove. he would not have known how to use one if he had had it; but give him a bed of coals in a fire-place, or on the mountain-side, and he could get up as good a dinner as any hungry boy would care to have set before him. he had everything in the way of pots, pans and kettles that he could possibly find use for, but on this particular day he did not call many of them into service--nothing, in fact, but the pot in which he made his tea, and the frying-pan in which he cooked two generous slices of bacon. he found potatoes in one of the baskets and a huge loaf of bread in another, and with the aid of these he made a very good dinner. then he shouldered his rifle (knowing the thieving propensities of the majority of the poachers who infested the mountains, he could not think of leaving so valuable a piece of property behind him), locked the door and set out for home. chapter xviii. dan's secret. although the young game-warden stepped out lively enough, his heart was as heavy as lead. he was sure that his father and dan had come back from the mountain with a goodly number of mr. warren's valuable birds, which had fallen to their murderous double-barrels, and that they would take pains to keep out of his sight when they saw him approaching the cabin; consequently he was much surprised to find them sitting on the bank of the river, widely separated from each other, and to notice that they did not show the least desire to avoid him. when he stepped across the threshold of his humble home, he was still more surprised to see that his mother appeared very nervous and anxious, and that there was an expression on her pale face that he had never seen there before. "what's the matter?" queried joe. "what's happened?" "i am sure i don't know," answered mrs. morgan, in a faltering voice. "but it must be something terrible. have you seen your father and daniel since they left the house this morning?" "not until this very minute; but i tried to find them, for i heard them shoot, and knew they were after my birds. how many did they bring home with them? this is not a pleasant thing for me to do, mother, but they will get into trouble just as sure--" "i don't think they shot any birds," mrs. morgan interposed. "if they did, they have concealed them somewhere. but they must have done something, for i never saw them act so before." "act how?" inquired joe. "why, as if they were frightened out of their wits. when i looked out of the window and saw them coming, they were running at the top of their speed; and the minute they got into the house, they closed the door and fastened it, and began trying to load their guns. but their hands trembled so violently that they spilled the powder all over the floor; and then they sat down and swayed back and forth in their chairs as if they did not have strength enough to hold themselves still. there was not a particle of color in their faces, and they acted for all the world as if they had taken leave of their senses." "what ailed them?" asked joe, who was profoundly astonished. "i don't know. i couldn't get them to say a word. whenever i spoke to them they stared at me as if they didn't know what i meant, then shook their heads and went on rocking themselves in their chairs. when they could muster up courage enough to unlock the door and go out, i heard your father say that he had hauled his last load of wood down from the mountain." "well, that beats me," said joe, who did not know what else to say. "but there's one comfort, mother; i shall have two pot-hunters less to watch during the winter." "why, joseph, you are not going back there?" exclaimed mrs. morgan, who trembled visibly at the bare thought of the unknown perils to which he might be exposed. "of course i am going back," replied joe, quickly. "why shouldn't i? there's where i am going to earn the money to keep you from paddling off through the deep snow this winter." "oh, joe, let the money go and stay at home with me," said his mother, pleadingly. "i shall be so uneasy every minute you are away. if anything should happen to you--" "now what in the world is going to happen to me," asked the young game-warden, who told himself that silas and dan must have behaved in a most extraordinary manner to frighten and excite his mother in this way. "what is there up there in the hills that's going to hurt me?" "that i can't tell. i do wish i knew just what happened to your father and dan. the reality couldn't be any worse than this uncertainty and suspense." "i wonder if i couldn't induce dan to give me a hint of it," said joe, standing his rifle up in one corner of the room. "i believe it will pay to have a shy at him. he can't keep a secret for any length of time to save his life; and if i work it right, i think i can worm this one out of him." so saying, joe stepped to the door to take a look at the motionless figures on the river bank. there was only one of them there now. silas had disappeared and dan was left alone. joe thought that nothing could have suited him better. dan might be inclined to be reticent with his father sitting in plain sight of him; but now there was nothing to restrain him, and he could talk as freely as he pleased. walking leisurely along, as if he had no particular object in view, joe went down to the bank and seated himself a short distance away from his brother, who sat with his elbows resting on his knees and both hands supporting his head. he never moved when he heard the sound of joe's footsteps, and neither did he utter a sound; so joe began the conversation himself, and with no little anxiety, it must be confessed, as to the result. dan was an awkward boy to manage, and if joe had entered at once upon the subject that was uppermost in his mind, his brother would have shut himself up like a clam. "well, old fellow," said joe, cheerily, "why didn't you come around and see my new home? i tell you, i've got things nice there; or, rather, i'm going to, as soon as i have time to straighten up a bit. you were up there, because i heard you shoot--you and father. i didn't expect to see you back so soon." dan slowly raised a very pale face from his hands, and gazed at his brother with a pair of wild-looking eyes. he did not look like himself at all. after staring hard at his brother for full half a minute, and running his eyes up and down the bank to make sure that there was no one else in sight, he said, in hollow tones: "and i didn't look to see you back again so soon, either. i didn't never expect to set eyes on to you no more." "you didn't?" exclaimed joe. "why not?" "did he show himself to you, too?" asked dan, in reply. "you don't look like you'd seen him." "seen who? i met some men up there on the mountain, if that is what you mean." "it wan't no man, joey," said dan shaking his head solemnly--"it wan't no man. it was something wusser." "why, dan, i don't know what you mean," said joe. and then he checked himself. his brother was in a fair way to reveal something to him, and he did not want to lose the chance of hearing it by exhibiting too much impatience. "how many birds did you get?" "didn't get none," answered dan. "didn't see nary one. they are as safe from me and pap, from this time on, as though they wasn't there." "then what did you shoot at?" dan looked behind him, and allowed his eyes to roam up and down the bank, before he replied. "i'm 'most afraid to tell you," said he, in a scarcely audible voice. "joey," he added, straightening up, and giving emphasis to his words by pounding his knee with his fist--"joey, i wouldn't live up there in old man warren's shanty two days--no, nor half of one day--for all the money there is in--" dan was about to say, "for all the money there is in that robbers' cave," but he caught himself in time, and finished the sentence by adding, "for all there is in ameriky." "i can't, for the life of me, make out what you are trying to get at," said joe, rising from the ground and turning his face toward the cabin, "and neither can i waste any more time with you. i came down after father's watch, and as soon as i get it i must hurry back. i don't want the dark to catch me--" "i should say not!" gasped dan, shivering all over. "say, joe," he continued, reaching up and taking his brother by the hand, "don't go up there no more. go and tell old man warren that he'll have to get somebody else to be his game-warden." joe was more amazed than ever. dan was in sober earnest, there could be no doubt about that, and he could not imagine what he had seen to scare him so badly. "don't go back," pleaded dan. "the hant is in the gulf now, but as soon as it gets dark it will come out--that's the way they all do--and come up to your shanty; and when you see it walking around there, all in white, like me and pap seen it, i tell you--say, joey, you won't go back, will you?" "dan, i am surprised at you, and heartily ashamed as well," said joe, who was more than half inclined to be angry at his brother. "you've heard some foolish story or other, and it's frightened you out of a year's growth. there's no such thing as a 'hant.'" "i tell you there is, too," dan protested. "i seen it with my own two eyes, and so did pap. if he was here he'd tell you the same thing, pervided he told you anything at all. we heard it yelling at us, too, and such yelling! oh, laws a massy! i don't never want to listen to the like again," cried dan, covering his ears with both hands, and rocking himself from side to side, as if he were in the greatest bodily distress. joe now thought it time to hurry matters a little. he was really anxious to hear his brother's story. "i should like to know just what you and father saw and heard this morning," said he; "but i can't waste any more precious moments with you. you know my time is not my own any longer. it belongs to mr. warren." "do you mean to say that you're going back?" "yes. i am going to start this very minute." these words seemed to arouse dan from his lethargy. "set down, joey," said he, at the same time casting apprehensive glances on all sides of him. "come clost to me, so't that hant can't tech me, and i'll tell you everything." "will you be quick about it?" "just as quick and fast as i know how, honor bright," replied dan. "and will you promise, sure as you live and breathe, that you won't lisp a word of it to nobody? 'cause why, i'm afeared that if you do, he'll show himself to me again, and i don't want to see him no more." "i shall make no promises whatever," answered joe, who saw very plainly that he could say what he pleased, since dan would not permit him to depart until he had eased his mind by confiding to him everything there was in it. "if there is any dangerous thing up there in the gulf, i am going to hunt him or it out the very first thing i do." "joey, don't you try that," exclaimed dan, who really seemed to be distressed on his brother's account. "you can't hurt a hant. me and pap fired four charges of no. 8 shot into him, and we never so much as made him wink. he kept on yelling at us just the same, and now and then he would make a lunge for'ard, as if he was coming right at us." "go on with your story," said joe, whose patience was all exhausted; "i am listening." thus adjured, dan settled himself into a comfortable position, and began his narrative. chapter xix. dan tells his story. having fully determined to get rid of his tremendous secret at once and forever, dan went deeply into all the details, and did not omit a single thing that had the least bearing upon his story. he could not give a very connected account of the finding of the letter, for that was a matter that silas had touched upon very lightly. the letter was found in the wood-pile, because his father said so, and that was all that dan knew about it. he had read the document very carefully after it came into his possession, and some portions of it were so firmly fixed in his memory that he repeated them word for word. then the muscles around the corners of joe's mouth began to twitch, and when dan told, in a frightened whisper, how the man who pushed his "partner" into the gorge had been obliged to jump into the lake in order to free himself from the presence of the "hant," which followed him day and night--when joe heard about that, he couldn't stand it any longer. he threw himself flat upon the ground, and laughed so loudly that he awoke the echoes far and near. dan, who had not looked for anything like this, was not only overwhelmed with astonishment, but he was fighting mad in an instant. "whoop!" he yelled, jumping up and knocking his heels together. "hold me on the ground, somebody, or i'll larrup this joe of our'n till i put a little more sense into him nor he's got now. what you laughing at, you big fool?" "sit down and behave yourself," replied joe, who was not at all alarmed by these hostile demonstrations. "let me ask you a few questions, and then we'll find out who is the biggest fool, you or i." "no, i won't," said dan, shortly, "'cause why i know that already." "all right," replied joe; "then i'll get the watch and go back to my work." "but you haven't heared all of my story yet," exclaimed dan. "wait till i tell you, and i'll bet that you won't never go back there no more." "there are a few things about the story that i don't quite understand," began joe. "no more do i," interrupted dan. "but if you will answer a question or two i have in mind, i think we can get at the bottom of the matter." "you needn't ask 'em, cause you'll laugh at me again." "no, i won't," protested joe; and he kept his promise, although he sometimes found it hard to do so. "the first question is this: did the letter that father took from his wood-pile look faded and soiled, as if it had been rained and snowed on?" "not a bit of it, that i could see. it was as spick and span as you please." "that's one point gained," said joe. "did the writer say anything about cutting a hole through the ice, so that he could jump into the lake to get away from the 'hant'?" "nary word." "did you find the rope that led down to the cave, when you went up there this morning?" "we didn't look for it. we went up the beach till we struck the brook that comes out of the gulf, and we follered that till--till--" "you found the cave?" suggested joe. "till we come purty nigh to where the cave is," corrected dan. "we didn't see the cave, 'cause we run against something that wouldn't let us go no furder." "what was it?" "the hant i was telling you about." "what did it look like? now go on with your story, and i won't say a word till you get through. what did you see up there in the gulf that frightened you so badly?" these words drove away dan's anger, and called up all his old fears again; but he sat down and resumed his narrative. it related to a few things which the reader ought to know in order to understand what happened afterward; but dan told it in such a rambling way, and made so many impossible statements, which he insisted should be received as absolute facts, that joe found it hard to follow him, and we will not attempt it. his narrative, stripped of all the monstrous exaggerations that his excitement and terror led him to put into it, ran about in this way: when silas and dan shouldered their guns that morning and set out to find the robbers' cave, and the treasure that they firmly believed was concealed in it, they told each other that no matter what happened they would not come back until they had accomplished their object. the former, as we know, was not as eager to brave the terrors of the gorge as he pretended to be, but dan was thoroughly in earnest, and he built so many gorgeous air-castles, and talked in such glowing language about the fine things they could have for their own as soon as the money was found, that finally silas became worked up to the highest pitch of excitement and impatience, and showed it by striding ahead at such a rate that dan had to exert himself to keep pace with him. "you needn't be in such a hurry, pap," said dan, when he found that he was growing short of breath. "it'll keep till we get there, 'cause there ain't nobody else that knows about it, seeing that you got the first grab at the letter." "i know it," was the ferryman's reply, "but i'm powerful oneasy to get a hold of that grip-sack that's got the false bottom into it. we don't care if they do put a bridge down there to our house and bust up the ferrying business, do we, dannie? and anybody that wants that old scow for their own can have it, can't they?" "i don't care what becomes of it, or where it goes to," said dan, spitefully. "it ain't a going to bring me no more backaches, i bet you." "course not," assented silas. "you'll be a gentleman directly, and then you can buy a nice boat, if you want it." "i don't care so much for boats as i do for breech-loading bird-guns and j'inted fish-poles," observed dan. "them's the things that make a feller look nobby when summer comes. say, pap, what be we follering the beach for? the rope that leads to the cave is way up there in the hills." "look a-here, dannie," said silas, stopping short, and bestowing a very knowing wink upon the boy at his side. "we ain't nobody's fools, if we be poor and ragged. as i told you yesterday, we don't want to slide down that there rope, 'cause why, it'll dump us right down in front of that hant, and he'll bounce us before we can get our guns ready. see the p'int? if we go up the gorge, easy like, and keep our eyes open all the time, we shall see him as soon as he sees us. understand? but i don't reckon he's up here. i'm a thinking that he's down the road somewhere, watching for the feller that finds that letter." "i hope he is," said dan, "for then we won't have no trouble in getting hold of the money. looks powerful dark and lonesome in there; it does for a fact." they had now reached the brook, and were standing in full view of the mouth of the gorge. it did, indeed, look dark and lonely in there; so much so, in fact, that if dan had shown the least sign of fear, silas would have faced about at once, and made the best of his way back to the cabin, leaving the treasure to stay where it was until the mildew and rust had eaten it up. "them thick bushes shuts out all the light of the sun, don't they?" said silas. "and it's so ridiculous crooked, that we might run right on to the hant in going around some sharp bend, and never see him till we was clost to him. the brook is plumb full of rocks and such, and the cave must be as much as five miles away, i reckon--mebbe more. it'll be hard work to go up there after that money." "but it would be harder to get it by chopping wood for it," said dan; "so here goes, hant or no hant." "you're the most amazing gritty feller i ever seen," declared silas, who was really astonished at the boy's hardihood. "you go on ahead, for you ain't as old as i be, and your eyes are sharper, and i'll stick clost to your heels." for a wonder, dan did not object to this arrangement. "i know well enough that pap's afeard," said he to himself; "but that don't scare me none. if we have to run to save ourselves from the grip of that hant, the hindermost feller is the one who will be in the place of danger, and that'll be pap. with two or three jumps i can put myself so far ahead of him, that he won't never see me again till i get ready to stop and wait for him to come up." with these thoughts to comfort and encourage him, dan did not hesitate to lead the way into the gulf. the traveling was bad enough at the start, and the farther they went into the gorge, the worse it became. a dozen times or more, in going the first quarter of a mile, were they obliged to climb over or crawl under immense logs which had fallen into the stream from the bluffs above; and when these obstructions had been left behind, foaming cascades, some of them forty feet in height, and which they surmounted by scaling the steep face of the cliffs, took their places. it was a bad location for a surprise and a retreat, in which the hant would have every advantage of them. beyond a doubt, he could skip from one boulder to another, and plunge headlong over all the falls that came in his way with perfect immunity. but how would it be with them? dan asked himself. it was a wonder that he did not get disheartened, and declare that he would not go any farther. silas hoped he would, for he was growing weary, and, in spite of all he could do to prevent it, the disagreeable thought would now and then force itself upon him, that perhaps there wasn't any money up there, after all, and that they were destined to return as empty-handed as they came. dan also had some misgivings, but he would not allow them a place in his mind. the belief that there was a fortune of six thousand dollars almost within his grasp, had taken full possession of him; and even if he had not been sure of it, his pride would not permit him to say the first discouraging word. he was determined that it should come from his father, so that if their expedition failed he could blame him for it. he pressed steadily and patiently onward, without saying a word, and his father followed silently at his heels. they were now between four and five miles from the lake, and the cliffs on each side were so high, and the bushes and trees that covered them from base to summit were so thick, that twilight always reigned at the bottom of the gorge, let the sun shine never so brightly. on a cloudy day it must have been as dark as a pocket down there. silas couldn't think of anything that would have induced him to stay alone in that gloomy place for five minutes. "say, pap," whispered dan, so suddenly, that his father started and almost dropped his gun, "how long before we'll be abreast of that wood-pile of our'n?" silas raised his head long enough to look about him and take a glance at the cliffs above, and then the blood all fled from his face, leaving it as pale as death itself. "laws a massy, danny," he managed to articulate, "we're abreast of it now." there was something so unnatural in the tones of his father's voice, and in the face he turned on him, that dan felt the cold chills creeping over him, and it was all he could do to refrain from crying out with terror. chapter xx. a run for home. "yes, sir," repeated silas, after he had taken another brief look at his surroundings, to make sure that there was no mistake about it; "we're abreast of our wood-pile at this blessed minute, 'cause why--you see that leaning hickory up there on the top of the bluff? well, i shot a squirrel off'n there about three weeks ago, and that there tree is only a quarter of a mile from the wood-pile. i wish you wouldn't look so scared-like, dannie. the best part of this mean job is over now, and we ain't seen nothing to be afeard of yet. look around, and see if you can find anything of that rope. if you can, there's the cave. go ahead, dannie, and when you feel yourself getting trembly all over, just say, 'breech-loading bird-guns and j'inted fish-poles,' and that'll put pluck into you." silas rattled on in this way simply to gain time, and dan knew it; but before he could make any reply, the performance of the previous day, which had proved so trying to tom hallet's nerves and bob emerson's, was repeated for their benefit, followed by a new and startling variation. first, a dismal howl arose on the air, and the echoes took it up and threw it from one cliff to the other, until it seemed to the terrified dan that every tree and hush within the range of his vision concealed some awful thing that was howling at him with all its might. gradually the sound grew into a scream; and at the same moment there arose above the bushes, not more than thirty yards in advance of him, a grotesque figure, clad all in white. its head was concealed by something that looked like a night-cap; but its face was visible, and it was as white as chalk--all except the places where its eyes, nose and mouth were, or ought to have been, and they were as black as ink. it held its arms stiffly by its sides, and when the scream was at its loudest, it made a sudden dart forward as if it were on the point of jumping over the bushes, to take vengeance upon the daring fortune-hunters. "oh, my soul!" groaned silas; and his legs refusing to support him any longer, he sat down among the rocks and covered his eyes with his hand. but dan was made of sterner stuff. for a moment or two he stared at the figure with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, and then his gun came quickly to his shoulder, and two loads of shot went straight for the ghost's head. this aroused his father, who was not a second behind him; but the four charges had no more effect upon the spectre than so many blank cartridges. when the smoke cleared away, there he stood, and his actions seemed to indicate that he was about to assume the offensive. he began growing before their eyes; and when he had risen in the air until his height overtopped that of the tallest man they had ever seen, dan, who did not care to wait until he had lengthened himself all out, uttered a yell that was almost as loud and unearthly as those that came from the direction of the cave, and turned and took to his heels. he quickly gave his father the place of danger--the rear--and when silas, lumbering along behind, and stumbling over rocks and barking his shins at almost every step, reached the first bend in the stream, dan was nowhere in sight. knowing that it would be of no earthly use to call to him to come back, silas took one quick glance behind him to make sure that the spectre was not coming in pursuit, and then darted into the bushes which fringed the base of the cliff, and climbed slowly and laboriously to the top. he was a long time in reaching it, for his terror seemed to have robbed him of all his strength and agility, while it had just the opposite effect upon dan, whom he found at last; sitting on a log near the wood-pile. "well, we know now for certain that the money's there, don't we?" said silas, as soon as he could speak. "yes; and we know that the hant's there too," replied dan. "if i'd known that he was such a looking feller as that, you can bet your bottom dollar that i wouldn't have gone nigh him. he didn't have them white clothes on yesterday. you needn't set down, thinking that i'm going to wait for you, 'cause i'm going straight home." tired and weak as he was, silas was obliged to go, too, for he hadn't the courage to stay there alone until he was rested. he wasn't very steady on his legs, and by no means as sure-footed as he usually was; but he managed to keep along with dan, who, as fast as his wind came back to him, increased his pace, first to a slow trot, then to a fast trot, and finally to a dead run, every fresh burst of speed calling forth a corresponding exertion on the part of his father, who, struggling gamely to keep up, was so nearly exhausted by the violence of his efforts that he was often on the point of falling in his tracks. [illustration: a run for home] this was the way they were moving when mrs. morgan discovered them approaching the house. she was greatly astonished when she saw the nervous haste with which they closed and locked the door, and witnessed their frantic but unsuccessful attempts to recharge their guns, and she was frightened when she caught a glimpse of their faces; but with all her questioning, she could not get a word out of them. they stared stupidly at her, as they rocked about in their chairs, but did not seem to possess the power of speech. "our tongues were stiffer'n a couple of boards, and we couldn't nary one of us open our heads," was the way in which dan wound up his story. "at first i thought the hant had put some kind of a spell or 'nother on to us; but it went away after a while, and now we can both talk as well as we ever could. i reckon you won't go back, will you, joey?" to dan's utter amazement, the young game-warden replied with the greatest promptness: "of course i shall go back. what would mr. warren think of me if i should throw up my situation before i had fairly entered upon its duties? i haven't seen anything to get frightened at." "but i have," exclaimed dan. "i don't doubt it in the least," answered joe, who had a theory of his own regarding the strange things that had happened in the gorge. "if i don't bother the 'hant' i don't see why he should take the trouble to climb out of his cave to bother me. i don't want the treasure he is guarding. i never expect to get a dollar that i don't work for; and, dan, if you and father would make up your minds to the same thing, and quit your foolish wishing and go to work in dead earnest, you would be better off six months from now. i wouldn't go near those woods again if i were in your place." "you're right i won't," said dan, earnestly. "i want my new gun and fish-pole awful bad, and i do despise to have to give 'em up; but i'll wait till that there hant dies or goes away, before i try that gulf again, i bet you. be you going back to your shanty now?" joe said he was. "well, mebbe it's best so," continued dan, reflectively. "you have got to earn all the money that comes into the family this winter, ain't you?" "i suppose i shall earn all i get," said joe, who saw very plainly what his brother was driving at, "and i know that you and father will earn every red cent you get." "it sorter bothers me to see how we are going to do it," replied dan. "don't it you?" "not at all. earn it as you did last winter--cut wood." "why, that would take us up there clost to the gulf," cried dan, looking up in amazement. "and didn't i just tell you that i wasn't going there no more?" "now, dan, that's only an excuse on your part. you know very well that mr. warren and mr. hallet are not the only ones who will want cord-wood this winter. i don't blame you for keeping away from the gorge; but you can find plenty to do elsewhere, if you are not too lazy to look for it. well, good-by." "what a teetotally mean, stingy feller, that joe of our'n is!" soliloquized dan, gazing after his brother, who was walking toward the cabin with a light and springy step. "he ain't a going to go halvers with me and pap, is he? i wish in my soul that the hant would run him outen the mounting this very night." the young game-warden carried a very bright and smiling face into his mother's presence, and mrs. morgan felt immensely relieved the moment she looked at it. instead of locking the door, as dan and his father always did whenever they wished to hold a secret interview with each other, joe sat down on the threshold so that he could talk to his mother and keep watch of dan at the same time. the latter was inclined to be "snooping," and it would be just like him, joe thought, to slip up and crouch under the open window, so that he could hear every word he uttered. dan had an idea of doing that very thing; but he straightway abandoned it when he looked up and saw his brother sitting at ease in the open door. "now, mother," said the latter, cheerfully, "throw your fears to the winds. i've got at the bottom of the whole matter, and know there's nothing to be afraid of." then he went on to repeat the story to which he had just listened, but he did not take up so much time with the narration as dan did, because he used fewer words. "dan was so badly frightened that he didn't know whether he stood on his head or his heels," said joe, in conclusion. "but it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and this is the best thing that could have happened for me. i told you this morning that if father and dan didn't behave and let my birds alone, i would find means to make them, but i guess the ghost has taken that most unpleasant job off my hands, and i should really like to thank him for it." "then you think there is some one hidden in the gulf?" said mrs. morgan. "i am sure of it; and the reason that father and dan did not do any damage with their four charges of bird-shot was, because they sent them into a dummy. if they had held a little lower, and fired into the bushes, there might have been another story to tell." "have you any idea who the man is?" "not the slightest; but--but--well i don't care who he is, or why he is hiding there, if he will only make it his business to drive away every market-shooter who goes into those woods." it had been right on the point of joe's tongue to say that he would know all about the mysterious party who was hiding in the gorges before he came home again; but he didn't say it. his mother was smiling now, and he did not want to bring the old expression of fear and anxiety back to her face. he was none the less determined, however, to sift the matter to the bottom. "i will see tom and bob to-morrow," he went on. "by the way, you didn't know that they are mr. hallet's game-wardens, did you? neither did i, until this morning. i couldn't have better fellows for company, could i? you see, mother, the place where all these things happened is on the dividing line that runs between mr. warren's woods and mr. hallet's, and as the ghost will help tom and bob quite as much as he will me, i want to know what they think about letting him stay there." there was another reason why joe was anxious to have an interview with mr. hallet's game-wardens, but he did not think it best to say anything to his mother about it. chapter xxi. a treacherous guide. having told his story, and set all his mother's fears at rest, joe thought it time to speak of his own affairs, and asked for his father's watch; whereupon, that ancient relic and heirloom was duly fished out of a dark corner in one of the bureau drawers, set in motion, and handed over to him, after being regulated by the not altogether reliable clock that ticked loudly on the mantel. the young game-warden went away from home with a very light heart beating under his patched jacket. by some fortunate combination of circumstances, which he did not pretend to understand, he had been relieved of a heavy responsibility. the two market-shooters of whom he stood the most in fear had been most effectually disposed of, for a while at least. it would be a long time, joe told himself, before his father and dan could muster up courage enough to come into the woods of which he had charge. if silas was afraid to draw the wood which was to keep him warm during the winter, it was not at all probable that he would be reckless enough to hunt through mr. warren's covers. when joe reached his cabin, there was barely enough daylight left to aid him in his search for the lamp which he knew was stowed away somewhere among the things that were scattered over the floor. while he was groping about in the gloom, he wondered how much money it would take to induce dan or his father to come up there and stay alone in that cabin all night. it would not have been at all strange, in view of the harrowing story to which he had listened a few hours before, if his own nerves had been a trifle "trembly;" but they were not. the sighing of the evening breeze through the thick branches of the evergreens that surrounded the cabin on three sides, and the mournful song of a distant whip-poor-will, were sounds that some people do not like to hear, because they make one feel lonely; but they were company for joe, and he delighted in listening to them. he found the lamp after a protracted search, filled it outside the door just as the last ray of daylight gave way to the increasing darkness, and when he touched a match to the wick and put on the chimney, his surroundings began to assume a more cheerful aspect. it was the work of but a few moments to start a blaze in the fireplace, and while he was waiting for it to gather headway, so that he could pile on the hard wood which was to furnish the coals for the broiling of his bacon, he busied himself in setting things to rights. he didn't bother with the carpet--that would have to wait until to-morrow; but he put up his cot, laid the mattress upon it, and was about to spread the bed-clothes over that, when he heard the snapping of twigs and heavy, lumbering footfalls outside the door, and looked up to see a white, scared face pressed close against one of the window-panes. joe was startled, and during the instant of time that he stood motionless by his cot, he felt the hot blood rushing to his heart, and knew that his own face must be as white as the one at the window. his first emotion was one of fear, but it speedily gave place to anger and excitement. he wondered if the man who was hiding in the gorge labored under the delusion that he could drive him away with the same ease that he had driven off dan and silas. "this thing might as well be settled now as a week from now," thought joe. "i am here on legitimate business, and i'll ride rough-shod over anybody who attempts to interfere with me." with one bound, joe sprang clear across the cabin, and when he turned about he held his cocked rifle in his hands. he was ready to shoot, too. but the man at the window had seen the movement, and lost no time in drawing his head out of sight. "hold on there!" said a frightened voice. instead of "holding on," joe jumped for the door, jerked it open, and in an instant more the muzzle of his heavy weapon was covering a crouching figure under the window. "speak quick," said he. "who are you?" "mr. brown! mr. brown!" came the answer, in tones that joe recognized at once. "what are you pointing that gun at me for? i'm lost, and want help to find my way out of the woods." "then why didn't you come to the door and say so like a man, instead of trying to scare me by looking in at the window? you ought to know that you put yourself in danger by doing that." "i didn't mean to frighten you," replied mr. brown. and joe could easily believe it. his visitor had risen to an upright position by this time, and joe saw at a glance that he was too badly frightened himself to think of playing tricks upon others. "why did you not answer my calls for help?" demanded mr. brown, who, now that he was safe, seemed to grow indignant when he remembered how near he had come to spending the night alone on the mountain, with no cheering camp-fire to illumine the darkness. "because i didn't hear any calls for help," answered joe, shortly. "well, i did call, and called again, until i was too hoarse to speak above a whisper," said mr. brown, walking into the cabin, and placing a camp-chair in front of the fire. just then the pointers came into view and went in also, stretching themselves out on the hearth with long-drawn sighs of relief, and the three took up about all the spare room there was in the game-warden's little domicile. "i don't know who has the most impudence, the man or his dogs," thought joe, as he closed and fastened the door. "they have come here to run things, judging by the way they shut me off from the fire." "this is glorious," continued mr. brown, depositing his double-barrel in the chimney-corner, and spreading his benumbed hands out in front of the genial blaze. "the air begins to get cold up here on the mountain just as soon as the sun sinks out of sight, and i am chilled through. now, how am i to get to the beach? that's the question." "you will have to answer it for yourself, for i can't," joe replied. "you had a guide the last time i saw you." these innocent words seemed to irritate the man to whom they were addressed, for he turned upon joe almost fiercely. "yes, i did have one," said he. "but where is he now?" "i don't know," answered joe. and he might have added that he did not care. "you heard me remind him that i had given him a handsome sum of money to put me in the way of a good day's shooting, did you not? i knew him to be perfectly familiar with these woods, and i supposed he could do it. of course, i was aware that i couldn't take home a bag of grouse; but i knew there was no law protecting the english birds that have just been turned down in these covers, and i looked for jolly good sport, and for twenty-five or thirty brace of birds to distribute among my friends." "don't you think it was kind of mr. warren to pay six dollars a pair for those birds, just to give you the fun of shooting them?" asked joe. "you ought to thank him for it." mr. brown stared hard at the bold speaker, shrugged his shoulders, and turned around on his camp-chair to bring the heat of the fire to bear upon the back of his shooting-jacket. "well," said he, slowly, "if any man is foolish enough to squander his money in that way, i don't know that it is any business of mine, or yours, either; and neither do i consider it my duty to refrain from shooting birds that are not protected by law, as often as my dogs flush them. now, let me go on with my story." "but first suppose that you send the dogs under the table, and move back out of my way, so that i can cook supper," suggested joe. but mr. brown and his four-footed companions were very comfortable there in front of the fire, and not until joe, losing all patience, jerked the door wide open and caught up a broom, could any of them muster up energy sufficient to move out of his way. then the pointers, which were really well trained and obedient, were easily induced to get under the table, while mr. brown retreated into the chimney-corner. "now i am ready to listen," said joe, after he had piled an armful of hard wood upon the fire. "where is your guide, and why didn't he show you the way to the beach?" "he is at home, i suppose," said mr. brown, growing spiteful again. "when i learned that these birds were protected, and that brierly, instead of giving me a day's shooting had rendered both himself and me liable to trespass, i told him that he had better hand back the twenty-five dollars i had given him--" "twenty-five dollars for a single day's shooting!" exclaimed joe. "that is what i paid him," said mr. brown. "but do you imagine that he gave it back, even when he knew that he could not fulfil his promise? no, sir! he got out of it by leading me away off into the woods and losing me there. i had a fearful time working my way out, and it was only by the merest accident that i blundered within sight of the light that streamed from your window." "good for brierly!" was joe's mental comment. "i wish he would serve every law-breaking pot-hunter who takes him for a guide in the same way." then, aloud, he asked, "did it frighten you to think that you had a fair prospect of lying out all night?" "it was by no means a pleasant reflection, but that wasn't what frightened me. i ran across a couple of men up there," said mr. brown, giving his head a backward jerk. "their stealthy actions seemed to indicate that they were abroad for no good purpose, and i was not sorry to see the last of them." "did they say anything to you?" asked joe. "not a word. they made all haste to lose themselves among the thickets, and so did i. it was the prospect of passing the night alone on the mountain while there were prowlers around that tested my nerves, and i was glad indeed to come within sight of your light." this piece of news was not at all quieting to the feelings of the young game-warden. it aroused in his mind the suspicion that there was more than one man hiding in the gorge, and that they made a business of roaming around after dark to see what they could find that was worth picking up. if this suspicion was correct, mr. warren's woods might prove a very unpleasant place for him to live for eight long months, joe told himself. he could not remain on guard duty at the cabin all the time, for the work he came there to do would take him to the remotest nooks and corners of the wood-lot; and how easy it would be for those men to slip up during his absence and carry away everything he possessed! "if they are outlaws, and i really believe they are," thought joe, as he poked up the fire, which had by this time almost burned itself down to a glowing bed of coals, "they ought to be hunted out of that gorge without loss of time. i will find tom and bob the first thing in the morning, and ask them what they think of it." chapter xxii. mr. brown takes his departure. "how far is it to the beach?" inquired mr. brown, who had got pretty well thawed out by this time. "eight long miles," replied joe, "and the most of the way lies through the thickest woods that are to be found among these hills. i can't direct you so that you could keep a straight course, and indeed i don't think i could keep it myself on a dark night like this. you had better give up the idea of going there to-night, and stay here until morning." "you seem to have but one bed," said mr. brown, doubtfully. "well, you may take that, and i'll look out for myself." most men would have expressed their regrets that circumstances compelled them to trespass upon the young game-warden's hospitality; but mr. brown wasn't that sort. he had a cheerful fire to sit by, a clean, if not luxurious bed to sleep in, a substantial meal in prospect, and what more could a belated hunter ask for? if his presence put joe to any inconvenience, why, that was no concern of his. the supper that joe served up to his uninvited guest was plain but well cooked, and no sooner had it been disposed of than mr. brown threw himself upon the cot, boots and all, and speedily went off into the land of dreams. joe spent the evening in looking over the books and papers with which mr. warren had provided him, and when his watch told him that it was ten o'clock, he lay down before the fire, with his coat for a pillow, and went to sleep. the first gray streaks of dawn that came in through the uncurtained window awoke him, but his guest still slumbered heavily, and joe did not disturb him until he had made the coffee and slapjacks, and fried the bacon and eggs. mr. brown did not take the trouble to respond to the boy's hearty good-morning, but seated himself at the table, after performing a hasty toilet, and attacked the savory viands without ceremony. when he had eaten rather more than his share of them, his tongue became loosened, and he asked if it were possible for him to reach the beach in time to take the stage for bellville. joe said it was, provided he did not waste too much time in making a start, and then he began railing at brierly for the mean trick he had served him. "i wish i could prosecute him and compel him to give up my money," said he, "but i don't see that i can make out a case against him. more than that, i can't wait to go through a law-suit, and neither do i want to give mr. warren a chance at me. he might take a notion to have a hand in the business." "very likely he would," said joe, dryly. "you knew well enough that these grounds are posted, and you ought to have cleared out when you saw the first notice." "you will guide me to the beach, of course?" said mr. brown, who did not appear anxious to discuss this point. "i will put you on the road, but i can't promise to go all the way with you," was joe's reply. "i am paid to stay here." mr. brown was not quite satisfied with this arrangement--he was very much afraid that he might get lost again--but he was obliged to put up with it. an hour later, joe stood by his father's wood-pile, taking a last look at his departing guest, who was hurrying down the dim wagon-road toward the valley below. all he had received in return for his services was a slight farewell bow. "i have seen a good many sportsmen first and last," thought the young game-warden, as he shouldered his rifle and retraced his steps down the mountain, "but mr. brown beats me. if he ever spends another night in my house, he will take off his boots before he goes to bed, and pay me in advance for his meals and lodging." remembering the prowlers of whom mr. brown had spoken, joe went straight back to his cabin, took a good look around to make sure that everything there was just as he had left it, and then started off in search of tom and bob. he found them setting their house in order. a note of warning from tom's little beagle brought them both to the door, where they remained until joe came up. they were somewhat surprised at his actions. instead of replying to their greetings, he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked quizzically at them. "halloa! what has come over you all of a sudden?" exclaimed bob. still joe did not speak. he shut his left eye, and looked at bob through the half-closed lids of the other. "what do you mean by that pantomime?" chimed in tom. by way of reply, joe shut his right eye and looked at tom with the left; whereupon all the boys broke out into a hearty laugh. "say," said joe at length, "i wish you would tell me just how much you know about the ghost that has taken up his abode down there in the gorge." "what ghost?" asked bob, staring hard at his friend tom, and trying to look surprised. "down where in what gorge?" inquired tom, returning bob's stare with interest. "of course you don't know anything about it," said joe, with a look which said that they knew _all_ about it; "but if you are as ignorant as you pretend to be, why were you so anxious to keep me out of the gorge yesterday?" "why--er--you see, we didn't want you to walk yourself to death for nothing," said tom, wondering if joe had anything better than mere suspicion to back him. "we knew there were a couple of fellows down there, for we heard them shoot, and we advised you to keep out of the gorge because we were satisfied that you couldn't catch them, and that it would be a waste of breath and strength for you to make the attempt." "was that the only reason you had for giving me that advice?" asked joe, with a smile. "you might as well confess that there was something down there you did not want me to see. there were two fellows in the gorge yesterday, but they were not hunting birds. they were after the twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold that you said were hidden there." "we never said so!" exclaimed both the boys, in a breath. "but the letter you wrote said so," insisted joe. "and what do you think those trespassers did while they were there?" he continued, with great impressiveness. "they sent four charges of shot into the head of that ghost, which wasn't a ghost at all, if you only knew it." "great moses!" ejaculated bob, who was really surprised now, as well as alarmed. the way in which joe spoke was calculated to excite the gravest suspicions in his mind and tom's. "did--did they hit him?" tom managed to ask. "i should say they did!" answered joe, solemnly. "they could not miss him very well, seeing that he was only thirty yards away from the muzzles of their guns." "was--was it a man?" tom ventured to ask. "animals don't generally have 'hants,' do they?" asked joe, in reply. "there was a man there, and he howled and screamed--" "oh, great scott!" groaned tom, while bob rubbed his hands together, and gazed down the mountain, as if he were meditating instant flight. "and he kept it up after he received those four charges of shot in his head, and--" these words had a magical effect upon tom and bob, who were really afraid that their practical joke had resulted in a terrible tragedy. they looked at joe so steadily that the latter could control himself no longer. he sat down on a convenient log, threw back his head, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "you shot closer to the mark than you thought for when you made that letter say there was something in the gorge," said joe, at last. "there's a man down there--two of them, according to my way of thinking." "well," said bob, who was immensely relieved by this sudden and unexpected turn of affairs, "we knew it. we went into the gorge day before yesterday, to catch a trout for dinner, and when we came home we followed the stream, thinking it would be easier than to climb up the bluff. that was the way we found it out. when we came to the place where we had located our robbers' cave our ears were saluted by such sounds as we never listened to before, but we didn't see anything." "what sort of an object was it that dan shot at?" asked tom, who was glad to see that joe was not inclined to be angry over the trick that had been played upon his father and brother. "was it a dummy?" "if it had been anything else i might have had a different story to tell you," was joe's reply. "there are at least two outlaws in hiding there, and they have taken that way to make inquisitive hunters keep at a distance." "what makes you think there are two of them?" "because mr. brown ran against two prowlers in the woods last night." "who is mr. brown?" joe replied that he was one of the men he had been obliged to order out of mr. warren's woods on the previous day, and then he went on to tell of the visit he had had from him the night before, and how frightened he was when he saw the man's face at the window. when he described how brierly had managed to evade his employer's demand for the return of the twenty-five dollars that had been paid him, tom and bob laughed heartily, and declared that brierly had served him just right. joe did not neglect to tell how mr. brown had abused his hospitality, and his account of it aroused the ire of the two listeners, who declared that if that man ever got lost in their woods, he need not trouble himself to hunt up their cabin, for they would not take him in. "what kind of a looking thing was that dummy?" inquired bob, coming back to the matter in which he was interested more than he was in mr. brown and his fortunes. joe was obliged to confess that he could not answer that question, because dan's description of the thing that he and his father shot at, surpassed all belief. whether it was the appearance of the ghost itself, or the fact that the four loads of shot that had been fired at it had had no perceptible effect upon it, or the terrifying shrieks that awoke the echoes of the gorge--whether it was one or all of these that had frightened silas into saying that he would not haul any more wood down from the mountain, joe could not tell; but he thought those men ought to be made to give an account of themselves. if they had not violated the law in some way, why did they take so much pains to keep out of sight? "we were at first inclined to believe that some of the mischief-loving guests at the beach had a hand in it," observed tom. "when a lot of city people turn themselves loose in the country, they will go for anything that has fun in it, no matter what it is." "you mean that that was _your_ explanation of it," corrected bob. "i thought when the thing happened, that it was an outlaw who yelled at us until we were glad to get out of hearing of him, and i think so now." "so do i," said joe. "and i shall hold fast to that opinion until we go down there and get at the bottom of the mystery. i am ready to start at once. what do you say?" chapter xxiii. exploring the cave. ever since the mysterious inhabitant of the gorge had driven them from his presence by his unearthly howling, there had been a tacit understanding between tom and bob that some day, after they had time to get a good ready, they would return and drive him out of his hiding-place; or, if they failed in that, find out who he was, and what brought him there. it was the hope of being able to carry out one or the other of these ideas that had prompted them, on the previous day, to seize their guns and run for the gorge when they heard those four shots fired there. when they found joe, and learned that he was more than half inclined to go in search of the poachers, who, he thought, were pursuing their nefarious work on the other side of the gulf, they endeavored to dissuade him, because they were afraid he might encounter something he would not care to see. but it turned out that joe knew more about the matter than they did, and furthermore that he wouldn't rest easy until he knew _all_ about it. tom was the first to speak. "i wonder if a stranger thing than this ever happened?" said he. "we wrote a letter and put it into your father's wood-pile, just for the fun of the thing--" "and by that means unearthed a brace of thieves, or something worse," said joe. "you needn't look at me in that way. i don't bear you the least ill-will for what you did. on the contrary i thank you for it, and if i were sure that those parties in the gorge would let us alone this winter, i should be strongly in favor of letting them alone, too; for, as long as they stay there, we are safe from two of the worst game-law breakers in the country." "but the mystery of that gulf is known to but few," said tom. "it will be known to more by this time next week," answered joe. "dan will tell it to every man and boy he meets, and in that way it will become noised abroad. but here's the difficulty: they won't let us alone. i have not the slightest doubt that they frightened mr. brown last night. if you could have seen the face he put against my window, you wouldn't doubt it either; and that seems to prove that, although they keep closely hidden during the day, they go out on foraging expeditions as soon as darkness comes to conceal their movements. if that is the case, what is there to hinder them from robbing our cabins at any time? you have the advantage of me, for one of you can stay here on guard while the other is attending to business; but when you see joe morgan, you see all there is of my party, and i can't be in two places at the same time. that's why i am so anxious to have those fellows out of there." "i understood you to say that you got your information from dan," observed bob. "what did he say? did he tell you everything that happened in the gulf?" "yes, and more, too," said joe, with a laugh. "i went home yesterday after a time-piece, and dan concluded to take me into his confidence." "well, tell us the story, just as he told it to you, so that we may know." "oh, i couldn't begin to do that, and besides, you wouldn't believe me if i did!" exclaimed joe. "then tell it in your own way, so that we may know just what we shall have to face, if we decide to go down there," said tom. "wait until i get something for us to sit down on, and then we'll take it easy." tom went into the cabin, reappearing almost immediately with three camp-chairs in his hands. when each boy had appropriated one, joe began his story, making no effort to follow dan's narration, but telling it in such a way that his auditors saw through it as plainly as he did himself. indeed, the whole thing was so very transparent that tom and bob marveled at dan's stupidity. "it seems to me that a child ought to have seen through it without half trying," said joe, in conclusion. "but simple as the trick was, it is going to end in something besides fun; mind that, both of you." "then they wouldn't use the rope, because they were afraid that they would dump themselves down in front of the 'hant' before they could get a chance to shoot him," said bob. "well, they saved time by not looking for it, because it wasn't there. i never thought of the rope after i spoke about it in the letter. well, tom, what do you say? i am ready to face the spectre of the cave if you are." "talk enough," was tom's reply. and to show that he was in earnest about it, he picked up his camp-chair and went into the cabin. when he came out again, he carried his double-barrel in his hands and his cartridge belt was buckled about his waist. no one could have accused these three boys of cowardice if they had decided that they would not go near the gorge at all. it was plain that the men who were in hiding there--they were satisfied now that there were at least two of them--were fugitives from justice, and such characters ought to be left to the care of the officers of the law. it is true that their presence in the gorge was a continual menace to the peace and comfort of the young game-wardens. they seemed to say, by their actions, "we are here to stay, and you can't get us out." the boys took the events of the last two days as a challenge to them to come on and see what they could make by it, and the promptness with which joe morgan proposed the expedition, and the nervous eagerness exhibited by tom and bob in preparing to take part in it, indicated that they meant to do something before they came back. "there's one thing about it," said bob, after he had armed himself, and closed and locked the door, "we are not to be turned from our purpose by a dozen dummy ghosts, and neither will those horrid yells have the same effect upon us that they did the first time we heard them. if dan had fired into the bushes, instead of aiming at the 'hant's' head--" "i hope you don't intend to do that!" cried joe, in alarm. "if you do, you will get into trouble as sure as the world. beyond a doubt, there was a man behind the bushes." "of course there was," assented bob. "but you need not worry about me. i shall not allow my excitement to lead me into anything reckless." tom hallet, who was leading the way, took a short cut through the woods, and his route did not take him and his companions within a mile of joe morgan's cabin. if they had gone there, instead of holding a straight course for the gorge, they might have been in time to see something surprising. they did not know that the enemy was operating in the rear while they were marching upon his stronghold, but they found it out afterward. they moved along as silently as so many indians, and when they reached the gorge, spread themselves out along the brink, looking for a place that gave promise of an easy descent to the bottom. before they had made many steps, joe uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and with a motion of his hand, called his companions to his side. "this is the spot we are looking for," said he, in a suppressed whisper. "push the bushes aside and you will see it." tom did so, and, sure enough, there was a clearly-defined path, which seemed to run straight down to the brook below. it looked more like an archway than anything else to which we can compare it, for the tops of the bushes were entwined above it, and they were so dense and matted that they shut out every ray of the sun. "now what's to be done?" whispered bob. "no doubt the path leads straight down to their hiding-place, and i am free to confess that i don't want to come upon them before i know it." joe's reply was characteristic of the boy. he did not say a word, but worked his way through the bushes, and moved down the path with slow and cautious footsteps. "that looks like business," whispered bob, who lost not a moment in following his daring leader, tom and bugle being equally prompt to bring up the rear. in this order they moved at a snail's pace toward the bottom of the gorge, stopping every few feet to listen, and all the while holding themselves in readiness to fight or run, as circumstances might seem to require, and to their great surprise they came to the foot of the path without encountering the least opposition, or hearing any alarming sound. the deep silence that brooded over the gorge aroused their suspicions at once. what if the enemy had heard their approach, in spite of all the pains they had taken to keep them in ignorance of it, and prepared an ambush for them? joe thought of that, and the instant he found himself in the gorge, he moved promptly to one side, so that his companions could form in line of battle on his left--a manoeuvre which they executed at double quick time. "great scott! there's our cave," whispered tom, who was so nearly overcome with amazement that he could scarcely speak plainly. "and there's the ghost," chimed in joe, pointing to a scarecrow in white raiment that lay prone on the rocks under a dense thicket. "just take a look at its head! those four loads of shot tore it almost to pieces." but tom and bob did not stop to look at the ghost, for they were too busy taking notes of their surroundings while awaiting an onset from the owners of the camp. for it was a camp in which they found themselves, and everything in and about it seemed to indicate that it had been occupied for some length of time--two or three weeks at least. tom's cave proved, upon closer inspection, to be something else--a rude but very comfortable shelter, in the building of which nature's handiwork had been improved upon by the ingenuity of man. the slanting roof, which for ten feet or more from the entrance was quite high enough to permit a tall man to stand upright, was the bottom of a huge rock, firmly embedded in the face of the overhanging bluff. the walls of the cabin, or whatever you choose to call it, were made of evergreens, which had been piled against the rock, top downward, to shed the rain; and that one little thing showed to the experienced eyes of the boys that the men who lived there were old campers. in front of the wide, open entrance were the smouldering remains of a camp-fire, over which a hasty breakfast had been cooked and eaten. the boys were sure that the meal had been a hurried one, because the dishes were left unwashed; and that is a disagreeable duty that no old-time "outer" ever neglects, unless circumstances compel him to do so. when the fire was in full blast, and the flames were roaring and crackling and the sparks ascending toward the clouds, it was probable that the interior of the cabin was bright and cheerful; but now it looked dark and forbidding, thought the boys, as they stretched their necks, twisted their bodies at all sorts of angles, and strained their eyes in the vain effort to see through the gloom that seemed to have settled over the other end of it. it was a fine place for an ambuscade, but if the enemy had concealed themselves there, why did they not come out? now was the time for them to make their presence known and felt. all this while tom hallet's little beagle, upon which the boys had been depending to warn them of the proximity of any danger that their less acute senses might not enable them to detect, had been acting in a most unusual manner. he was generally foremost in every expedition in which his master took part, but in this one he was quite contented to remain in the rear. he went into the camp boldly enough, but after he had taken one look at its surroundings, and caught a single sniff of the tainted air, he stuck up the bristles on the back of his neck, dropped his tail between his legs, and ran behind his master for protection. "i really believe they are in there. 'st--boy! go in and hunt them out! sick 'em!" whispered tom, pointing to the cabin. but bugle was in no hurry to go. he was usually prompt to obey the slightest motion of his master's hand; but now he refused to budge an inch--except toward the rear. he ran to the foot of the path and stood there, saying as plainly as a dog could that he would go back to the top of the bluff before he would advance a step nearer to the cabin. the boys closely watched all his movements, and told themselves, privately, that perhaps they had done a foolhardy thing in coming down there. chapter xxiv. robbers. "you're a coward!" exclaimed tom, shaking his fist at the frightened beagle, and forgetting in his anger that this was the first time the animal had ever refused to yield ready obedience to his slightest wish. "i'll trade you off for the meanest yellow cur in bellville, and hire a cheap boy to steal the cur. come back here and see what there is in the cabin, i tell you!" "don't scold him," interposed joe. "i don't much like the idea of venturing in there myself, but here goes." as he spoke he drew back the hammer of his rifle, and, with steady, unfaltering steps, walked into the cabin, little dreaming of the astounding things that were to grow out of this simple act. tom and bob promptly moved up to support him, but the sequel proved that it wasn't necessary, for there was no one in the cabin to oppose them. when joe announced this fact, which he did as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, so that he could see what there was in front of him, tom wanted to know where the robbers were, but that was a point on which his companions could not enlighten him. "they have gone off on a plundering expedition, of course," continued tom, "and there's no telling when they will be back. we don't want to let them catch us here." "and neither do we want to leave until we have found out something about them," answered joe. "come in here, one of you. i have discovered a lot of plunder of some sort, and if we give it an overhauling we may be able to find out who it belongs to, and what brought them here. the other had better stay outside and keep watch." tom volunteered to stand guard, and so bob went into the cabin. it was large enough to accommodate half a dozen men, he found when he got into it, but the "shake downs," which were spread upon the floor at the farther end of it, indicated that probably not more than two or three persons were accustomed to seek shelter there. bob had not been gone more than a minute when he called out to his friend at the entrance: "say, tom, here's our grip-sack." tom was amused as well as surprised. he and bob had made that letter up all out of their own heads, and with not the slightest suspicion in their minds that there was anything to be found in that particular gorge, except, perhaps, a solitary grouse or two, which had hidden there to get out of the way of the shooters who made their headquarters at the beach, and yet they had located a concealed habitation, and described at least one of the things that were to be found in it. it was a little short of wonderful, and again tom asked himself if such a thing had ever happened before. "has it got a false bottom in it?" he inquired. "don't know," answered bob. "here it comes. examine it yourself, if you can open it, and let us know what you find in it." the valise was locked when it left bob's hand and went sailing toward the entrance, but the force with which it struck the rocks burst it open, giving tom a view of its contents. while he was taking a look at them, joe and bob were giving the cabin a most thorough overhauling, tearing the beds to pieces, and peering into every dark corner they could discover, and at every turn they found something to strengthen them in the belief that they had stumbled upon a den of thieves, sure enough. in the way of provender, they found a whole ham, a bushel of potatoes, and an armful of corn; and joe declared that the last two must have been stolen the night before, because the dirt was not dry on the potatoes, and the husks on the ears of corn were perfectly fresh. "mr. hallet's fields furnished those things, and i should not wonder if the ham came from his smoke-house," said joe. "but what could have been their object in stealing these sheets and pillow-cases? campers don't generally care to have such things around, because they can't be kept clean." "don't you think they used them to dress up their ghost?" inquired bob. "that dummy out there under the bushes has got a sheet on." "so it has," replied joe. "i'd give something to know what it was that suggested to them the idea of scaring folks away with that thing. they must know that everybody can't be frightened by white scare-crows. what is it? found a false bottom in that grip-sack?" "or the twelve thousand dollars in bills, and three hundred in gold?" chimed in bob. these questions were addressed to tom hallet, who just then called attention to himself by uttering an exclamation indicative of the profoundest amazement. by way of reply he shook a handful of greenbacks at them, and then dropped it to pick up a large roll of postage stamps. by the time they got out to him he had exchanged the stamps for two elegant gold watches. "this grip-sack is full to the brim of valuables, money, and securities," said tom, in a scarcely audible whisper, "and i--stop your noise!" he added, turning fiercely upon bugle, who just then uttered a sound that was between a whine and a bark, and came running from the foot of the path where he had laid himself down to wait until the boys were ready to leave the camp. "shut your mouth, you coward!" the beagle crowded close to his master's side, in spite of the efforts the angry boy made to push him away, looked toward the path, and whined and growled, and exhibited other signs of terror and excitement. with a warning gesture to his companions, joe moved farther away from the cabin, and stood in a listening attitude. in a second more, he turned about, jumped back to the valise and began throwing the things into it in the greatest haste. [illustration: treasure trove] "hurry up, all of us!" said he in a thrilling whisper. "the men are coming down the path. i don't know whether or not they have seen anything to arouse their suspicions, but they are moving very cautiously, and talking in low tones. there you are," he added, when all the things that tom had taken out of the valise had been crowded promiscuously into it again. "grab it up and run with it before bugle gives tongue to let them know that we are here. bob and i will cover your retreat." tom lost not a moment in acting upon this suggestion. in less time than it takes to tell it, they had all disappeared in the bushes. tom made good time toward the first bend in the brook, hoping to get out of sight before the men had opportunity to discover that their camp had been disturbed during their absence, and he accomplished his object. as soon as he passed the first bend, and left the camp out of sight, tom turned into the bushes and scrambled up the bluff, his watchful guard following close behind him. knowing full well that the robbers were thoroughly armed, and that it would be an easy matter for them to bushwack them during their retreat, the boys did not relax their vigilance in the slightest degree when they reached the top of the cliff, and neither did they neglect to cover their flight by making use of every tree, rock and bush that came in their way. the experience they had gained in stalking the wild game of the hills stood them in good stead now, and so stealthy were they in their movements that the dry leaves that covered the ground scarcely rustled beneath their tread. tom held a straight course for joe's cabin, which was the nearest haven of refuge, but no sooner did he get a glimpse of it than he came to a sudden halt, and motioned to joe to hasten to his side. "what's the matter?" asked joe. "there are no enemies in front of us, i hope." "did you forget to close and lock your door when you left home this morning?" inquired tom. "of course i didn't. i took particular pains to-now can anybody tell me what that means? the door is standing wide open, as sure as i live." "has mr. warren got two keys to that lock?" queried bob. "not that i know of," answered joe. "then that open door means this," continued bob: "while we were prowling about the robbers' camp, they, or some of their kind, seized the opportunity to come here and see what you--" joe waited to hear no more. without giving his friends a hint of his intentions, he ran toward the cabin at the top of his speed, hoping to corner somebody there, and cover him with his rifle so that he could not escape. but in this he was disappointed. it was plain that some one had been there while he was gone, for the window was open, as well as the door, and the cabin was in the greatest confusion. it had been ransacked as thoroughly as joe and his companions had ransacked the robbers' camp. knowing that he could not do the matter justice in english, the young game-warden leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and said nothing. "who did it? anything missing? this is a pretty state of affairs, i must say!" were a few of the exclamations to which tom and bob gave utterance, as they crowded into the cabin and took a hurried survey of things. had it not been for dan's encounter with the ghost on the previous day, joe would have thought at once that his brother was the guilty party; but he did not suspect him now, because he knew that dan would not dare to come up there alone to take revenge upon him for his refusal to admit him to a full partnership in his business. silas was afraid to come up there, too; and even if he were not, it wasn't likely that he would do anything of this kind, because he wanted joe to stay there and earn the hundred and twenty dollars, so that he could take it away from him. "if the blame doesn't rest with hobson or some of that clique, it rests with the men to whom that grip-sack belongs," said joe, confidently. "i don't know whether they have stolen any of my things or not. i must look them over first." tom offering to assist him in his work, bob volunteered to stand guard over them, adding: "it begins to look to me as though this thing of playing game-warden has its drawbacks, as well as going to school. tom and i thought we were going to have the finest kind of times up here this winter, growing fat on grouse and squirrels, and enjoying the freedom of camp-life; but i have my doubts. we came here only yesterday morning, and just look at the fuss we have had already. what is it, joe?" "do you see my shotgun anywhere, either of you?" asked joe in reply. "i am afraid it is gone. yes, sir, it has been stolen," he added, after he had looked in every place where so large an article could find concealment. "i wish they might have left me that; but they didn't, and with it they took my game-bag, powder-flask and shot-pouch. i know that the whole outfit isn't worth any great sum; but i worked hard for it, and somehow i don't like to lose it." "i should say not," exclaimed tom, who would hardly have exhibited greater anger if his fine double-barrel had been carried off by the thieves. "look here, fellows," he added, suddenly, "that grip-sack was found on mr. warren's grounds, and i suppose we ought to hand it over to him, hadn't we? well, then, shall we tell him about the ghost, or shall we skip that?" bob and joe didn't know how to answer this question. they hadn't thought of it before. chapter xxv. what the grip-sack contained. "and look here, fellows," said tom, again, "if we forget to tell about the ghost, how shall we account for the extraordinary interest we have taken in the parties who live in the gorge? answer me that, if you can." "the manly way is the best way," observed joe. tom and bob knew that as well as joe did. they were quite willing to tell mr. warren, when they gave the valise into his keeping, that the events of the day (all except the robbery of joe's cabin, of course) had been brought about by their fondness for practical joking, but they could not make up their minds to do it, because they did not know how joe would feel about it. if silas and dan were their father and brother, they wouldn't care to have every one in the country for miles around know what fools they had made of themselves over the letter which the former found in his wood-pile. "it isn't my fault that father and dan believed the story that letter told them," continued the young game-warden, "and i don't see that i am under any obligation to keep their secret from my employer. i shall not ask him to keep it still, although i shall expect him to do so; but if the robbers are captured, as i hope they will be, the whole thing will come to light just as soon as the lawyers get hold of it." "have you any idea where the things in this grip-sack came from?" said bob, looking in at the door. "have you heard of a heavy robbery being committed in these parts lately? seen any account of it in the papers, tom?" "no," replied the latter. "you have kept me so busy since you came up here that i haven't had a chance to look at a newspaper." "neither have i," said joe, with a smile; "not because i have been too busy, but for the reason that we can't afford to take one. i have no show whatever to keep posted in matters that happen outside the summerdale hills." "well, if you don't keep posted this winter, it will be your own fault," said tom, banging the table with a package of illustrated papers which he had picked up from the floor. "bob and i look to uncle hallet to keep us supplied with reading matter, and you are welcome to anything he gives us." "thank you," said joe. "i have the promise of all the books i want from mr. warren's library, and i should judge by the looks of that package that he intends to provide me with papers, also. have you seen anything in the shape of grub, tom?" "nary thing," was the answer. "have much of a supply?" "enough to last a week, i should think." "it isn't here now," said tom, looking around. "it has gone off to keep company with the shot-gun, most likely." "i am afraid it has, and that i shall be obliged to pack up a fresh supply on my back." "coming up here again to-night?" asked tom. "of course i am," exclaimed joe, who seemed surprised at the question. "i belong here, don't i? are you not coming back?" "certainly. but there are two of us, and only one of you; and, besides, you have no watch-dog to warn you of--oh, you needn't laugh! i know that bugle acted the part of a coward to-day, but he is a good watch-dog for all that. he will be sure to awaken us if any one comes prowling around our cabin, and that is all we ask of him. there sir, your cot is all right again." "it's a wonder to me that they didn't steal my blankets," said joe. "but, after all, they've got a pretty good supply, and probably they don't want any more to carry about the country with them, when they find themselves obliged to break up housekeeping in the gulf, and strike for new quarters. now, i think we might as well go on to mr. warren's. i haven't missed anything yet except my provisions and shooting rig." bob caught up the valise, joe fastened the door by replacing the staple that had been pulled out of it, and the three boys struck through the evergreens toward the cow-path before spoken of, which ran from silas morgan's wood-pile to mr. warren's barn. they were still much excited, and showed it plainly in their actions and speech. although they had no reason to believe that the robbers were anywhere near them, they did not forget to stop and listen now and then, and look along the path behind; and if a squirrel jumped from one tree to another, or the wind caused a sudden rustling among the neighboring bushes, they were prompt to drop their guns into the hollow of their arms and face in the direction from which the sound came. "i declare i am as nervous as any old woman," said bob, at length. "i act and feel as if i had been frightened half out of my wits, and yet i haven't seen a single thing." "but you heard the robbers coming down the path, didn't you? and you know that they would be only too glad to have revenge on the parties who took their ill-gotten gains away from them," said joe. "now that i think of it, what right had we to touch this grip-sack?" "we took it 'on general principles,' as the policemen say when they arrest a person against whom they have no evidence, but who they think is getting ready to do something he ought not," was bob's answer. "if those men came honestly by the things that are in that valise, we are liable to get ourselves into a pretty pickle for laying hands on it; but i'll bet you anything you please that they'll not come down to mr. warren's house after their property. 'cause why, they haven't a shadow of a right to it." when the boys came within sight of the barn, they left the cow-path, crawled through a pair of bars, and turned into the wide carriage-way that ran around the house and past the front door. their vigorous pull at the bell brought out mr. warren himself. "what are you doing here?" he asked, trying to look surprised and to bring a frown to his jolly, good-natured face. "is this what you young gentlemen are paid for--to run about the country, while the market-shooters slip up to those wood-lots and shoot all the birds?" "if market-shooters were the only things we had to look out for, we'd have a fine time this winter," replied bob, as the gentleman shook hands with him. "do you see this grip-sack? well, there's a tale hanging to it." mr. warren said he couldn't see any, and asked the boys to come in. "that's because the tale is in our heads," replied bob, seating himself in the chair that was pointed out to him. "will you be kind enough to dump the things out of this valise and tell us what you think of them. "what's in it?" inquired mr. warren, who looked puzzled. bob, by way of response, waved his hand toward tom, who said, in answer to the gentleman's inquiring glance: "i didn't have time to make a very thorough examination of its contents, for the robbers didn't stay away long enough; but--" "the robbers!" exclaimed mr. warren. "yes; the men who are camping in the gorge. but i can't make you understand it, unless i go at it right," said tom, who then went on to tell his story, to which mr. warren listened with the closest attention. when tom ceased speaking, he said: "and so you knew that there was something in the gorge before you took possession of your cabin, did you? well, your uncle hallet suspected it." "i don't know what right he had to suspect anything," said tom. "we never told him of our experience in the gorge." "i know you didn't, and the reason was because you were afraid he would laugh at you. but he knew very well that you were keeping something from him. when the idea of playing game-wardens first took hold of you, you were very enthusiastic over it; but when you returned from your trip down the gorge, and learned that mr. emerson had given bob permission to stay in the woods with you during the winter, you didn't dance about and go into ecstasies, as you ought to have done. that's why your uncle suspects something; but, i declare, he didn't look for anything like this," exclaimed mr. warren, gazing in surprise at the contents of the valise, which he had turned out upon the carpet. "you have done a good piece of detective work, for these things were stolen, beyond a doubt, and if they came from the place i think they did, you are entitled to a reward of ten thousand dollars." "great scott!" exclaimed tom and bob, while joe morgan fairly gasped for breath, and his mind suddenly became so confused that he could not calculate how much his share of that reward would amount to. but he had a dim idea that it would be something over three thousand dollars; and wouldn't that place his mother above want for a good many years to come? the young game-warden never once thought of himself, until his father's scowling visage and dan's arose before his mental vision, and then he wondered what tactics they would resort to, and what new system of persecution they would adopt, in order to squeeze the last cent of those three thousand dollars out of him. while he was thinking about it, he sat down on the floor beside tom and bob, who were kneeling in front of mr. warren. when the latter laid one of the watches aside, with the remark that it was a valuable timepiece, and no doubt the rightful owner would be glad to get it back, bob picked it up and opened it. an inscription on the inside of the back part of the case caught his eye, and he read it aloud as follows: "geo. y. seely, esq. with the regards of his grateful friend, joel burnett." "what's that?" cried mr. warren. "read that again, please." bob complied, and then handed over the watch, so that joe's employer could read it for himself. "i know both those men," said the latter, at length. "i went to school with them in the old academy at bellville, and so did your father and uncle," nodding at tom and bob. "seely helped burnett out of a tight place, when his business was about to go to ruin, and burnett gave him this watch to show his gratitude." "then those things must have some from hammondsport," exclaimed tom. "say, bob, don't you remember reading an account of the disappearance of a lot of securities from the county treasurer's office in hammondsport, on the same night that several burglaries were committed there?" "i believe i do," replied bob, after thinking a moment. "if my memory serves me, the treasurer himself was suspected of having a hand in it--that is, in the loss of the bonds; but they couldn't prove anything against him." "of course, they couldn't," said mr. warren, indignantly. "the missing papers are right here. i never did believe in his guilt, for i have known him for years, and i never saw the least thing wrong with him. he is under a cloud now, but it will break away as soon as your exploit becomes known through the country. you have rendered him a most important service, if you did but know it." "i am glad that we have been of some use in the world," said bob. "well, that was what you were put here for, wasn't it? how much do you think these things are worth?" said mr. warren, as he put the various packages back into the valise. the boys couldn't tell; but they remembered now that the thieves had taken a good deal of property out of hammondsport on the night of their raid, and tom and bob thought that perhaps they had secured as much as forty or fifty thousand dollars' worth. "you boys don't know much," replied mr. warren. "that valise, just as it stands, couldn't be bought for a cent less than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. the bonds and securities are worth a pile of money, i tell you; and there must be two or three thousands in greenbacks in there, to say nothing of the watches. boys, you have done something to be proud of; and it's a lucky thing for tom and bob that they did not try to find out where the howls that frightened them came from. the robbers were at home then, and if they had not succeeded in driving you away, they would have shot you down without ceremony." "then we had a perfect right to take that grip-sack, didn't we, mr. warren?" said joe, whose mind was not quite easy on that score. "i should say you had," replied mr. warren, with a laugh. "you have made yourselves wealthy, too, for you are fairly entitled to the reward." "well, what are we going to do about arresting those thieves?" said tom. when all the packages had been put back into the valise, he and his two companions had got upon their feet and shouldered their guns, supposing, of course, that mr. warren would bestir himself as if he meant to do something; but, instead of that, he settled back into his chair and put his hands into his pockets. chapter xxvi. mr. hallet hears the news. "what are you going to do about it?" repeated tom, who was impatient to begin operations at once. "the robbers have by this time discovered that their ill-gotten gains have slipped through their fingers, and of course they are not going to stay there in the gulf till the sheriff comes and gobbles them up. while we are idling here, they may be taking themselves safe off." "they may, and then again they may not," said mr. warren. "if they are at all acquainted with these hills--and if they are not, i don't see why they came here in the first place--they must know that there's not another spot in the whole country, of the same size, that affords so many excellent hiding-places. but we'll talk about them by-and-by. joe is the fellow i am thinking about just now." the young game-warden looked his surprise, but did not speak. "yes," continued mr. warren, "somehow i don't like to think about the visit they made to his cabin while you boys were in the gorge. did they take any of your things, tom?" that was the first time it had ever occurred to tom and his friend that the robbers might have given their own house an overhauling, and that possibly joe morgan was not the only one who had suffered at their hands. they looked blankly at each other, and at last bob managed to say that they had not been near their cabin since they left it in joe's company, early in the morning. "then perhaps it would be worth while for you to go up there and look into things," said mr. warren, "while i go down and talk to hallet. it is possible that we shall decide to take this valise to hammondsport before i come back. i am sure i don't want to keep it in the house over night, for if those robbers should by any means get on the track of it, they wouldn't be at all backward about coming here after it." "i don't see how they could get on the track of it," joe remarked. "did it ever occur to you that they might have followed you at a distance when you came down from the mountain?" inquired mr. warren. yes, the boys had thought of that, and it had kept them on nettles. but they were never off their guard, held their guns ready for instant use, and faced about whenever they head the slightest sound. if the men were on their trail, why did they not rush up and grab the valise? "because they did not care to face the bullets and bird-shot that were in those guns--that's the reason," answered mr. warren. "they will not do anything openly; i am not at all afraid of that. but i _am_ afraid that they will be full of life and action when night comes. perhaps, after all, you boys had better bring your things down and stay at home, until the sheriff has had opportunity to take those fellows into custody. joe, i give you an order to that effect." "i don't much like the idea of deserting my post on account of imaginary dangers," replied joe. "that's the idea; neither do i!" exclaimed tom. "it's my opinion that your uncle hallet will be quite positive on that point," said mr. warren, who laughed heartily when he saw the expression of disappointment and disgust that overspread the faces of the young game-wardens. "if he is, i'll kick, i bet you!" declared tom. "and much good will that do you. now, tom, be a good boy, and do a little errand for me. go out to the barn and tell fred to hitch the blacks to the canopy top. then we'll all ride down to uncle hallet's and see what he thinks of this morning's work." depositing his double barrel in one corner of the hall, tom hastened out to comply with this request, and mr. warren addressed himself to bob and joe. "this beats anything i ever heard of," said he. "who would have imagined that your love of mischief was destined to bring rogues to justice, clear an honest man's reputation, and make you rich into the bargain? joseph, i am sorry you lost your gun; but you shall not go hungry because they carried off your provisions." "the gun wasn't worth much," was joe's reply, "and perhaps i haven't lost it yet. i shall live in hopes of having it returned to me when those men are arrested. do you really think i had better stop at home?" "of nights? yes, i do." "i am not at all afraid," began joe. "i haven't so much as hinted that you were," interrupted his employer, "but i can't see the use of your putting yourself in the way of danger for nothing. if there was any real need that you should stay up there, the case would be different. my object, and hallet's, in building those cabins, was to provide comfortable quarters for our wardens, so that they would not have to wade through the deep snow in going to and from their work. if you will spend the day in walking around the woods and looking out for market-shooters, it is all i shall ask of you, until those robbers have been shut up. even after that you may have trouble, for you have got brierly down on you." "i don't see why brierly should be down on him," said bob. "by turning him back, joe helped him get twenty-five dollars for nothing." "i am well enough acquainted with him to know that he will never forgive joe for threatening to report him," said mr. warren. "the first good chance he gets, he will be even with him for that." while they were talking in this way, tom hallet came bounding up the steps, and a few minutes later the canopy top was driven up to the door. the boys got in, in obedience to a sign from mr. warren; but one of them, at least would have objected, if he had thought that he could gain anything by it. that one was joe morgan, who scarcely knew whether he stood on his head or his feet. mr. warren's confident assertions regarding the value of the property which he and his two friends had found in the robbers' hiding place had turned him completely upside down--at least, that was what he told himself. his share of the ten thousand dollars, if he ever got it (and his employer did not seem to have any misgivings on that point), would make a great change in his circumstances. it would put it in his power to obtain the schooling he wanted, and give his mother the good long rest of which everybody, except silas and dan, could see that she stood so much in need. "but won't they be hopping mad when they hear of it?" joe asked himself, over and over again. "and what would they have done with the things that are in that valise, if they had found them? the money they could have spent, of course; but they would not dare wear the watches and jewelry, and the papers they would have destroyed, and with them their only chance of putting in a claim for the reward. as things have turned out, mother will receive the most benefit from this morning's work, unless it be the county treasurer, who was unjustly accused of crookedness. he can thank bob and tom for that, and if i ever see him, i shall take pains to tell him so. if they had not played that joke on father and dan, he might have remained under a cloud all his life." the young game-warden was so fully occupied with these thoughts that he did not know what was going on around him, until bob emerson seized him by the arm and shook him out of his reverie. "isn't that so?" he demanded. "certainly; it's all true," replied joe. "it was a nice place, wasn't it?" continued bob. "splendid," said joe, who had no idea what particular place bob was referring to. but the latter did not notice his abstraction. he and tom were telling mr. warren what a nice camp the robbers had made for themselves under the bluff, and dilating upon the amount of work they must have done in making so good a path through those dense thickets. "in front of the cabin--that's the way we always speak of it, for it wasn't really a cave, you know--there was a cleared half-circle that was fully as large as your parlor," said bob. "in this circle we saw a few battered cooking utensils, the smoking ashes of a camp-fire, and the ghost that frightened dan morgan so badly that he dared not carry the secret to bed with him. i said from the first that it was a man and not an animal that yelled at us when tom and i came down that gorge day before yesterday, and i finally succeeded in making tom think so, too; but he insisted that it wasn't an outlaw, but some one who took it into his head to play a trick on us, just for the fun of seeing us run. not until joe told us his story, and gave us his ideas regarding matters and things, did we know just what we would have to face if we went into that gorge." "you say the ghost seemed to grow in height while dan looked at it," observed mr. warren. "did dan's fears make him say that, or was it a part of the trick?" "of course i am not positive on that point," was bob's reply, "but i think it was a part of the trick. i gave but one hasty glance at the dummy, but i took note of the fact that it was rigged on a very long pole, and it would have been easy for the man who was managing it to raise it higher and higher above the bushes, if he wanted to do it. i also noticed that the face was made of a stuffed pillow-case, which had been blackened with a piece of coal to show where the eyes, nose and mouth ought to be." "what do you think suggested to them the idea of making use of a dummy to frighten folks away from their hiding-place?" "i don't know, unless it was the success that attended their efforts to keep tom and me from going there," answered bob. but the sequel proved that, although he had guessed pretty closely on some things, he had shot wide of the mark when he guessed at this one. "as good luck would have it, you went into the gorge while the robbers were absent on a plundering expedition," said mr. warren. "but suppose you had found them at home, and ready to receive you--what then?" "but we didn't, you see!" exclaimed tom, triumphantly. "we had the camp all to ourselves." "i must say that you are a reckless lot," declared mr. warren, "and it would be serving you just right if uncle hallet should order you to be ready to start for school when the next term begins." bob looked blank, but tom hastened to quiet his fears by saying: "he will never think of such a thing. he is a firm friend of mr. shippen," (that was the name of the county official who was suspected of making way with the bonds and other valuable documents that had been placed in his hands for safe keeping), "and when uncle hallet knows that we can clear him, he will be so delighted that he won't think of scolding us. there he is now. he has been out to get some flowers for his library table." mr. hallet was surprised to see his neighbor drive into his yard with the three game-wardens, who ought to have been far away on the mountain attending to business, and almost overwhelmed with amazement when he heard the story they told him while seated on the porch. when mr. warren showed him the recovered securities, at the same time remarking that their mutual friend shippen would be cleared of all suspicion the moment those papers were produced in hammondsport, uncle hallet went into the hall after his hat and duster, declaring that it was a matter of the gravest importance, and must be attended to at once. then he added something that gave his nephew the opportunity to "kick." "i am going over to the county-seat with mr. warren, and you two boys had better stay here until i return," was what he said. "now, just look here--" began tom. "i know all about it," interrupted his uncle, turning his head on one side and waving his hands up and down in the air, "and i am in too great a hurry to listen to any argument. joe morgan has seen one white face looking at him through his window, and if you stay up there to-night you will see two; but they will be white with anger, and not with fear. you have got yourselves in a box by your prying and meddling," added uncle hallet, who was delighted with the exploit the boys had performed and proud of their pluck, "and i want you to keep away from those hills after dark, i tell you." "well," said tom, with a long-drawn sigh, "i suppose i shall have to submit." "i think i would, if i were in your place," said mr. warren. and as he spoke he brought so comical a look to his face that every one on the porch broke out in a hearty laugh. chapter xxvii. joe's plans. when they had had their laugh out, mr. warren said to uncle hallet: "don't you think it would be a good plan for the boys to bring their outfit to a place of safety until the sheriff has had time to go up there and take care of those robbers? if they take it into their heads to burn the cabins, we don't want them to burn everything there is in them." "of course not," assented mr. hallet. "tom, tell hawley to hitch up and move you down at once--you and joe. mind, now, i want him to go with you." "we don't need him," protested tom. "we can take care of ourselves." uncle hallet did not think it necessary to discuss this point. he had given his orders, and he knew that they would be strictly obeyed. he stepped into mr. warren's wagon, and the latter drove out of the yard, leaving the boys to themselves. "he didn't say that we couldn't go back again as soon as the robbers have been caught, did he?" observed bob, whose fears on that score were now set at rest. "it's going to be a bother to walk up there and back every day, when we might just as well remain in our cabins, but it seems that we've got to do it." tom replied that it certainly looked that way; adding, that it would be of no use for them to "kick," because he knew by the expression that was on uncle hallet's face when he laid down the law to them, that he meant every word he said. they went out to the barn, and found hawley, the hostler, gardener, and man-of-all-work, who could hardly believe the story they told him while he was hitching up; and it needed the sight of mr. warren's blacks, stepping out for hammondsport at their best pace, and an examination of the broken fastenings of joe's cabin, to convince him that the boys had not dreamed it all, and that there had really been something going on up there on the mountain. "i wouldn't sleep in one of these shanties as long as those robbers are at liberty for twice fifteen dollars a month, and i think uncle hallet did just right in telling you to keep away from here after dark," said hawley. and he was in such haste to get the things into his wagon and start for home, that the boys were surprised, and wondered if he would be of any use to them if they got into any trouble. "there," said tom, at length; "joe's cabin is as empty as it was two days ago. now, let us go over to our own domicile, and see how things look there. we can move faster than you can, hawley, so we will go on ahead." "well, i guess you'd better not," was the man's reply. "i judged from what you said that it was your uncle's wish that i should keep an eye on you. and how am i going to do it if you don't stay with me?" "we are in a great hurry to find out whether or not our house was robbed at the same time that joe's was," replied bob, "and we can look out for ourselves. come on boys!" "he acts as if he were afraid to be left alone," whispered joe morgan. "and i believe he is," answered bob. "events may prove that we are in more danger up here than we think for." bob didn't know how close he shot to the mark when he uttered these careless words, but he found it out afterwards. paying no heed to hawley's remonstrances, the boys hastened on in advance of him, and in due time came within sight of tom's cabin. nothing there had been disturbed. if the robbers knew of its existence, they probably did not think it safe to go there, because it was so far from their hiding-place. "we don't want those things to go," said tom, when hawley drove up and jumped out of his wagon. "we've kept out grub enough for our dinner." "ain't you going back with me?" inquired the man. "what's the use? we would have to come up here again, and we don't care to prance up and down this mountain any more times than we are obliged to. it is understood that we are to stay here during the day. if we didn't, these wood-lots would be black with shooters in less than twenty-four hours." "well, i wouldn't stay, day or night," said hawley. "them birds ain't worth the danger that you fellows put yourselves in every minute you spend here." hawley's anxiety to get through with his work and start for home, was so apparent, that it is a wonder the young game-wardens did not grow frightened and decide to go back with him; but they didn't think of it. they helped him load his wagon, and saw him depart without any misgivings. "now, what arrangements shall we make about dinner?" said bob, as soon as hawley was out of sight. "i say, let's eat it at once, and be done with it; then we will save ourselves the trouble of packing it around through the woods for an hour and a half." the boys were all hungry, and knowing by experience that a loaded haversack or game-bag is an awkward thing to carry through bushes, they agreed to bob's proposition, and set to work immediately. by their united efforts a substantial meal was quickly made ready and as quickly disposed of, and then they bade one another good-by and separated. "joe's got good pluck, i must say," exclaimed tom hallet, turning about to take a last look at mr. warren's warden, who was just disappearing in the gloom of the woods. "i don't think i should be afraid to be left here alone, but i am very well satisfied to have you with me." and joe morgan would have been better satisfied if he, too, had had a companion to talk to, instead of being obliged to roam about by himself. but he was working for money, of which his mother stood in need, and he did his duty, although (candor compels us to say it) he gave the gorge a wide berth. the startling events of the morning and the many warnings he had received were of too recent occurrence to be forgotten, and he didn't care if he never saw that gorge again; still, he would have gone even there if he had seen or heard the least thing to indicate that poachers were at work in that vicinity. he kept a sharp eye on his watch, and when the clumsy-looking hands told him that he had just time enough left to get home before dark, he bent his steps toward the wood-pile, which he always took as his point of departure, carrying a light heart in his breast, and the happy consciousness that he had left nothing undone. "on the contrary, it's the best day's work i ever did," said joe, to himself. "three thousand three hundred dollars, and a little more for my share of the reward! wh-e-w! i do wish i could think of some way to keep it from father's knowledge and dan's; but they are bound to hear of it, and make me all the trouble they can concerning it, and i don't know but i might as well face the music to-night as any other time." the future looked as bright to the young game-warden as it did to silas morgan the first time we saw him moving down that road. but there was this difference between the two: joe had something tangible upon which to build his hopes, while his father had nothing but the letter he held in his hand. his mother was the first to greet him when he reached home; indeed, she was the only one of the family there was in sight. she was surprised and startled to see him, but she saw at a glance that there was no cause for alarm. "where's father and dan?" inquired joe, taking the precaution to open the door, which had been closed behind him. he did not want either of the two worthies whose names he had just mentioned to slip up and hear what he had to say to his mother. "i don't know where they are now," was mrs. morgan's answer. "daniel has been sitting there on the bank almost ever since you went away; but your father, would you believe it, joe?--he has been down to the beach to give up the setters that he has had in his keeping so long." "good enough!" exclaimed joe, who was delighted to hear it. "i have been afraid that those dogs would get him into trouble sooner or later, and they would, too, if he had held fast to them much longer. did he find the owner?" "no; but he gave them to the landlord, to be kept until they were called for. i don't know what sort of a story he told regarding them, but he seemed to feel better when he came back." "have you any idea what induced him to take that step?" "i think it was the fright he had." "good enough!" said joe, again. "those hants--for there are two of them--are the best friends we ever had. now, don't say a word, for i want to tell you something before anybody comes to interrupt me. i repeat, they are good friends of ours. they have led father into making restitution of property that he never ought to have had in his hands, and they have been the means of--" before he told what the hants had been the means of doing, joe stepped to the door and looked out. it was pitch dark now, but the light that streamed from the door of the cabin was bright enough to show him that there was no eavesdropper in sight. why didn't he think to go around the corner and look behind the chimney? "they have made us rich, mother," continued joe, stepping to mrs. morgan's side, and speaking in low but distinct tones. "i made three thousand three hundred dollars this morning by doing less than two hours' work. hold on till i get through. i know you are astonished, and so am i; but it's all true. sit down, for i've a long story to tell." the young game-warden, who stood in constant fear of interruption, talked rapidly, but he went into all the details, and, by the time he got through, his mother knew as much about it as he did himself; but she said she was afraid it was too good to be true. "no, it isn't," exclaimed joe. "when tom told our story to mr. hallet's hired man, he declared that we had been asleep and dreamed it all. but it isn't reasonable to suppose that we could all dream the same thing, is it? when other folks begin talking about it, you will find that it is true, every word of it. i wish there was some one here to hold me on the ground," cried joe, jumping from his chair and swinging his arms around his head. "mother, your hard days are all over, and i can go to school, can't i? i am going to study hard this winter, and whenever i get stumped, i'll ask tom and bob to help me out." having worked off a little of his surplus enthusiasm, joe sat down again and talked coolly and sensibly with his mother regarding his prospects for the future. so deeply interested did he become in what he was saying, that he did not hear the very slight rustling behind the cabin that was occasioned by his brother dan, who withdrew his ear from the crack between the boards against which it had been closely pressed, and stole off into the darkness. but dan was there and heard it all; and he pounded his head with both his fists as he walked away. chapter xxviii. capture of bob emerson. although the young game-warden did not see them, silas morgan and his hopeful son dan were both sitting on the river bank, in plain view of the cabin, when he came home. they were both surprised to see him, and dan gave it as his private opinion that one night alone in the woods had effectually taken away all joe's desire to act as mr. warren's game protector during the winter. "and i'm just glad of it," said dan, spitefully. "i hope in my soul that that hant came and looked in at his winder, and howled and screeched at him like he did at us." "well, i hope he didn't," answered silas. "if joe is drove away from there, i don't know what we will do for grub and such when winter comes. i ain't a going up to old man warren's wood-lot to work, i bet you!" "neither be i," said dan. "then where's the money to come from? we can't live without money, you know." "well, joe ain't going to give you none of his'n, 'cause he told me so. he's going to give every cent of it to mam, and you and me can go hungry for all he cares." "no, i don't reckon we'll go hungry. i know when pay-day comes as well as he does; and when i know that he's got the month's wages in his pocket, can't i easy steal it outen your mam's possession after he hands it over to her? didn't think of that, did you?" "well, you won't never steal any money outen mam's pocket, nuther," replied dan. "whenever she wants anything from the store, joe he'll give her an order on old man warren, and mam won't tech none of his earnings. he told me so. you're mighty sharp, pap, but that joe of our'n is one ahead of you this time." dan looked to see his father go into a fearful rage when he said this, but silas did not do anything of the sort. he sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands supporting his head, gazing off into the darkness toward the opposite side of the river. "what do you reckon that stingy joe of our'n has come back here to tell mam?" continued dan. silas was obliged to confess that he didn't know, and followed it up with the suggestion that it might be a good plan for him to creep up and find out. "creep up yourself, if you want to know wusser'n i do," was dan's reply. "can't you see that the door is wide open?" "what of it?" said silas. "can't you creep up behind the chimbly! there's a crack there atween the boards that you've often listened at, 'cause i've seen you. who knows but joe may be telling her something about the money that's in the cave?" dan said it was not likely that joe knew anything about the cave, beyond what he himself had told him; but still his father's words aroused his curiosity, and awakened within him a desire to learn what joe had to say to his mother. he waited a moment or two to bring his courage up to the sticking point, and then threw himself upon his hands and knees and crept away from his father's sight. he was gone about twenty minutes, and when he returned, he acted so much like a crazy boy that silas was really afraid of him. "what's the matter of you?" he demanded, in an angry whisper. "did joe say anything so't you could hear it?" "you're right he did," dan managed to say, at last. "oh, pap, we'll never in this world have another chance like that. we had the best kind of a show to get rich, and we let it slip through our fingers, fools that we was." silas fairly gasped for breath. he stared fixedly at dan, who sat on the bank, rocking himself from side to side; but he was too amazed to speak. "the money was there all the time," dan went on, "and that joe of our'n he went and got it, dog-gone the luck!" "and all along of your telling him about it, you idiot," snarled silas. "if you had kept your mouth shet, that joe of our'n wouldn't never have known that the money was there. i have the best notion in the world to--" "now, can't you wait until i tell you?" exclaimed dan, whose senses came back to him very speedily when he saw that his father was pushing up his sleeves. "it wasn't all along of my telling him, nuther, that joe found out about the cave. tom and bob told him, for they were the ones that writ the letter you took outen your wood-pile." the ferryman's astonishment quickly got the better of his rage, and he listened in a dreamy sort of way to the story that dan had to tell him; but when the latter reached the end of it, and silas found out that he had really been within a few yards of a valise whose contents could not be purchased for less than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and that the white thing that frightened him was not a ghost, after all, but a dummy, managed by a man who might have been disabled by a single charge from his double-barrel--when silas heard this, he was ready to boil over again. the fact that a third of the handsome reward that had been offered for the recovery of the stolen bonds would come into his family did not serve as a balm for his wounded feelings. he wanted the money himself; and the reflection that after coming so near to securing it, he had allowed himself to be frightened away by-"oh, my soul!" groaned silas, jumping to his feet, and striding up and down the bank, with both hands tightly clenched in his hair. "here's me and you, as poor as job's turkey, while that joe of our'n has got more'n twice as much as he oughter have. he's rich, and after this he won't do nothing but loaf around and spend his money, while me and you-now, wait till i tell you! did you ever hear of such amazing mean luck before? toot away!" he cried, shaking both his fists at the opposite bank. "i wouldn't go over after you if i knew i'd get five dollars for it. what's five dollars alongside the ten thousand we might have had if we hadn't been such fools? oh, dannie, why didn't we shoot a little lower?" while silas was talking, the blast of a horn sounded from the other side of the river. it was a notice to the ferryman that there was some one over there who wanted to cross the stream, but silas was in no humor to respond to it. again and again the signal was given, and finally a hail came through the darkness. "hallo, there!" shouted a familiar voice. "is joe morgan at home?" "no, he ain't!" growled dan in reply. "yes, he is!" shouted the owner of that name, who had come out to assist in taking the flat across the river. "is that you, tom hallet?" "yes. have you seen anything of bob?" "not since dinner," was joe's answer. "what's the matter with him?" "we hope there isn't anything the matter with him," shouted tom; "but we begin to think-say, joe, come over, and bring a lantern. i have something to show you." "i don't know how he's going to get over, unless he is able to manage the flat all by himself," said dan, in an undertone. "i won't help him, i bet you." silas was about to say the same, but his curiosity, of which he had considerably more than two men's share, got the better of him. "what do you reckon he wants to show you?" said he, addressing himself to joe; "and what's become of bob?" "i am sure i can't tell," answered joe. "but if you will help me to take the flat over, we will find out all about it. i am sure you will hear something worth listening to if you will lend a hand." "all right; i'm there," said silas, jumping up with alacrity. "but i ain't," said dan, doggedly. "who said anything to you?" demanded his father, almost fiercely. "set where you are if you feel like it. me and joe can get along without none of your help; and furder'n that," he added, in a lower tone, as joe ran to the house to bring a candle and some matches--there being no such thing as a lantern in the ferryman's humble abode--"me and joe will go snucks on his share of the reward, and you shan't see a cent of it. so there, now!" these words were sufficient to infuse a good deal of life and energy into dan. he believed that his father would yet contrive some way to swindle joe out of every dollar that came into his possession, and if he (dan) hoped to get any of it for his own, he must be very careful how he went contrary to his father's wishes. when joe came back with the candle, silas and dan were standing in the flat, all ready to shove off. the young game-warden could not remember when he had carried so heavy a heart across the river as he did on this particular evening. he did not say anything, for he knew that his father and dan could not understand his feelings, but his brain was exceedingly busy. bob emerson had disappeared in some unaccountable way. he knew that much, and somehow joe could not help connecting this circumstance with some words the missing boy had let fall the last time he was in his company. "we may be in more danger while we are up here than we think for," and, "this thing is going to end in something besides fun." these words, which bob had uttered without giving much heed to what he was saying, now seemed to joe to be prophetic of disaster. of course, this reflection made him uneasy, and he exerted himself to get the heavy flat over to the other side with as little delay as possible. so did dan, for a wonder, and the result was, that they made a much quicker passage than they usually did. when the flat came within sight of the bank, silas, who was at the steering-oar, leaned forward and informed joe, in a whisper, that tom was not alone--that his uncle hallet, old man warren, and both their hired men were with him, as well as two strangers whom he didn't remember to have seen before. but a moment later, he added, in tones of excitement: "yes, i have seen 'em, too. they're the sheriff and one of his deputies. well, they can't do nothing to me. ain't it a lucky thing for me, joey, that i give up them setter dogs to-day?" "i am glad you did," replied joe, "but i shall always be sorry that you ever had anything to do with them in the first place." with a few long sweeps of his steering-oar, silas brought the flat broadside to the bank, and joe morgan sprang out. tom hallet was the first one to speak to him. "did i understand you to say that you have not seen bob since we ate dinner together?" said he in a trembling voice. "that is just what i said," answered joe, whose worst fears were now fully confirmed. "you and he went off together, and i haven't seen him since. where is he?" "i wish i knew," replied tom. "we felt sorry for you, when we saw you going away alone; but you got back safe and sound, while we didn't. you see-where's your lantern?" joe replied that he had brought a candle, and proceeded to light it. then bob handed him a slip of paper on which were written the following fateful words: "if you will bring back the property you stole from us, and put it where you found it, we will give up our prisoner. if you don't, or if you attempt to play tricks upon us, you will never see him again." this portion of the note was written in a strange hand, but under it was a postscript which tom declared had been penned by nobody but bob emerson. it ran thus: "they've got me, tom, and that's all there is about it. for goodness sake, bring back that valise! and be quick about it, for they threaten to do all sorts of dreadful things to me, if their demands are not complied with in less than twenty-four hours." joe handed back the piece of paper, and looked at tom without speaking. chapter xxix. the hunt for the robbers. "bob was right when he declared that this thing was destined to end in something besides fun, wasn't he?" observed tom, giving utterance to the very thoughts that were passing through joe morgan's mind. "but i don't believe he ever dreamed that anything like this was going to happen." "do you think the robbers have got hold of him?" faltered joe, who knew that tom expected him to say something. "i know it?" was the answer. "where were you when they captured him?" "i don't know. the way it happened was this: after you left us we decided to make the entire round of uncle's wood-lot, and as we couldn't do it if we stayed together, we separated, and that was the last i saw of bob emerson. before parting we agreed to meet at the cabin at six o'clock, sharp. i was there at the minute, but bob wasn't, and while i was waiting for him, i happened to see this notice, which was fastened to the door of the shanty with a wooden pin. that's all there is of it." "why don't you go down to the gorge?" "we went there the first thing, and we've been everywhere else that we could think of," replied tom. "they left their camp in a great hurry; but where they went is a mystery. but we will have them before many hours have passed away," added tom, confidently. "these officers have come up from hammondsport on purpose to arrest them, and they are not going back without them. we are taking them down to the beach now, to raise a "hue and cry" among the guides there, and by daylight to-morrow morning the mountains will be full of men. there is an additional reward offered for the arrest of the thieves, you know, and it is big enough to stimulate everybody to extra exertion." while tom and joe were talking in this way, the rest of the party had gathered about silas, whom they were trying to induce to join in the general hunt that was to be made on the following day. dan, being left to himself, listened with one ear to what tom was saying to his brother, and with the other tried to keep track of the conversation that was going on in his father's neighborhood. when he heard tom say that a reward had been offered for the apprehension of the robbers, as well as for the recovery of the property they had stolen, he stepped closer to him, and whispered: "do you know how much it is?" "five thousand dollars for both of them, or half of it for one," answered tom. "now, dan, there's a chance for you to make yourself rich." "but that there hant--" began dan. "is no hant at all," replied tom. "why, man alive, there are no such things, and i thought everybody knew it. i took a good look at this one while we were up there to-night, and found that it was nothing but a long pole with a stuffed pillow-case on one end of it for a head, and a short cross-piece for the shoulders. the man who managed it and made it act as if it were about to spring at you was behind the bushes out of sight. he and his companion did the yelling, and you never hurt either one of them, although your four charges of shot tore the pillow-case all to pieces." "yes," replied dan, "pap 'lowed that we'd oughter fired into the bresh." "exactly. if you had showed a little more pluck, you and your father might have had ten thousand dollars to divide between you. as it turned out, joe is entitled to only a third of it, but he'll get that, sure." "dog-gone such luck!" exclaimed dan, in a tone of deep disgust. "well, it was a windfall to your family, anyway," observed tom, "and you can add more to it to-morrow, if you're smart." "and what will poor bob be doing while we are hunting for him?" inquired joe. "he seems to be frightened, for he wants you to give up the valise, and be quick about it." "oh, nonsense!" exclaimed tom; "you don't know bob emerson as well as i do. he wrote that postscript, of course, and so would you if you had been in his place. but bob would be the maddest boy you ever saw if we should pay the least attention to it." at this moment uncle hallet and mr. warren turned toward the place where the boys were standing, the former saying, with some impatience in his tones: "well, silas, if you are afraid to come you can stay at home; but i would have a little more pluck if i were in your place. you'll come, won't you, joe, and help us hunt down those villains who have kidnapped bob emerson?" "indeed i will," answered joe, promptly. "i knew that would be your reply," continued mr. hallet. "now, if you will bring the flat to the bank and drop the apron, we'll get our team aboard and go on to the beach." the ferryman and his boys went to work with a will, and when the flat reached the other side of the river, the passengers got into their wagon and drove toward the beach, after telling silas that they would go home by way of the bridge, and he need not stay up to ferry them back; while joe hurried off to tell his mother what he had learned during his short interview with tom hallet. "it's the greatest outrage i ever heard of," said he, indignantly; "but they needn't think they are going to make anything by it. don't i wish i might be lucky enough to gobble at least one of those robbers!" "oh, joseph, i don't know whether i want you to go up there or not," said his mother, growing frightened again. "i must!" replied joe, decidedly. "i have promised to be at tom's cabin to-morrow morning at daylight, and that settles it. i wonder if father and dan will go?" that was the very question that silas and his worthy son were propounding to each other as they sat side by side on the river's bank. the terrible fright they had sustained on the day they went after the money was still fresh in their minds; but then, there was the reward, which was a sure thing this time, provided they could be fortunate enough to capture the robbers. they were both willing, and even eager, to join in the "hue-and-cry" that was to be raised against the thieves, provided they could do it in their own way; and the plans they were revolving in their minds, but of which they did not speak, were the same in every particular. for example, dan wanted his father to stay at home, and after he got into the mountains, he wanted nobody but joe for company. the latter had showed himself to be bold as well as lucky, and if they two should happen to catch one of the robbers, dan would not feel that he was under the slightest obligation to share the reward with his brother, because joe had more than three thousand dollars of his own already. but if his father went with him, he would lay claim to half the money, and he would be likely to get it, too, for he had the right to take every cent dan made. this was the way dan looked at the matter; and it was the very way his father looked at it. the result was, that although they spent an hour or more in looking it over, they went to bed without deciding whether they would go or not. nevertheless, they had well-defined plans in their heads, and each one resolved that he would carry them out regardless of the wishes of the other. silas, in order to throw dan off his guard, began operations by saying to his wife, the moment he entered the cabin: "i ain't a-going to jine in the rumpus the sheriff kicks up after them fellers to-morrow. it's mighty comical to me how easy some people can talk to you about putting yourself in the way of getting a charge of bird-shot sent into you, while they keep outen range themselves. i ain't got no call to resk my life a finding of bob emerson, and i shan't do it to please nobody." dan was secretly delighted to see his father work himself into a rage over the supposition that somebody would be pleased to see him go in the way of danger. "if he will only stick to that, i'm all right," said he, to himself. "pap sleeps sounder'n a dozen men oughter, and if joe don't call him in the morning, you can bet your bottom dollar _i_ won't." knowing his failing in this particular, silas made the mental resolution that he would not go to sleep at all. the young game-warden, who was one of those lucky fellows who can wake at any hour they please, could be relied on to make an early start, and silas told himself that he would lie perfectly still and wide awake until breakfast was ready, when he would jump up, eat his full share of the bacon and potatoes, and set out for the mountain when joe did. but even while he was thinking about it, he went off into a deep slumber. he did not awake when joe got up, and neither did the rattling of the dishes nor the savory odors of the bacon and coffee arouse him to a consciousness of what was going on in the cabin. having heard him say that he did not intend to join the sheriff's posse, mrs. morgan and joe did not think it worth while to disturb him, and dan would not do anything to interfere with his own plans, which thus far were working as smoothly as he could have desired. "but i've got a sneaking idee that there'll be trouble in this here house when pap does wake up, and finds me and joe gone," thought dan. "no matter. i won't be here to listen to his r'aring and pitching, so he can go on all he wants to. and if me and joe should catch one of them robbers--whoop-pee! then i'll have the reward all to myself; 'cause i ain't a going to put myself in the way of getting shot at, and then go snucks with a feller that's got more'n three thousand dollars a'ready. i'll see him furder first." the hours dragged along all too slowly for the tired, patient woman who sat in the open door with her sewing in her lap, and her tear-dimmed eyes fastened upon the hills among which the only member of the family who cared for her, or who tried in any way to smooth her pathway and make her burdens easier to bear, might at that very moment be rushing to his destruction. she wished he might have stayed at home and let some one else go in his place; but joe was loyal to his friend, and mrs. morgan had not tried to turn him from his purpose. she wished, too, that the weary day was over, so that the young game-warden could come back and say something comforting to her. just then somebody did say something, but the voice belonged to one who was not often guilty of saying or doing anything to comfort her. "na-r-r-r!" came from a distant corner of the cabin, and silas morgan threw off the blankets and started up in bed, to find that it was broad daylight, that breakfast had been cooked and eaten, and that the boy he had hoped to outwit was gone. he saw it all at a glance, but he wanted an explanation. "where be they?" he demanded. "they have been gone almost three hours," was the meek response. "and you let 'em go without saying a word to me?" roared the angry and disappointed man. "why, father, you told me last night that you didn't intend to go," said his wife. "and you didn't have any better sense than to believe it!" shouted silas. "did they go off together? well, old woman, you have cooked your goose this time--you have for a fact. i wanted to go with joe myself, and leave dan to home, 'cause he ain't no account when there's any shooting and such going on. he's too much of a coward to stand fire, dan is. i had kind o' made it up in my mind that me and joe would captur' one, and mebbe both, of them bugglars, and i kalkerlated to give you the most of my share of the money; but now you won't get none, and it serves you just right for letting me sleep when you oughter called me up. but i'll tell you one thing for a fact--the three thousand that joe has made already, and the hundred and twenty he's going to earn this winter, is mine; likewise all the reward him and dan get to-day, if they get any." so saying, silas shouldered his double-barrel and left the cabin, paying no sort of attention to his wife's entreaties that before he set out for the mountain he would take a cup of coffee and a bite of the breakfast she had kept warm for him. chapter xxx. brierly's squad captures a robber. when morgan arose from his "shake-down" on the morning of this particular day, he was promptly joined by his brother dan, whose actions told him as plainly as words that he had reasons of his own for not wishing to disturb his father's slumbers. dan was generally the last one of the family to bestir himself in the morning, and even after he got upon his feet, it took him a good while to wake up; but it was not so in this instance. his senses came to him the moment he opened his eyes, and, for a wonder, he brought in the wood, and lent a hand at setting the table. he moved about the room with noiseless footsteps, spoke in scarcely audible whispers, and cast frequent and anxious glances toward his father's couch. "well, sir, we done it, didn't we?" said he, when breakfast had been eaten and he and joe were hurrying along the road toward the place of meeting. "did what?" inquired his brother. "got away without waking pap up," said dan, who was in high glee. "i knew he said last night that he didn't mean to go, but i wasn't such a fool as to believe it. he wanted to go with you; and then do you know what would have happened if you and him had captured one of them bugglars? well, sir, he would have laid claim to the whole of the reward, and never give you a cent of it. i'm onto his little games. and he's going to make you hand over them three thousand dollars you made yesterday. he's a mighty mean, stingy feller, pap is, and you want to watch out for him." dan talked to keep up his courage, which began to ooze out of the ends of his fingers when he found himself drawing near to the gorge; but joe was so deeply engrossed with his own thoughts that he did not hear a dozen words of it. the young game-warden was not building air-castles. he was by no means as confident as dan appeared to be, that it would be his luck to assist in the capture of one of the robbers, and, if the truth must be told, he hoped that that dangerous duty would fall to somebody else. he had more money now than he had ever expected to possess, and his brains were busy with plans for keeping it out of his father's reach. while he was turning them over in his mind, they came within sight of his cabin. dan insisted on seeing the inside of it, so joe pulled out the loosened staple, and threw open the door. "ain't you mighty glad that you wasn't here when them robbers come up and stole your grub and things?" said he, after he had taken a look around. "say, joey, you'll keep old man warren's rifle, to take the place of the scatter-gun you lost, won't you?" "of course not," was joe's indignant reply. "why, dan, this rifle is worth forty or fifty dollars!" "so much the better," answered dan, who evidently thought that a fair exchange with mr. warren could not by any means be looked upon in the light of a robbery. "you lost your gun while you was working for him, and through no fault of your'n, and i say he'd oughter give you another. them's my sentiments." "well, they are not mine," said joe, closing the door, and replacing the staple. "i wouldn't have the face to look at a man again if i should ever mention the matter to him." dan did not know how to combat these sentiments, which were so widely at variance with his own, and as there was no longer any necessity that he should talk to keep his courage up, seeing that there was a large number of officers and guides almost within the sound of their voices, he said nothing. a quarter of an hour's walk brought them to tom's cabin, where they found a score or more of men, who were leaning on their rifles, or lounging around on the ground in various attitudes. these, they afterward learned, comprised but a small portion of the crowd that had assembled there that morning in obedience to the summons of the sheriff and his deputy, the others having gone off in squads of four men each to begin the search. mr. warren told joe that tom hallet was so impatient to be doing something for his friend, that he had left with the first squad that went out. he said, also, that a good many more men had gone, or were going, out from bellville and hammondsport; so the capture of the robbers was a foregone conclusion. "by dividing into small parties we shall be able to give all the ravines and every piece of woods in the country, for miles around, a thorough overhauling before night," added mr. warren, "and we thought that four men were enough for each squad. they won't care to have the reward divided among too many, you know. i am going with the sheriff, and shall be glad to have you make one of our party." "and i shall be glad to do it," replied joe. as mr. warren walked away to speak to the officer, dan pulled his brother's coat-sleeve, and whispered: "he didn't say that he'd be glad to have me make one of his party, did he? well, i'm going, all the same. say, joey, if our squad gobbles both them bugglars, how much'll that be for each of us?" "twelve hundred and fifty dollars," was the reply. "well, now, sposen our squad catches one of 'em, and some other squad away off somewheres else catches t'other one--how much will that be for each feller?" "a little over three hundred dollars." "is that all?" said dan. and, to have heard him speak, you would have thought that he was in the habit of carrying a good deal more money than that loose in his pockets every day. "and you've got more'n three thousand dollars a coming to you! dog-gone such luck as i do have, any way!" it was probable that dan had more to say on this point. he usually had a good deal to say whenever he fell to talking about his bad luck; but just then mr. warren beckoned to joe, who promptly stepped forward to join his squad, dan keeping close to his heels. "i wish i could think up some plan to get even with old man warren for the way he's acting," thought dan, who was indignant because the gentleman did not show him a little more respect. "i don't reckon he wants me along, but i don't care whether he does or not. i'm here to stay, no odds if there is five men instead of four in the party, and if we catch them bugglars i'll make 'em hand over my share. that'll be--lemme see." after an infinite deal of trouble and much hard thinking, dan arrived at the conclusion that his share of the reward, if any were earned by that squad, would be just one-fifth of five thousand dollars. but joe would come in for a share, also, and then he would have four thousand dollars, while dan would have but one. did anybody ever hear of such luck? joe was ahead, and dan didn't see any way to catch up with him. the sheriff's squad walked far and hunted faithfully all that day. there was no thicket too dense for them to penetrate, and no gorge so dark and gloomy that they were afraid to go down into it; but they saw nothing of the robbers, and neither did they happen to come upon either of the other searching parties. they stopped for lunch on the banks of a trout brook, and the sheriff was filling his pipe for a smoke, when all on a sudden he struck a listening attitude, at the same time enjoining silence upon his companions by a motion of his hand. "that's two," said he, in a low voice. "now wait. that's three. now wait a little longer, and perhaps we shall hear some gratifying news." the others held their breath to listen, and presently, faint and far off, and rendered somewhat indistinct by intervening hills, and by the echoes that mixed themselves up with the sound, they heard three reports of heavily-loaded shotguns. "hurrah for law and order," cried the sheriff. "our work is half done, and some lucky squad will have twenty-five hundred dollars to divide among its members." "we don't get none of it, do we?" whispered dan to his brother. "did we have any hand in making the capture?" asked joe, in reply. "of course, we don't." "dog-gone such luck!" murmured the disappointed dan. "one of the outlaws has come to grief," continued the sheriff, "and that proves that they must have separated. i should much like to know what they did with their prisoner. it seems to me, from where i stand, that they were guilty of an act of folly when they gobbled bob. they ought to have known that by doing a thing of that kind, they would get every able-bodied man in the country after them." the officer and his squad were so anxious to have a hand in completing the work so well begun, that they did not remain long in camp, although they might have passed the rest of the day there for all the good they did. every now and then they stopped to listen, but they never heard any signals to indicate that the other robber had been apprehended. that, however, was no sign that such signals had not been given; for the summerdale hills covered a good deal of territory, and the searching parties were so widely scattered that it would have taken a field-piece to signal to all of them. finally, the sheriff announced, with a good deal of reluctance, that it was time to go home; and it was with equal reluctance that the members of his squad turned their steps towards tom hallet's cabin. it was almost dark when they came in sight of it, but still there was light enough for joe morgan to see that the cabin had been visited during their absence, and that there was a communication of some sort awaiting them. it was fastened to the door, and joe ran ahead of the squad and took it down. then he found that it was not intended for any one in particular, but had been left for the information of everybody who had taken part in the search. "shall i read it, mr. warren?" asked joe, when his employer came up. "it is in tom hallet's own hand." "let us hear it at once," replied mr. warren. and joe read as follows: "good and bad news.--robber no. 1 was captured by brierly's squad at half-past twelve. bob emerson is with me now, and none the worse for his adventure. that's the good news. "nothing has been seen or heard of robber no. 2, who doubtless fled deeper into the hills than any of our searching parties had time to go. the bellville and hammondsport squads say they will try him again to-morrow. that's the bad news." "and it isn't so very bad, either," said the sheriff. "if he gets lost, as i hope he will, we'll have him to-morrow, sure; but if he works his way out of the hills, we shall have to call upon the telegraph to help us. so brierly has made himself wealthy by this day's work. i should think that he could afford to let your blue-headed birds alone, now, mr. warren." "did any living person ever hear of such luck?" muttered dan. "everybody is getting wealthy, 'cepting me." the squad broke up here, mr. warren and two companions turning into the cow-path that led down the mountain by the shortest route, and joe and dan striking for home, where a most astonishing discovery awaited them. chapter xxxi. silas in luck at last. dan morgan did not have as much to say on the way home as he did while he and his brother were passing over that same road in the morning. another one of his air-castles had fallen about his ears, and a portion of the money he had hoped to earn would go into brierly's pocket. one of the robbers had been captured, but the other had taken himself safely off, and that was the end of all his dreams. did anybody ever hear of such luck? it made him very angry to see how light-hearted joe seemed to be. "i reckon you're glad 'cause i ain't got a cent to bless myself with, ain't you?" said he, savagely. "then, what do you keep up such a whistling for? you can afford to be happy, when you know that you can have a pile of money by asking for it; but i ain't a going to be treated this here way no longer." the young game-warden did not pay the least attention to his brother's ravings, because he had something of more importance to think about--his future. he was sadly in need of such training as he could get at the bellville academy, and he had sense enough to know it; and the point he was trying to decide was: should he ask his employer to release him from his contract, so that he could go to school during the winter? or would it be better to make sure of the hundred and twenty dollars he could earn during the next eight months, and look to tom and bob to help him along with his studies? while he was thinking about it, the cabin hove in sight, and at the same time an exclamation from dan called him back to earth again. joe looked up, and saw his father sitting motionless on a chair in front of the cabin. his double-barrel lay upon the ground within easy reach of him, his elbows were resting upon his knees, and his chin was upheld by the palms of his hands. he appeared to be gazing steadily at some object that was hidden from joe's view by the corner of the house. "how do you reckon he feels over the trick we played on him this morning?" said dan, with a grin. "he thinks he's a sharp one, pap does, but he ain't got no business along of me." "if there was any trick played upon him, you did it, and not i," answered joe. "father hasn't worked half as hard as we have, and yet he is just as well--what in the name of wonder is that?" while joe was speaking, he and dan moved around the corner of the house, and then the object at which silas was looking so fixedly was disclosed to view. it was a man who was sitting on a bench beside the door, and who was so closely wrapped up in a clothes-line that he could scarcely stir one of his fingers. [illustration: silas and the bank robber] hearing the sound of their footsteps, the man, whoever he was, slowly turned his head toward the corner of the cabin, whereupon silas shouted out, in a savage voice: "none of that there, i tell you! you can't get away, 'cause you're worth a power of money to me, and i'm bound to hold fast to you till--human natur'!" yelled silas, jumping to his feet, with both barrels of his gun cocked. "oh, it's you, is it? i kinder thought it was t'other robber coming to turn his pardner loose." silas was so completely wrapped up in his own affairs that the boys got close to him before he was aware of their presence, and it is the greatest wonder in the world that he did not shoot one of them in his excitement. he was really alarmed; but when he had taken a good look at the newcomers, in order to make sure of their identity, he laid his gun across the chair, pushed up his sleeves, and shook both his fists at dan. "so you thought you would fool your poor old pap this morning, did you, you little snipe?" he shouted. "well, you see what you made by it, don't you?" "i never tried to make a fool of you," stammered dan, who had a faint idea that he understood the situation. "i never in this wide world!" "hush your noise when i tell you i know better," yelled silas; and one would have thought, by the way he acted and looked, that he was very angry, instead of very much delighted, at the way things had turned out. "here you have been and tramped all over them mountings, and never got a cent for it, while i have made a clean twenty-five hundred dollars, if i counted it up right on my fingers; and i reckon i did, 'cause your mam put in a figger to help me now and then." "why, how did it happen?" exclaimed joe, who, up to this moment, had not been able to do anything but stand still and look astonished. he knew that his father had captured one of the robbers without help from any one, and that was more than fifty other men had been able to do, with all their weary tramping. "the way it happened was just this," said silas, who could not stand in one place for a single moment. "hold on there!" he added, turning fiercely upon his prisoner, who just then moved uneasily upon the bench, as if he were trying to find a softer spot to sit on. "i've got my eyes onto you, and you might as--" "why, father, he can't get away," joe interposed. "you've got him tied up too tight. why don't you let out that rope a little?" "'cause he's worth a pile of money--that's why!" exclaimed silas; "and i won't let the rope out not one inch, nuther. you, joe, keep away from there." "i really wish you would undo some of this rope," said the prisoner, who, like byron's corsair, seemed to be a mild-mannered man. "i have been tied up ever since two o'clock, and am numb all over. i couldn't run a step if i should try." "don't you believe a word of that!" exclaimed silas. "come away from there and let that rope be, i tell you." "say, father," said joe, suddenly, "what are you going to do with your captive? do you intend to sit up and watch him all night long?" "i was just a studying about that when you come up and scared me," replied silas, dropping the butt of his gun to the ground, and leaning heavily upon the muzzle. he never could stand alone for any length of time; he always wanted something to support him. "what do you think i had better do about it? i don't much like to keep him here, 'cause--why just look a here, joey," added silas, moving up to the door, and pointing to some object inside the cabin. "see them tools i took away from him?" the boys stepped to their father's side, and saw lying upon the table, where silas had placed it, a belt containing a brace of heavy revolvers and a murderous-looking knife. "now, them's dangerous," continued silas, "and if this feller's pardner should happen along--" "but he won't happen along," interrupted dan. "brierly's squad gobbled him." the ferryman looked surprised, then disgusted, and finally he turned an inquiring glance upon joe, who said that dan told the truth. "you don't like it, do you?" said the latter to himself. "it sorter hurts you to know that there is them in the world that are just as lucky and smart as you be, don't it? yes, that's what's the matter with pap. he don't want no one else to be as well off as he is." and when dan said that, he hit the nail fairly on the head. "the other robber is not in a condition to attempt a rescue," said joe; "but, all the same, i don't think you ought to keep this man here all night. the sheriff is now at mr. warren's house, and it is your duty to hand the prisoner over to him at once. be careful how you point those guns this way." this last remark was called forth by an action on the part of silas and dan that made joe feel the least bit uncomfortable. while the latter was talking, his hands were busy with the rope; and when the prisoner arose from the bench and stamped his feet to set the blood in circulation again, his excited and watchful guards at once covered his head and joe's with the muzzles of their guns. "turn those weapons the other way," repeated joe, angrily. "you don't think this man is foolish enough to try to run off while his hands are tied, do you? now, father, how did you happen to catch him?" "it was just as easy as falling off a log," replied silas, resuming his seat and resting his double-barrel across his knees. "when you and dan went away this morning, i just naturally shouldered my gun, walked up the road to the foot of the mounting, and set down on a log to wait for game to come a running past me, just the same as if i was watching for deer, you know." this was all true; but there was one thing he did that he forgot to mention. the only "game" silas expected to see was dan morgan, when he returned from the mountain at night, and the ferryman was prepared to give him a warm reception. before he devoted himself to the task of holding down that log by the roadside, he took the trouble to cut a long hickory switch, and to place it beside the log, out of sight. he meant to give dan such a thrashing that he would never play any more tricks upon him. "well, about one o'clock, or a little after, while i was a setting there and waiting for the game to come along, i heared a noise in the brush, and, all on a sudden, out popped this feller. he was running like he'd been sent for, and that's why i suspicioned him. of course i didn't know him from adam, but i asked him would he stop a bit. and he 'lowed he would, when he seed my gun looking him square in the eye. i brung him home, and your mam she passed out the clothes-line, and i tied him up." "where is mother now?" asked joe. "gone off after more sewing, i reckon," replied silas, in a tone which seemed to say that it was a matter that was not worth talking about. "she helped me figger up what i would get for catching him, and then she dug out. i'm worth almost as much as you be now, joey, and that there mean dan, who wouldn't stay by and help me, he ain't got a cent. now, don't you wish you hadn't played that trick on me this morning." "never mind that," interposed joe, who did not care to stand by and listen to an angry altercation which might end in a fight or a foot-race between his father and dan. "if we are going to deliver this man to the sheriff to-night, we had better be moving." "do you reckon the sheriff will hand over the twenty-five hundred when i give up the prisoner?" inquired silas, as the party walked down the bank toward the flat. "of course he won't." "what for won't he?" "because he hasn't got it with him. perhaps it was never put into his hands at all. i haven't received my share yet." "then i reckon i'd best hold fast to him till i'm sure of my money," said silas, reflectively. "i guess i won't take him down to old man warren's to-night." "i guess you will, unless you want to get into trouble with the law," said joe, decidedly. "if you don't give him up of your own free will, the sheriff will take him away from you." silas protested that he couldn't see any sense in such a law as that, but he lent his aid in pushing off the flat. dan, who was almost too angry to breathe, had more than half a mind to stay at home; but his curiosity to hear and see all that was said and done when the prisoner was turned over to the officers of the law impelled him to think better of it. when the flat was shoved off, he jumped in and picked up one of the oars. chapter xxxii. bob emerson's story. we have said that tom hallet was so anxious to help his unlucky friend bob in some way that he joined the very first squad that went out in search of him. the man who had the name of being the leader of it was the sheriff's deputy; but the two stalwart young farmers who belonged to his party were longer of limb than he was, and they pushed ahead at such a rate that the deputy speedily fell to the rear, and stayed there during most of the day. "me and cyrus have come out to win that there reward," said one of the young men, when tom remonstrated with them for leaving the officer so far behind, "and we can't do it by loafing along like that sheriff does. we've got a mortgage to pay off on the farm, and we don't know any easier way to raise the money for it than to capture one of them rogues." but this sanguine young fellow was not the only one who was destined to have his trouble for his pains; and what made his disappointment and his brother's harder to bear, was the reflection that if they had left tom's cabin half an hour earlier than they did, they might have succeeded in earning a portion of the money of which they stood so much in need. they were not more than a quarter of a mile away, when brierly's signal guns announced that one of the robbers had been captured. they ran forward at the top of their speed, hoping to reach the scene of action before the arrest was fairly consummated, but in this they were also disappointed. when they came in sight of the successful party, they found the robber securely bound, and brierly wearing the belt that contained his weapons. "too late, boys!" exclaimed the guide, who was highly elated over his good fortune. "you can't lay claim to any of our money, if that's what brung you up here in such haste." "we don't care for the money," panted tom. "where's bob?" "that's so," said brierly, who had not bestowed a single thought upon the prisoner during the whole forenoon. "where is he? say, feller, what have you done with him?" "i have not seen him for two hours," replied the prisoner. "as soon as we found out that the hills were full of men, we set him at liberty, and i suppose he made the best of his way home. we didn't want to keep him with us, for fear that he would set up a yelp to show where we were hiding." just then the deputy, who had been sitting on a log to recover his breath, managed to inquire: "what have you done with your partners?" "there were only two of us, and the other man has gone off that way," answered the captive, nodding his head toward an indefinite point of the compass. tom hallet had no further interest in the hunt. he stood by and watched the officer as he unbound the prisoner and substituted a pair of handcuffs for the rope with which his arms had been confined, and when brierly's party started off with their captive, tom fell in behind them. he went as straight to his cabin as he could go, and there he found bob emerson, who was rummaging around in the hope of finding something to eat. "i haven't had a bite of anything since last night, and you'd better believe that i am hungry," said bob, after he and tom had greeted each other as though they had been separated for years. "but i am not a bit of a hero. i haven't had an adventure worth the telling." "there's nothing in there," said tom, seeing that his friend was casting longing eyes toward his game-bag. "i didn't take much of a lunch with me, and i was hungry enough to eat it all. can you stand it till we get home?" "i'll have to," replied bob. "by-the-way, did you ever see that before?" as he spoke, he put his hand into his pocket and drew out a soiled and crumpled letter, which looked as though it might have been through the war. it was the same precious document that he and tom had left in silas morgan's wood-pile. "one of the robbers gave it to me last night," continued bob, in reply to his companion's inquiring look. "you will remember that dan morgan lost the letter within a few feet of the log on which he sat when he read it, and that when he and silas went back to find it, they were frightened away by something that dodged into the bushes, before they could get a sight at it, and which they took to be a ghost. well, it wasn't a ghost at all, but one of the thieves, who had been to the beach after supplies. he found the letter and read it. of course he was greatly alarmed, and so was his companion; for they couldn't help believing that some one had got wind of their hiding-place. they could hardly believe me, when i told them that you and i made that letter up out of the whole cloth, and that we never dreamed there was any one living in the gorge." "but we did know it," said tom. "of course we did, after they frightened us, but not before. they spoke about that, too. we took them completely by surprise the day we came down the gorge. we were close upon their camp before they knew it, and for a minute or two they didn't know what to do. then one of them conceived the idea of making that hideous noise, and when the other saw how well it worked, he joined in with him." "but didn't they know that we would be back sooner or later to look into the matter?" asked tom. "of course they did, and that was another thing that frightened them. they saw very plainly that their hiding-place was broken up, and were making preparations to leave it when silas and dan put in their appearance. the robbers saw and heard them long before they got to the camp, and the one who found the letter recognized them at once. it was at his suggestion that that ghost was rigged up." "but they must have known that they could not scare everybody with that dummy," observed tom. "to be sure they did, and they were in a great hurry to get away from there; but they needed provisions, and by stopping to get them they fell into trouble. they took joe morgan's house for a woodchopper's cabin and while we were robbing them, they were foraging on joe. i tell you, tom, it's a lucky thing for us that we got out of that gorge when we did. they were mad enough to shoot us on sight." "i don't wonder at it," replied tom. "it would make most anybody mad to lose a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in money and securities, no matter how he came by them. where did they catch you? did they treat you well?" "they treated me well enough," was bob's reply, "but i believe that if they had not stood in fear of immediate capture i should have a different story to tell, if, indeed, i were able to tell any. i told you nothing but the truth in the postscript i added to their note." "i knew they made you write it, and that you did not express your honest sentiments when you told us to be in a hurry about giving back that valise." "i was sure you would understand it; but what could a fellow do with a cocked revolver flourished before his eyes by a man who was in just the right humor to use it on him?" "he would do as he is told, of course," answered tom. "but do you suppose they thought they could get that valise back by threatening you?" "i don't know what they thought, for they acted as if they were crazy. they caught me in less than half an hour after i left you, and it was through my own fault. i ran on to them before i knew it, and do you imagine i thought 'robbers' once? as true as you live i didn't. i took them for poachers, and told them, very politely, that these grounds were posted and they couldn't be allowed to shoot there, when all on a sudden it popped into my head what i was doing. they saw the start i gave, and in a second more they had me covered. if i could have got away without letting them see that i suspected them, they wouldn't have said a word to me." "well, they covered you with their revolvers; then what?" "beyond a doubt, they made a prisoner of me before they thought what they were doing, and when they came to look at it they found that they had got an elephant on their hands. then they would have been glad to get rid of me; but they did not see just how they could do it with safety to themselves, so they made up their minds to use me." "at first they thought they would wait and see if anything would come of the notice they left on the door of the cabin, and then they thought they wouldn't--that they would hunt up another hiding-place as soon as possible; so they ordered me to take them where nobody would ever think of looking for them. and i could do nothing but obey." "were you acting as their guide when they released you?" bob replied that he was. "why didn't you veer around a bit, and lead them toward the railroad?" "if i had i shouldn't be here now," answered bob, significantly. "they warned me to be careful about that, and they were so well acquainted with the hills that i was afraid to attempt any tricks. we camped over on dungeon brook last night, and set out again at an early hour this morning, but before we had been in motion an hour, we found ourselves cut off from the upper end of the hills, and that was the time they made up their minds to let me go. they didn't say so, but still i had an idea that they didn't want me around for fear i would make too much noise to suit them." "i know they were afraid of it," said tom. "the robber that brierly's squad captured said so." "is one of them taken?" exclaimed bob, who hadn't heard of it before. "that's good news. where's the other?" "don't know. they separated after they let you go, and brierly captured one of them. perhaps we shall hear something about the other one now," added tom, directing his companion's attention to a large party of men who were at that moment discovered approaching the cabin. "we went out in squads of four, and there are a dozen men in that crowd." "but i don't see any prisoner among them," said bob. "they have all got guns on their shoulders, and that proves that they have not seen anything of robber number two." as the party came nearer, the boys saw that it was made up of citizens of bellville and hammondsport, who had abandoned the search for the day, and were now on their way home. they were surprised to see bob emerson there, safe and sound, and forthwith desired a full history of the letter which had been the means of bringing about so remarkable a series of events. bob protested that he was too hungry to talk, but when he saw the generous supply of bread and meat which one of the men drew from his haversack, he sat down on a log in front of the cabin and told his story. his auditors declared that the way things had turned out was little short of wonderful, adding, as they arose to go, that they were coming out again, bright and early the next morning, to resume the search for robber number two. they were not going to remain idle at home, they said, as long as there were twenty-five hundred dollars running around loose in the woods. when the bread and meat were all gone, and the boys were once more alone, tom wrote the notice which joe morgan found pinned to the door of the cabin, and then he and bob set out for uncle hallet's. chapter xxxiii. turning over a new leaf. although silas morgan had received the most convincing proof that he had nothing more to fear from the "hant" which had so long occupied all his waking thoughts and disturbed his dreams at night, he would not have taken one step toward mr. warren's house before morning, had he not been urged on by the hope that the sheriff would be ready to pay over his money as soon as the robber was given up to him. the desire to handle the reward to which he was entitled was stronger than his fear of the dark. "and what shall i do with them twenty-five hundred after i get 'em, joey?" said he. "that's what's a bothering of me now." and it was the very thing that was bothering joe, also. his father had always been in the habit of spending his money as fast as he got it, and the boy fully expected to see this large sum slip through his fingers without doing the least good to him or anybody else. "i'll tell you what i _wouldn't_ do with it," said joe, after a little hesitation. "i wouldn't give hobson any of it." "you're right i won't!" exclaimed silas. "he's got more'n his share already. what be you going to do with yours, when you get it?" "i think now that i shall put it in the bank at hammondsport," answered joe. "it will be safe there, and if i am careful of it, it will last me until i get through going to school. you don't want to go to school, but you might go into business and increase your capital." "that's it--that's it, joey!" exclaimed silas, who grew enthusiastic at once. "i never thought of that. but what sort of business? it must be something easy, 'cause i've worked hard enough already." "mr. warren says that there is no easy way of making a living," began joe; but his father interrupted him with an exclamation of impatience. "what does old man warren know about it?" he demanded. "he never had to do a hand's turn in his life." "but he don't know what it is to be idle, and he is busy at something every day," said joe. "i'll tell you what i have often thought i would do if i had a little money, and i may do it yet, if you don't decide to go into it. the new road that is coming through here is bound to bring a good many people to the beach, sooner or later. as the trout are nearly all gone, the guests will have to devote their attention to the bass in the lake, and consequently there will be a big demand for boats." "so there will!" exclaimed silas, who saw at once what joe was trying to get at. "that's the business i've been looking for, joey, and it's an easy one, too. of course, i can let all my boats at so much an hour, and i won't have nothing to do but sit on the beach and take in my money." "and what'll i be doing?" inquired dan, who had not spoken before. "you!" cried silas, who seemed to have forgotten that dan was one of the party. "you will keep on chopping cord wood, to pay you for the mean trick you played on me this morning. you see what you made by it, don't you? i reckon you wish you'd stayed by me now, don't you? how much will them boats cost me, joey?" "i should think that ten or a dozen skiffs would be enough to begin with," answered joe, "and they will cost you between three and four hundred dollars; but you would have enough left to rent a piece of ground of mr. warren and put up a snug little house on it." "then i'll be a gentlemen like the rest of 'em, won't i?" exclaimed silas, gleefully. "no, you won't," said dan, to himself. "that bridge ain't been built yet, and i don't reckon hobson means to have it there. he is going to bust it up some way or 'nother, and i'm just the man to help him, if he'll pay me for it. everybody is getting rich 'cepting me, and i ain't going to be treated this way no longer!" silas was so completely carried away by joe's plan for making money without work that he could think of nothing else. he forgot how determined and vindictive dan was, and how easy it would be for him to place a multitude of obstacles in his way, but joe didn't. the latter knew well enough that dan intended to make trouble if he were left out in the cold, but what could be done for so lazy and unreliable a fellow as he was? that was the question. while joe was turning it over in his mind, he led the way through mr. warren's gate and up to the porch, where he found his employer sitting in company with the sheriff and both uncle hallet's game wardens. the deputy was in an upper room, keeping guard over the other prisoner. of course, tom and bob, who were greatly surprised as well as delighted to see joe and his party, wanted to know just how the capture of robber number two had been brought about, and while joe was telling the story, the sheriff marched the captive into the house and turned him over to his deputy. then he came back and sat down; but he did not put his hand into his pocket and pull out the reward as silas hoped he would. "this has been a good day's work all around," said tom, who was in high spirits. "the next time there is any detective work to be done in this county, bob and i will volunteer to do it. we can catch more criminals by sitting still and writing letters than the officers can by bringing all their skill into play." the sheriff laughed, and said that was the way the thing looked from where he sat. "the fun is all over now," continued tom, "and to-morrow we will go to work in earnest. you will be on hand, of course?" joe replied that he would. "by-the-way," chimed in bob, "did this robber of yours have a gun of any description in his hands when he was captured?" "no." "then, joe, you and i are just that much out of pocket. the guns are gone up." "what has become of them?" "they are out in the hills somewhere," answered bob. "when the robbers made up their minds that they had better let me go, one of them had my gun and the other had yours; but the robber brierly captured says that the weapon impeded his flight, and so he threw it away. whereabouts he was in the hills when he got rid of it he can't tell. no doubt your gun was thrown away also, and the chances are not one in a thousand that we shall ever find them again." while this conversation was going on, silas morgan, who stood at the foot of the steps that led to the porch, kept pulling joe by the coat-sleeve, and whispering to him: "never mind the guns. tell the sheriff that i'm powerful anxious to see the color of them twenty-five hundred." joe paid no sort of attention to him, and finally silas became so very much in earnest in his endeavors to attract the boy's notice, that the officer saw it; and when there was a little pause in the conversation, he said carelessly: "oh, about the reward, silas--" "that's the idee," replied the ferryman, who thought sure that he was going to get it now. "that's what i'm here for. you have got the burglars in your own hands now, and i don't reckon you would mind passing it over, would you?" "i?" exclaimed the sheriff. "i haven't got it. i have never had a cent of it in my possession." "then who's going to give it to me?" demanded silas, who wondered if the officer was going to cheat him out of his money. "well, you see, silas," said the sheriff, "the reward is conditioned upon the arrest and conviction of the burglars. they have been arrested, and their conviction is only a matter of time; but you can't get your money until they are sentenced." "and how long will that be?" "the court will sit again in about six weeks. as some of the money was offered by the county, and the rest by the men who lost the jewelry and things that were found in that valise, you will get your reward from different parties, unless they hand it over to me to be paid to you in a lump." "that's the way i want it," said silas, who was very much disappointed. "i'm going into business." "what sort of business?" inquired mr. warren. "i am going to keep a boat-house down to the beach." "well now, silas, that's the most sensible thing i have heard from you in a long time," said mr. warren. "i'll rent you a piece of ground big enough for a garden, and you can set yourself up in business in good shape, build a nice house, and have money left in the bank. if you manage the thing rightly, you and dan ought to make a good living of it." "who said anything about dan?" exclaimed silas. "i did. of course, you can't ignore him, because you are wealthy. he wants a chance to earn an honest living, and he needs it, too. he's a strong boy, a first-rate hand with a boat, knows all the best fishing-grounds on the lake, and would be just the fellow to send out with a party who wanted a guide and boatman. you can easily afford to pay him a dollar a day for such work as that." "well, i won't do it," said silas, promptly. "he's a lazy, good-for-nothing scamp, dan is, and i won't take him into business along with me." "but you will hire him, and give him a chance to quit breaking the game-law, and make an honest living," said the sheriff. "by-the-way, silas, i guess you had better bring up those setters, and save me the trouble of going after them." "what setters?" exclaimed silas, who acted as if he were on the point of taking to his heels. "i ain't got none. i took 'em down to the hotel and give 'em up." "i am glad to hear it, because it will save me some trouble," replied the officer, "i have had my eyes on those dogs ever since you got hold of them, and i should have been after them long ago, if i had known where to find the owner. don't do that again, silas. honesty is the best policy, every day in the week." "if you will leave your business in my hands i will attend to it for you, and you will not have to go to hammondsport at all," continued mr. warren. and joe was glad to hear him say it, because it showed him that the gentleman did not intend that his father should squander all his money, if he could help it. "it is too late in the season for you to do anything with your boats this year, but i will give you and dan a steady job at chopping wood, and if you take care of the money you earn, instead of spending it at hobson's bar, you can live well during the winter. if the reward is not paid over to you by the time spring opens, i will advance you enough to start you in business and build your house. then i think you had better give dan a chance." "so do i," whispered tom to his friend bob. "dan has lived by his wits long enough, and if silas doesn't begin to take some interest in him, the sheriff will have a word or two to say about those setters. i can see plainly enough that he intends to hold that affair over silas as a whip to make him behave himself." "do you think silas will ever have the reward paid him in a lump?" asked bob. "no, i don't, because he doesn't know enough to take care of so much money. joe can get his any time he wants it, for mr. warren knows that he will make every cent of it count." then, aloud, tom said: "well, bob, seeing that we've got to get up in the morning, we had better be going home. come over bright and early, joe, and we will take your things back to your cabin." "and i will send up another supply of provisions," said mr. warren. joe thanked his employer, bade him good-night, and led the way out of the yard. for a time he and his party walked along in silence, and then silas, who began to have a vague idea that he had been imposed upon in some way, broke out fiercely: "what did old man warren mean by saying that if i didn't get all my money by the time spring comes, he would advance enough to set me up in business?" silas almost shouted. "looks to me like he'd 'p'inted himself my guardeen, and that he means to keep a tight grip on them twenty-five hundred, so't i can't spend it to suit myself. that's what i think he means to do, dog-gone the luck!" joe thought so, too, and he was glad of it. if that was mr. warren's intention, joe's mother would be likely to reap some benefit from the reward; otherwise, she would not. chapter xxxiv. the transformation. silas morgan was one of the proudest men that the sun ever shone upon, and he would have been supremely happy if it had not been for two things, over which he could exercise no control. one was that mr. warren and the sheriff intended to keep a sharp eye on him, and see that he did not squander any of the money he had earned by capturing the robber. the other was that dan claimed recognition, and was determined to have it, too, in spite of the mean trick he had played upon his father. when silas arose the next morning the first thought that came into his mind was that he was a rich man. it excited him to such a degree that he could not eat any breakfast. he managed to drink a single cup of coffee, and then shouldered his gun and set out for hobson's, to exhibit himself to the loafers who made the half-way house their headquarters, while joe hastened off to mr. hallet's to assist tom and bob. dan was left to pass the time as he pleased, and it suited him to sun himself on the bank of the river and bemoan his hard luck. the first man silas saw as he drew near to hobson's place of business was brierly, who dropped some hints that set him to thinking. after congratulating silas on his good fortune, he inquired what use he intended to make of the reward when he got it. "i ain't just made up my mind yet," was silas morgan's guarded reply. "i don't reckon i'm going to get it right away, 'cause old man warren he's went and 'p'inted himself to be my guardeen, and i say that ain't right. i ketched that there bugglar without no help from anybody. the reward belongs to me, and i had oughter have it!" to his utter astonishment brierly promptly answered: "no, you hadn't. you don't know how to take care of so much money, more'n i do, and it's the properest thing that somebody should look out for it. i tell you, silas, i ain't the man i was when that joe of your'n ordered me out of old man's warren's wood lot. do you know what i did the minute i got home yesterday? well, i went down to the hotel and give the landlord the twenty-five dollars that i had cheated mr. brown out of. the landlord knows where he lives, and will send it to him." "joe tells me that mr. brown was a mighty scared man after you lost him in the woods," observed silas. "it was a mighty mean trick," declared brierly; "but the fact of it was i was hard up for money, and didn't care much how i got it. i think different now. i've got a chance to be something better'n the lazy, ragged vagabone i have always been, and i am going to keep it. i am, for a fact! i have been waiting for it, and now that i have got it, i intend to make the most of it. i think i shall let the heft of my money stay where it is this winter, and get my grub and clothes by chopping wood for old man warren. you want to look out for hobson. he's got an eye on them dollars of your'n. he tried to shove lots of things onto me this morning, but i wouldn't take 'em." silas morgan never expected to hear such counsel as this from brierly, who, like himself, had always been in the habit of squandering his slim earnings as fast as he could get hold of them, and it excited a serious train of reflections in his mind. being on his guard, hobson's blandishments had no effect upon him. "you're the luckiest man i ever heard of!" exclaimed the proprietor of the half-way house, coming out from behind his counter and greeting silas with great cordiality. "warren's hired man told the stage driver all about it, and he told us. want anything in my line this morning?" "there's plenty of things i want," replied silas; "but i ain't got a cent of money." "no matter for that. your credit is good." "and what's more, i don't reckon i can get any of that reward under six weeks," continued silas. "the court don't sit till then, you know, and i won't see the color of them dollars till the bugglars gets their sentence." "but joe's pay-day will come sooner than that," suggested hobson. "well, now, look here," said silas, slowly. "don't you think it would be mighty mean for a man who is worth twenty-five hundred dollars to take the money his little boy makes by living up there alone in the woods? i do. and i've about made up my mind that i won't do it." "didn't you tell me that you thought the head of the family ought to have the handling of all the money that came into the house?" demanded hobson, who was really astonished to hear such sentiments as these come from silas morgan. "i did think so once, but i don't now," was the reply. "and furder'n that, i don't reckon i'll get my money all in a lump, like i thought i was going to, 'cause old man warren he's gone and made himself my guardeen; and if i run in debt now, i'll have to give you an order on him for the money. of course he would want to see the bill, and mebbe he'd take particular notice of the items that's into it." "do you mean to let him boss you around in that way?" exclaimed hobson. "i thought you had more pluck than that. you are old enough to be your own master, if you are ever going to be." "well," said silas, again, "there's one thing that i ain't master of, and i know it. that's money. whenever i get a dollar bill in my hands, it burns me so't i have to drop it somewheres. i reckon i won't touch that reward this winter." hobson was so angry and disgusted that he could not say a word in reply. he went around behind his counter, and when silas turned to go out, he informed him, in a savage tone of voice, that there was a little difference of a dollar and a half between them, and he would be glad to have him settle up then and there. "didn't i tell you when i first come in that i ain't got a cent to bless myself with?" reminded silas. "but me and dan are going to work for old man warren this very afternoon, and i'll be around next saturday, sure pop." "i'll bear that in mind," said hobson. "if you are not on hand, i shall ride down to your house to see what is the matter." "that's always the way with them kind of fellows," said brierly, in a low tone. "as long as you've got plenty of money, and spend it free with them, you're a first-rate chap; but the very minute you turn over a new leaf, and try to be honest and sober, they ain't got no use for you. i'm done with 'em." silas walked home in a brown study. the first thing he did after he crossed the threshold of his humble abode was to put his gun in its place over the door, and the second, to take an axe and whetstone out of the chimney corner. with these in his hand, he went out on the bank where dan was still sunning himself. "it's a long time since you seen this here little tool, ain't it?" said silas, cheerfully; but there was something in the tone of his voice that made the boy tremble. "looks kinder like it used to last winter, don't it? now, sharpen it up so't you can drive it clear in to the eye every clip, and after dinner me and you will toddle down to old man warren's, and ask him where he wants us to cut that wood; won't we, dannie?" "no, we won't," shouted dan. "won't, eh?" said his father, calmly. "well, them that don't work can't eat, and a boy that won't help himself when he's got a chance, can't get no dollar a day out of me when i go into that boat business. he won't be worth it, and mr. warren will think so too, when he hears of it. i reckon the best thing you can do is to put that there axe in shape and be ready to go with your pap after dinner." when he had taken time to think about it, dan came to the same conclusion. it cost him a struggle to do it, but when his father shouldered his axe and set out for mr. warren's house, dan went with him. the gentleman was glad to hear that silas did not intend to remain idle simply because he had twenty-five hundred dollars in prospect, gave him some good advice, and told him where to go to cut the wood. the road they followed to get to it took them close by the cabin of the young game-warden, whom they found busily engaged in setting things to rights. of course, it made dan angry to see his brother surrounded by so many comforts, and in a position to make his money so easily, but there was no help for it. his father was on joe's side now; dan could see that easily enough, and an attempt on his part to annoy the young game-warden in any way would bring upon him certain and speedy punishment. after that, things went smoothly with joe morgan. during that fall and winter mr. warren's imported game was never interfered with, and the reason was because all the worst poachers in the country, including brierly and his gang, as well as joe's own father, had given up the precarious business of market-shooting. more than that, when silas paid his bill at hobson's, which he did, according to promise, he gave the loungers about the halfway house to understand that he had taken joe under his protection, and that any one who troubled either him or mr. warren's blue-headed birds, might expect to answer to him for it. as silas morgan's prowess in battle was well known to every body for miles around, the market-shooters took him at his word, and kept away from mr. warren's wood-lot. the savage, half-starved dogs in the settlement which had become so fond of hunting deer that they sometimes chased them on their own responsibility, were either chained up or given away, and the only hounds that gave tongue among the summerdale hills during the winter were those which, like tom hallet's beagle, were trained to hunt foxes and coons. while the pleasant weather continued, the young game-wardens searched the woods thoroughly, in the hope of finding the guns that the robbers had thrown away during their flight, but their efforts were unrewarded, and finally the snows of winter came and covered them up. one day, just before christmas, mr. warren's hired man came up, bringing, among other things, a few magazines and papers, a supply of provisions for joe's use, some grain for the birds, and a long, shallow box which he placed carefully upon the table. "mr. warren says that you will want to go home on christmas, and there's a little something for your folks to eat," said he, handing joe a nice fat turkey, all dressed and ready for the oven. "in that box you will find a present from st. nick. look at it, and see if you ain't glad you lost your rusty old single-barrel." "i know what it is," replied joe. "is it mine to keep, or to use while i am acting as game-warden?" "it is yours to keep. it is intended to replace the one the robbers stole from you." the sight that met the boy's gaze when he unlocked the box made his eyes open wide with wonder and delight. inside, was a breech-loader, with pistol-grip and all the necessary loading tools. of course, it was a fine weapon. mr. warren never did things by halves. it was the first christmas present joe had ever received. contrary to mrs. morgan's expectations, there was not the least trouble in the house over the young game-warden's money. she had enough and to spare, and so had silas and dan. the former worked faithfully, because his ambition had been aroused, and dan toiled steadily by his side, because he knew if he didn't, he would lose the dollar a day he was looking forward to. he got it, too. the robbers were duly convicted and sentenced, and, when spring came, silas had his twenty-five hundred dollars intact; or, to speak more correctly, somebody had it for him. silas did not know just where it was, whether in mr. warren's hands or the sheriff's, and indeed he did not care. all the bills he made in buying his boat, building his new house and fencing the piece of ground that mr. warren leased to him, were promptly met by that gentleman, and silas highly elated at the prospect of having a paying business of his own, worked to such good purpose that when the guests began to arrive he was ready to serve them. for the first time in his life, dan morgan looked as "spick and span as anybody" in his blue uniform, with a wide collar and sailor necktie, all bought with his own money, too; and he often walked up and down in front of the hotel to show himself to the people who were sitting on the veranda. he proved to be a good boatman, and easily earned the dollar a day his father paid him for his services. joe held to his resolution, and entered the bellville academy when the spring term opened. he is there now; and he often says that he likes his school duties much better than those he was called on to perform while he was acting as mr. warren's game-warden. the end. poachers and poaching "knowledge never learned in schools." [illustration: lurchers.] poachers and poaching by john watson, f.l.s. author of "nature and woodcraft," "sylvan folk," "british sporting fishes," editor of "the confessions of a poacher." with a frontispiece london: chapman and hall limited 1891 [_all rights reserved_] westminster: printed by nichols and sons, 25, parliament street. transcriber's note: minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. dialect spellings, contractions and inconsistencies have been retained as printed. note. these chapters originally appeared as articles in _macmillan's magazine_, the _cornhill magazine_, the _national review_, the _gentleman's magazine_, the _st. james's gazette_ and the _pall mall gazette_; and i have to thank the editors and proprietors of these periodicals for permission to reprint them. the chapter entitled "water poachers" is reprinted by permission from the _nineteenth century_. as to the facts in the volume, they are mainly taken at first hand from nature. j. w. contents. page chapter i. poachers and poaching.--i 1 chapter ii. poachers and poaching.--ii 17 chapter iii. badgers and otters 33 chapter iv. couriers of the air 44 chapter v. the snow-walkers 86 chapter vi. when darkness has fallen 94 chapter vii. british birds, their nests and eggs 118 chapter viii. minor british game birds 143 chapter ix. water poachers 162 chapter x. wild ducks and duck decoying 195 chapter xi. field and covert poachers 223 chapter xii. homely tragedy 245 chapter xiii. workers in woodcraft 266 chapter xiv. sketches from nature 287 poachers and poaching. chapter i. poachers and poaching.--i. the poacher is a product of sleepy village life, and usually "mouches" on the outskirts of country towns. his cottage is roughly adorned in fur and feather, and abuts on the fields. there is a fitness in this, and an appropriateness in the two gaunt lurchers stretched before the door. these turn day into night on the sunny roadside in summer, and before the cottage fire in winter. like the poacher, they are active and silent when the village community is asleep. our bohemian has poached time out of mind. his family have been poachers for generations. the county justices, the magistrates' clerk, the county constable, and the gaol books all testify to the same fact. the poacher's lads have grown up under their father's tuition, and follow in his footsteps. even now they are inveterate poachers, and have a special instinct for capturing field-mice and squirrels. they take moles in their runs, and preserve their skins. when a number of these are collected they are sold to the labourers' wives, who make them into vests. in wheat-time the farmers employ the lads to keep down sparrows and finches. numbers of larks are taken in nooses, and in spring lapwings' eggs yield quite a rich harvest from the uplands and ploughed fields. a shilling so earned is to the young poacher riches indeed; money so acquired is looked upon differently from that earned by steady-going labour on the field or farm. in their season he gathers cresses and blackberries, the embrowned nuts constituting an autumn in themselves. snipe and woodcock, which come to the marshy meadows in severe weather, are taken in "gins" and "springes." traps are laid for wild ducks in the runners when the still mountain tarns are frozen over. when our poacher's lads attain to sixteen they become in turn the owner of an old flintlock, an heirloom, which has been in the family for generations. then larger game can be got at. wood-pigeons are waited for in the larches, and shot as they come to roost. large numbers of plover are bagged from time to time, both green and grey. these feed in the water meadows through autumn and winter, and are always plentiful. in spring the rare dotterels were sometimes shot as they stayed on their way to the hills; or a gaunt heron was brought down as it flew heavily from a ditch. to the now disused mill-dam ducks came on wintry evening--teal, mallard, and pochards. the lad lay coiled up behind a willow root, and waited during the night. soon the whistling of wings was heard, and dark forms appeared against the skyline. the old duck-gun was out, a sharp report tore the darkness, and a brace of teal floated down stream and washed on to the mill island. in this way half-a-dozen ducks would be bagged, and dead or dying were left where they fell, and retrieved next morning. sometimes big game was obtained in the shape of a brace of wild geese, the least wary of a flock; but these only came in the severest weather. at night the poacher's dogs embody all his senses. an old black bitch is his favourite; for years she has served him faithfully--in the whole of that time never having once given mouth. like all good lurchers, she is bred between the greyhound and sheepdog. the produce of this cross have the speed of the one, and the "nose" and intelligence of the other. such dogs never bark, and, being rough coated, are able to stand the exposure of cold nights. they take long to train, but when perfected are invaluable to the poacher. upon them almost wholly depends success. poaching is one of the fine arts, and the most successful poacher is always a specialist. he selects one kind of game, and his whole knowledge of woodcraft is directed against it. in autumn and winter the "otter" knows the whereabouts of every hare in the parish; not only the field in which it is but the very clump of rushes in which is its "form." as puss goes away from the prickly gorse bush, or flies down the turnip "rigg," he notes her every twist and double, and takes in the minutest details. he is also careful to examine the "smoots" and gates through which she passes, and these spots he always approaches laterally. he leaves no scent of hand nor print of foot, and does not disturb rough herbage. late afternoon brings him home, and upon the clean sanded floor his wires and nets are spread. there is a peg to sharpen and a broken mesh to mend. every now and then he looks out upon the darkening night, always directing his glance upward. his dogs whine impatiently to be gone. in an hour, with bulky pockets, he starts, striking across the land and away from the high-road. the dogs prick out their ears upon the track, but stick doggedly to his heels. after a while the darkness blots out even the forms of surrounding objects, and the poacher moves more cautiously. a couple of snares are set in holes in an old thorn fence not more than a yard apart. these are delicately manipulated, and from previous knowledge the poacher knows that the hare will take one of them. the black dog is sent over, the younger fawn bitch staying with her master. the former slinks slowly down the field, sticking closely to the cover of a fence running at right angles to the one in which the wires are set. the poacher has arranged that the wind shall blow from the dog and across the hare's seat when the former shall come opposite. the ruse acts, and puss is alarmed but not terrified; she gets up and goes quietly away for the hedge. the dog is crouched and anxiously watching her; she is making right for the snare, though something must be added to her speed to make the wire effective. as the dog closes in, the poacher, bowed, and with hands on knees, waits, still as death, for her coming. he hears the trip, trip, trip, as the herbage is brushed; there is a rustle among the leaves, a momentary squeal--and the wire has tightened round her throat. again the three trudge silently along the lane. suddenly the trio stop and listen; then they disperse, but seem to have dissolved. the dry ditch is capacious, and its dead herbage tall and tangled. a heavy foot, with regular beat, approaches along the road, and dies slowly away in the distance. hares love green corn stalks, and a field of young wheat is at hand. a net, twelve feet by six, is spread at the gate, and at a given sign the dogs depart different ways. their paths would seem soon to have converged, for the night is torn by a piteous cry, the road is enveloped in dust, and in the midst of the confusion the dogs dash over the fence. they must have found their game near the middle of the field, and driven the hares--for there are two--so hard that they carried the net right before them. every struggle wraps another mesh about them, and soon their screams are quieted. by a quick movement the poacher wraps the long net about his arm, and, taking the noiseless sward, gets hastily away from the spot. these are the common methods of hare-poaching. in march, when they are pairing, four or five may often be found together in one field. although wild, they seem to lose much of their natural timidity, and now the poacher reaps a rich harvest. he is careful to set his nets and snares on the side _opposite_ to that from which the game will come, for this reason: that hares approach any place through which they are about to pass in a zig-zag manner. they come on, playing and frisking, stopping now and then to nibble the sweet herbage. they run, making wide leaps at right angles to their path, and sit listening upon their haunches. a freshly-impressed foot-mark, the scent of dog or man at the gate, almost invariably turns them back. of course these traces are necessarily left if the snare be set on the _near_ side of the gate or fence, and then they refuse to take it even when hard pressed. where poaching is prevalent and hares abundant, the keepers net every one on the estate, for it is well known to those versed in woodcraft that an escaped hare once netted can never be taken a second time in the same manner. the human scent left at gaps and gateways by ploughmen and shepherds the wary poacher will obliterate by driving sheep over the spot before he begins operations. on the sides of the fells and uplands hares are difficult to kill. this can only be accomplished by swift dogs, which are taken _above_ the game; puss is made to run down hill, when, from her peculiar formation, she goes at a disadvantage. our poacher is cooly audacious. here is an actual incident. there was a certain field of young wheat in which were some hares. the knowledge of these came by observation during the day. the field was hard by the keeper's cottage, and surrounded by a high fence of loose stones. the situation was therefore critical, but that night nets were set at the gates through which the hares always made. to drive them the dog was to range the field, entering it at a point furthest away from the gate. silence was essential to success. to aid the dog, the poacher bent his back in the road at a yard from the wall. the dog retired, took a mighty spring, and, barely touching his master's shoulders, bounded over the fence without touching. from that field five hares were killed. it need hardly be remarked that the intelligent poacher is always a naturalist. the signs of wind and weather he knows as it were by heart, and this is essential to his silent trade. the rise and wane of the moon, the rain-bringing tides, the local migration of birds--these and a hundred other things are marked in his unwritten calendar. his out-door life has made him quick and taught him of much ready animal ingenuity. he has imbibed an immense amount of knowledge of the life of the woods and fields, and he is that one man in a thousand who has accuracy of eye and judgment sufficient to interpret nature aright. it has been already remarked that the poacher is nothing if not a specialist. as yet we have spoken only of the "moucher" who directs his attention to fur. but if there is less scope for field ingenuity in the taking of some of our game birds, there is always the possibility of more wholesale destruction. this arises from the fact of the birds being gregarious. partridges roost close to the ground, and sleep with their heads tucked together. a covey in this position represents little more than a mass of feathers. they always spend their nights in the open, for protective reasons. birds which do not perch would soon be extinct as a species were they to seek the protection of woods and hedge-bottoms by night. such ground generally affords cover to vermin--weasels, polecats, and stoats. although partridges roam far by day, they always come together at night, being partial to the same fields and fallows. they run much, and rarely fly except when passing from one feeding ground to another. in coming together in the evening their calls may be heard at some distance. these sounds the poacher listens for and marks. he remembers the nest under the gorse bush, and knows that the covey will not be far distant. partridges the poacher considers good game. he may watch half-a-dozen coveys at once. each evening at sun-down he goes his rounds and makes mental notes. three coveys are marked for a night's work--one in turnips, another among stubble, and a third on grass. at dark he comes and now requires an assistant. the net is dragged along the ground, and as the birds get up it is simply dropped over them, when usually the whole covey is taken. in view of this method of poaching and on land where many partridges roost, low scrubby thorns are planted at regular intervals. these so far interfere with the working of the net as to allow the birds time to escape. if the poacher has not accurately marked down his game beforehand, a much wider net is needed. among turnips, and where large numbers of birds are supposed to lie, several rows or "riggs" are taken at a time, until the whole of the ground has been traversed. this last method requires time and a knowledge of the keeper's beat. on rough ground the catching of the net may be obviated by having about eighteen inches of smooth glazed material bordering the lower and trailing part of the net. partridges are occasionally taken by farmers in the following unorthodox fashion. a train of grain is scattered from ground where game is known to lie. the birds follow this, and each morning find it more nearly approach to the stackyards. when the birds have become accustomed to this mode of feeding, the grain train is continued inside the barn. the birds follow, and the doors are closed upon them. a bright light is brought, and the game is knocked down with sticks. partridges feed in the early morning--as soon as daybreak. they resort to one spot, and are constant in their coming if encouraged. this the poacher knows, and adapts himself accordingly. by the aid of a clear moon he lays a train of grain straight as a hazel stick. he has brought in a bag an old duck-gun, the barrels of which are short, having been filed down. this short weapon can easily be carried in his capacious pocket, and is only needed to fire at short distances. into this he crams a heavy charge of powder and waits for the dawn. the covey comes with a loud whirring of wings, and the birds settle to feed immediately. firing along the line, a single shot strews the ground with dead and dying. in ten minutes he is a mile from the spot, always keeping clear of the roads. the poacher has yet another method. grain is soaked until it becomes swollen and is then steeped in the strongest spirit. this, as before, is strewn in the morning paths of the partridge, and, soon taking effect, the naturally pugnacious birds are presently staggering and fighting desperately. the poacher bides his time, and, as opportunity offers, knocks the incapacitated birds on the head. the wilder grouse poaching of the moorlands is now rarely followed. the birds are taken in nets similar to those used for partridges. by imitating the peculiar gurgling call-notes of the grouse, old poachers can bring up all birds within hearing distance. as they fly over the knolls and braes they are shot. many of the birds sold in london on the morning of the "twelfth" are taken in this way. in the north, since the inclosure of the commons, numbers of grouse are killed by flying against the wire fences. when the mists cling to the hills for days, or when the weather is "thick," these casualties occur. at such times the birds fly low, and strike before seeing the obstacle. the poacher notes these mist caps hanging to the hill tops, and then, bag in hand, walks parallel to miles and miles of fence. sometimes a dozen brace of birds are picked up in a morning. not only grouse, but on the lowlands pheasants and partridges are killed in this way, as are also snipe and woodcock. in summer, poachers make and repair their nets for winter use. large hare nets are made for gates, and smaller ones for rabbit burrows and "smoots." partridge nets are also necessarily large, having sometimes to cover half a field. although most of the summer the poacher is practically idle, it is at this time that he closely studies the life of the fields, and makes his observations for winter. he gets occasional employment at hay or harvest, and for his darker profession treasures up what he sees. he is not often introduced to the heart of the land, and misses nothing of the opportunity. on in autumn, he is engaged to cut down ash poles or fell young woods, and this brings him to the covert. nothing escapes his notice, and in the end his employers have to pay dearly for his labour. at this time the game birds--pheasants, partridge, and grouse--are breeding, and are therefore worthless; so with rabbits and hares. but when game is "out," fish are "in." fish poaching has decreased of late years, owing to stricter watching and greater preservation generally. in summer, when the waters are low, fish resort to the deep dubs. in such spots comes abundance of food, and the fish are safe, be the drought never so long. the pools of the fell becks abound at such times with speckled brown trout, and are visited by another poacher--the otter. when the short summer night is darkest, the man poacher wades through the meadows by the river. he knows the deeps where the fish most congregate, and there throws in chloride of lime. soon the trout of the pool float belly uppermost, and are lifted out, dazed, in a landing net. in this way hundreds of fish are taken, and find a ready sale. the lime in no wise poisons the edible parts; it simply affects the eyes and gills, covering them with a fine white film. fish so taken, however, lose all their pinky freshness. the most cowardly part of this not uncommon proceeding is that the lime is sometimes put into the river immediately below a mill. this, of course, is intended to mislead watchers and keepers, and to throw the blame upon the non-guilty millowner. and, seeing that chloride of lime is used in various manufactures, the ruse sometimes succeeds. many of the older poachers, however, discountenance this cowardly method, for by it the destruction of fish is wholesale, irrespective of size. the old hands use an old-fashioned net, to work which requires at least two men. the net is dragged along the quiet river reaches, a rope being attached to each end. the trout fly before it, and are drawn out upon the first bed of pebbles. in this way great hauls are often made. to prevent this species of poaching, stakes are driven into trout stream beds; but they are not of much avail. when it is known that a "reach" is staked, a third man wades behind the net and lifts it over. a better method to prevent river poaching is to throw loose thorn bushes into the bed of the stream. in trailing along the bottom the net becomes entangled, and long before it can be unloosed the fish have escaped. this wholesale instrument of fish poaching is now rarely used. the net is necessarily large and cumbersome. wet, it is as much as two men can carry, and when caught in the act, there is nothing for it but to abandon the net and run. this is an effectual check for a time, as a new net takes long to knit and is expensive, at least to the poacher. when salmon and trout are spawning their senses seem somewhat dulled, and they are taken out of the water at night by click-hooks. in this kind of river poaching a lighted tar brand is used to show the whereabouts of the fish. a light, too, attracts salmon. of course, this can only be attempted when the beats of the watchers and keepers are known. the older generation of poachers, who have died or are fast dying out, seem to have taken the receipt for preparing salmon roe with them. for this once deadly bait is now rarely used. here is a field incident. a silent river reach shaded by trees. it is the end of a short summer night. we know that the poachers have lately been busy knitting their nets, and have come to intercept them. the "alder dub" may be easily netted, and contains a score nice trout. poachers carefully study the habits of fish as well as those of game, both winged and furred. to the alder dub they know the trout make when the river is low. the poachers have not noted signs of wind and weather and of local migrations for twenty years past to be ignorant of this. and so here, in the dew-beaded grass, we lie in wait. it is two o'clock and a critical time. a strange breaking is in the east: grey--half-light, half-mist. if they come they will come now. in an hour the darkness will not hide them. we lie close to the bank thickly covered with bush and scrub. two sounds are and have been heard all night--the ceaseless call of the crake and the not less ceaseless song of the sedge-bird. a lapwing gets up in the darkness and screams--an ominous sound, and we are all ear. three forms descend the opposite bank, and on to the gravel bed. they empty the contents of a bag and begin to unroll its slow length. the breaking of a rotten twig in a preparatory movement for the rush sufficiently alarms them, and they dash into the wood as we into the water--content now to secure their cumbersome illegal net, and thus effectually stop their operations for three weeks at least. the grey becomes dawn and the dawn light as we wade wearily home through the long wet grass. and still the sedge warbler sings. chapter ii. poachers and poaching.--ii. the confines of a large estate constitute a poacher's paradise; for although partridge and grouse require land suited to their taste, rabbits and pheasants are common to all preserved ground. since the reclamation of much wild land these latter afford his chief spoil. and then rabbits may be taken at any time of the year and in so many different ways. they are abundant, too, and always find a ready market. the penalties attached to rabbit poaching are less than those of game, and the vermin need not be followed into closely preserved coverts. the extermination of the rabbit will be contemporaneous with that of the lurcher and poacher--two institutions of english village life which date back to the planting the new forest. of the many modes of taking the "coney," ferreting and field-netting are the most common. traps with steel jaws are sometimes set in their runs, and are inserted in the turf so as to bring them level with the sward. but destruction by this method is not sufficiently wholesale, and the upturned white under parts show too plainly against the green. the poacher's methods must be quick, and he cannot afford to visit by day traps set in the dark. when the unscrupulous keeper finds a snare he sometimes puts a leveret into it, and secretes himself. he then waits, and captures the poacher "in the act." as with some other methods already mentioned, the trap poacher is only a casual. ferreting is silent and usually successful. in warrens, both inequalities of the ground and mounds and ditches afford cover for the poacher. a tangled hedge bank with tunnellings and coarse herbage is always a favourite spot. there are generally two and often half-a-dozen holes in the same burrow. small purse nets are spread over these, and the poacher prefers them loose to being pegged or fixed in any way. when the nets are set the ferrets are taken from the moucher's capacious pockets and turned in. they do not proceed immediately, but sniff the mouth of the hole; their decision is only momentary for soon the tips of their tails disappear in the darkness. now, above all times, silence is essential. rabbits refuse to bolt if there is noise outside. a dull thud, a rush, and a rabbit goes rolling over and over entangled in the net; one close after it gets clear away. reserve nets are quickly clapped to the holes as the rabbits bolt, these invariably being taken, except where a couple come together. standing on the mound a shot would stop these as they go bounding through the dead leaves; but this would bring up the keeper, and so the poacher practices self-denial. unlike hares, rabbits rarely squeal when they become entangled; and this allows the poacher to ferret long and silently. rabbits that refuse to take the net are sometimes eaten into by the ferret, but still refuse to bolt. if a rabbit makes along a blind burrow followed by a ferret, the former is killed, and the latter gluts itself upon the body. when this occurs it is awkward for the poacher; the ferret in such case usually curls itself up and goes to sleep; left to itself it might stay in the hole for days; and so it has either to be dug or starved out. both processes are long, the burrows ramify far into the bank, and it is not certainly known in which the ferret remains. the poacher's wholesale method of night poaching for rabbits is by means of two long nets. these are set parallel to each other along the edge of a wood, and about thirty yards out into the field or pasture. only about four inches divides the nets. a clear star-lit night is best for the work, and at the time the nets are set the ground game is far out feeding. the nets are long--the first small in mesh, that immediately behind it large. when a hare or rabbit strikes, the impetus takes a part of the first net and its contents through the larger mesh of the second, and there hanging, the creature struggles until it is knocked on the head with a stick. immediately the nets are set two men and a couple of lurchers begin to range the ground in front--slowly and patiently, gradually driving every feeding thing woodwards. a third man quietly paces the sward behind the nets, killing whatever game strikes them. and in this way hundreds of rabbits may be, and are, taken in a single night. some years ago half-a-dozen young rabbits appeared in our meadow-lot which were of the ordinary grey with large white patches. whilst feeding these stood out conspicuously from the rest; they were religiously preserved. of these parti-coloured ones a normal number is now kept up, and as poachers rarely discriminate, whenever they disappear, it is _prim㢠facie_ evidence that night work is going on. of all poaching that of pheasants is the most beset with difficulty; and the pheasant poacher is usually a desperate character. many methods can be successfully employed, and the pheasant is rather a stupid bird. its one great characteristic is that of wandering, and this cannot be prevented. although fed daily, and with the daintiest food, the birds, singly or in pairs, may frequently be seen far from the home covers. of course the poacher knows this, and is quick to use his knowledge. it by no means follows that the man who rears the pheasants will have the privilege of shooting them. in autumn, when beechmast and acorns begin to fall, the pheasants make daily journeys in search of them; and of these they consume great quantities. they feed principally in the morning, dust themselves in the turnip-fields at noon, and ramble through the woods in the afternoon; and when wandered birds find themselves in outlying copses in the evening they are apt to roost there. it need hardly be said that pheasants are generally reared close to the keeper's cottage; that their coverts immediately surround it. most commonly it is a gang of armed ruffians that enter these, and not the country poacher. then there are reasons for this. opposition must always be anticipated, for the covert should never be, and rarely is, unwatched. and then there are the results of capture to be taken into account. this effected, and with birds in his possession, the poacher is liable to be indicted upon so many charges, each and all having heavy penalties. when wholesale pheasant poaching is prosecuted by gangs, it is in winter, when the trees are bare. guns, the barrels of which are filed down so as to shorten them, are taken in sacks, and the birds are shot where they roost. their bulky forms stand sharply outlined against the sky, and they are often on the lower branches. if the firing does not immediately bring up the keepers, the game is quickly deposited in bags and the gang makes off. it not unfrequently happens that a light cart is waiting to receive the men at some grassy lane end. but the moucher obtains his game in a quieter way. he eschews the preserves, and looks up outlying birds. he always carries a pocketful of corn, and day by day entices the birds further and further away. this accomplished he may snare them; and take them in iron traps. he sometimes uses a gun, but only when other methods have failed. a common and successful way he has is to light brimstone beneath the trees in which the pheasants roost. the powerful fumes soon overpower the birds, and they come flapping down the trees one by one. this method has the advantage of silence, and if the night is still need not be detected. away from the preserves time is no object, and so the moucher who works systematically, and is content with a brace of birds at a time, usually gets the most in the end, with least chance of capture. the pugnacity of the pheasant is well known to him, and out of this trait he makes capital. when the whereabouts of the keeper is known, he takes under his arm a game cock fitted with artificial spurs. these are attached to the natural ones, are sharp as needles, and the bird is trained how to use them. upon the latter's crowing one or more cock pheasants immediately respond and advance to meet the adversary. a single blow usually suffices to lay low the pride of the pheasant, and in this way half-a-dozen birds may often be taken whilst the poacher's representative remains unhurt. the most cruelly ingenious plan adopted by poachers, however, is also one of the most successful. if time and opportunity offer, there is scarcely any limit to the depredations which it allows. a number of dried peas are taken and steeped in boiling water; a hole is then made through the centre with a needle or some sharp instrument, and through this a stiff bristle is threaded. the ends are cut off short, leaving only about a quarter of an inch of bristle projecting at each end. with these the birds are fed, and are greedily eaten. in passing down the gullet, however, a violent irritation is set up, and the pheasant is finally choked. the birds are picked up in a dying condition from beneath the hedges, to which shelter they almost always run. the plan is a quiet one; may be adopted in roads and lanes where the birds dust themselves, and does not require trespass. the methods here set forth both with regard to pheasants and rabbits are those ordinarily in use. in connection with the former it might have been remarked that the gamekeeper sometimes outwits the poacher by a device which is now of old standing. knowing well from what quarter the depredators will enter the woods, wooden blocks representing roosting birds are nailed to the branches of the open beeches. the poacher rarely fires at these "dummies," and it is only with the casual that the ruse works. he fires, brings the keepers out of their hiding places and so is entrapped. it need hardly be said that our poacher is a compound of many individuals--the type of a numerous class. the tinge of rustic romance to which we have already referred as exhibited in his character may have been detected in his goings. and we may at once say that he in nowise resembles the armed ruffian who, masked and with murderous intent, enters the covert at night. although his life is one long protest against the game laws, he is not without a rude code of morality. he complains bitterly of the decrease of game, and that the profession is hardly now worth following. endowed with marked intelligence, it has never been directed aright. his knowledge of woodcraft is superior to that of the gamekeeper, which personage he holds in contempt. he quietly boasts of having outwitted the keepers a hundred times. the "otter" is chary as to those he takes into confidence, and knows that silence is essential to success. he points to the "mole,"--the mouldy _sobriquet_ of a compatriot--as an instance of one who tells poaching secrets to village gossips. the "mole" spends most of his time in the county gaol, and is now undergoing incarceration for the fifty-seventh time. our "otter" has certainly been caught, but the occasions of his capture form but a small percentage of the times he has been "out." he is a healthy example of pure animalism, and his rugged nature has much in common with the animals and birds. as an accurately detailed reflection of nature, his monograph of any one of our british game-birds would excel even those of mr. jefferies himself; yet of culture he hasn't an idea. he admires the pencilled plumage of a dead woodcock, and notes how marvellously it conforms to the grey-brown herbage among which it lies. so, too, with the eggs of birds. he remarks on the conformation to environment--of partridge and pheasant, the olive colour to the dead oak leaves; of snipe and plover to the mottled marsh; of duck and water fowl to the pale green reeds. as to his morality with regard to the game laws, it would be difficult to detect exactly where he draws the line. he lives for these to be repealed, but his native philosophy tells him that when this time comes game will have become well nigh extinct. upon the ground game act he looks with mingled feelings, for, after all, are not rabbits and hares the chief product of his nights? the farmers now get these, and the poacher's field is limited. they engage him, maybe, to stay the ravages upon clover and young wheat, or to thin the rabbits from out the pastures. he propitiates the farmer in many ways. occasionally in the morning the farm lad finds half-a-dozen rabbits or a hare dropped behind the barn door. how these came there no one knows--nor asks. the country attorney is sometimes submitted to a like indignity. in crossing land the poacher is careful to close gates after him, and he never breaks down fences. he assists cattle and sheep which he finds in extremity, and leaves word of the mishap at the farm. is it likely that the farmer will dog the steps of the man who protects his property, and pays tolls for doing it? and it frequently happens that the poacher is not less popular with the village community at large than with those whose interests he serves. it is even asserted that more than one of the county justices have, in some sort, a sneaking affection for him. the same wild spirit and love of sport take him to the fields and woods as his more fortunate brethren to the moor and covert. it is untrue, as has been said, that the poacher is always a mercenary wretch who invariably sells his game; he as frequently sends in a brace of birds or a hare to a poor or sick neighbour. he comes in contact with the law just sufficient to make him know something of its bearings. when charged with being in possession of "game," he reiterates the old argument that rabbits are vermin. being committed for four months "for night poaching," he respectfully informs the presiding justice that at the time of his capture the sun had risen two hours, and that the law does not allow more than half the sentence just passed upon him. the old clerk fumbles for his horn spectacles, and, after turning over _stone's justices' manual_ solemnly informs the bench that defendant in his interpretation is right. he remembers this little episode and chuckles over it. there is another which is equally marked in his memory. the "otter" poached long and successfully ere he was caught, and then was driven into an ambuscade by a combination of keepers. exultant at his downfall, the men of gaiters flocked from every estate in the country-side to witness his conviction. some, who had only seen a vanishing form in the darkness, attended to see the man. this wild spirit of the night was always followed by an old black bitch. she, too, was produced in court, and was an object of much curiosity. the "otter" had been taken in the act, he told the bench. "he deserved no quarter and asked none. poaching was right by the bible, but wrong by the law." one of the justices deigned to remark it was a question of "property," not morality. "oh!" rejoined the "otter," "because blue blood doesn't run in my veins, that's no reason why i shouldn't have my share." and after a moment's pause: "but it's a queer kind o' property that's yours in that field, mine in the turnpike, and a third man's over the next fence." the end of it was, however, a fine of â£5, with an alternative. and so the case ended. but that day the keepers and their assistants had forgotten the first principles of watching. the best keeper is the one that is least seen. only let the poacher know his whereabouts, and the latter's work is easy. it was afterwards remarked that during the trial of the "otter" not a poacher was in court. this fact in itself was unusual--and significant. it became more so when he was released by reason of his heavy fine being paid the same evening. more than one woman had been seen labouring under loaded baskets near the local game dealer's, and these were innocently covered with mantling cresses, and so at the time escaped suspicion. upon this memorable day the pheasants had been fed by unseen hands and had vanished. the only traces left by the covert side were fluffy feathers everywhere. few hares remained on the land; these had either been snared or netted at the gates. the rabbits' burrows had been ferreted, an outhouse near the keeper's cottage being entered to obtain possession of the ferrets. it need hardly be said that had the "otter" been aware he would not have countenanced these lawless doings of his _confrã¨res_. he claimed to "poach square," and drew the line at home-reared pheasants, allowing them "property." those he found wild in the woods, however, were _fer㦠naturã¦_, and he directed his engines accordingly. every poacher knows that the difficulty lies not so much in obtaining the game as in transporting it safely home. their dogs are always trained to run on a couple of hundred yards in advance, so as to give warning of anyone's approach. if a police constable or keeper is met on the highway the dog immediately leaps the fence, and, under its cover, runs back to its master. seeing this the game-bag is dropped into a dry ditch, and dog and man make off in different directions. county constables loiter about unfrequented lanes and by-paths at daybreak. the poachers know this and are rarely met with game upon them. ditches, stacks, and ricks afford good hiding places until women can be sent to fetch the spoil. these failing, country carriers and morning milk carts are useful to the poacher. in one sleepy village known to us both the rural postman and the parish clerk were poachers. the latter carried his game in the black bag which usually held the funeral pall. the smith at the shoeing forge was a regular receiver, and there were few in the village who had not poached at some time or other. the cottage women netted fish, and shut the garden gates on hares and rabbits when they came down to feed in winter. upon one occasion a poacher, taking advantage of a country funeral, had himself and a large haul taken to the nearest market town, the hearse disgorging its questionable corpse behind the nearest game shop. another of the poachers, nicknamed the "gentleman," was wont to attire himself in broad-brimmed hat and frock coat similar to those worn a century ago by the people called quakers. in the former he carried his nets, and in the capacious pockets of the latter the game he took. these outward guarantees of good faith away from his own parish precluded him from ever once being searched. of late years egg poaching has been reduced to a science; and this is one of the worst phases of the whole subject. in certain districts it is carried on to a large extent, and comes of artificial rearing. the squire's keeper will give six pence each for pheasants' eggs and four pence for those of partridges. he often buys eggs (unknowingly, of course) from his own preserves, as well as from those of his neighbours. in the hedge bottom, along the covert side, or among gorse and broom, the poacher notices a pair of partridges roaming morning after morning. soon he finds their oak-leaf nest and olive eggs. these the keeper readily buys; winking at what he knows to be dishonest. plough-boys and farm-labourers have peculiar opportunities for egg-poaching. as to pheasants' eggs, if the keeper is an honest man and refuses to buy, there are always london dealers who will. once in the covert, pheasants' eggs are easily found. the birds get up heavily from their nests, and go away with a loud whirring of wings. in this species of poaching women and children are largely employed. at the time the former are ostensibly gathering sticks, the latter wild flowers. a receiver has been known to send to london in the course of a week a thousand eggs--probably every one of them stolen. when depredations are carried on nightly, or game disappears in large quantities, warrants are obtained, and search made for nets. except for immediate use the poachers seldom keep their nets at home. they are stowed away in church tower, barn, rick, or out-house. upon one occasion it got abroad that the constables would make a raid upon a certain cottage where a large net was known to be. the dwelling was a disused toll bar on the turnpike, and commanded a long stretch of road. the good woman of the house saw the constables approaching, and made the most of her time. taking off her gown, she fastened one end of the net, which was long and narrow, to a projecting crook in the wall; then retiring to the further side of the kitchen, she attached the other end of it to the whalebone of her stays, and by turning round and round, wound the net about her capacious person. when the constables arrived she accompanied them into every corner of the cottage, but no net could be found. chapter iii. badgers and otters. hazelhurst was a long line of woodland, on one side skirted by the sea and on the other by a crumbling limestone escarpment. it was woodland, too, with the deep impress of time upon it--a forest primeval. the branches and boles of the oaks were tortured out of all original conception. save for colour they might have been congealed water or duramen muscles. down in the hollows there was deep moss, elastic and silent, over all. for centuries the pines had shed their needles undisturbed. these and the pine trunks sent up a sweet savour from the earth--an odour that acted as a tonic to the whole being. there were sun-flashes in the glades, where the jays chattered and the cushats cooed, and where ever and anon a rabbit rustled through. often over these the kestrel hung and vibrated its shadow on the spot beneath; or the sparrow-hawk with its clean-cut figure stared with the down on his beak on a dead pine bough. in the summer red creatures that were bits of light gracefully glided among green tassels, and the chatter of squirrels was heard. the older trees attracted woodpeckers, and the nuthatch threw out fine fibres of rotten wood. sometimes a pheasant or a partridge would startle, getting up from its olive eggs by a log left by the charcoal-burners. thus rudely disturbed, it had no time to scatter leaves over its nest, as is its wont. the shaggy and corrugated bark of the old trees is larvã¦-haunted, and consequently mouse-like creepers abound. these little creatures on every trunk showed conspicuously as they ran their marvellous adaptation to an end, and fulfilled it perfectly. all the wood-birds were there--the white-throat, the wood and the willow wren, the chiffchaff, and garden-warbler. these sang from the leafy boughs. but higher up, towards the escarpment, the floor of the wood was rugged and rock-strewn. boulders had rolled from above, and among these dwelt weasels and ermines. there were at least a pair of martins, and foxes from the fells had their tracks through the woods. a primitive mansion had once stood in the wood, but now was gone. it had been large, and green mounds, now laid low, marked out its dimensions. old oak-panelling, with long-gone dates, were sometimes dug up, and these were covered with carvings--"carvings quaint and curious, all made out of the carver's brain." lying around this had been an extensive orchard, the rich, though old trees of which remained. and now, in this glorious summer-time, the golden fruit fell unheeded to the ground. for hazelhurst was long distant from town or nearest village. brambles held their luscious fruit, and every species of ground berry grew there. no wonder it was a paradise to mice and squirrels and birds. they revelled in nature's ample provision, and were undisturbed. here, in the days of our immediate ancestors, badgers were plentiful. now, where a ridge of rock ran through the wood, there was a hole, the entrance to a somewhat spacious cavity. this could be seen for the seeking, not otherwise. brambles and ground-ivy protected it. black bryony and woodbine twisted up every available stem, and a knot of blackthorn grew over all. the spot was protected and dense. one day we invaded it, but after long crawling and sticking fast had to return. in it lived the badgers--had done so time out of mind, and the few poachers who knew it called it "brock-holes." "brock" is the old north-country word for badger, and, as we have said, everything testified to its presence. in this wild fruit paradise at least two pairs of badgers bred. each pair had more than one apartment--at least the young were not produced in that which formed the general abode. these were at the ends of the burrow, where were the beds, composed of roots and dried grass. the young were brought forth in april, and after about six weeks might have been seen sitting about the mouth of their hole, or accompanying their dam to short distances when on her evening rambles. we always found the badgers unoffending, harmless creatures unless first attacked. they fed almost entirely on roots, wild fruit, grain, and occasionally insects. they were, however, extremely shy and wary. beautiful it was to see these creatures on summer evenings searching for food among the low bushes, occasionally giving a low grunt when some favourite root was turned up. when insects came within their reach they were snapped up somewhat after the manner of a dog catching flies. the life of the badger is eminently that of a peaceful creature, harmless in all its ways, unoffending, interesting in its life-history, useful, and, above all, fitted with a quiet contentment almost human. the body of the badger is long and heavy and its legs short, which give it an awkward shambling appearance when running. its beautifully-shaped head has two long lines running from the snout to the tips of the ears. the upper parts of its body are light grey, becoming darker below, the lower parts being quite black. the total length of a fully-grown male badger is about thirty-six inches. the structure of the creature is especially adapted to its mode of life, this being shown in the slender muzzle, with movable snout, which is employed in digging. it is when thus occupied, too, that the short, stout limbs are seen fulfilling their end; and when no natural cavity exists it is these limbs and snout that provide one. both are brought into frequent requisition when digging for roots, of certain of which the badger is particularly fond. badgers are quite susceptible of domestication, and a friend had a pair which he led about in collars. they are possessed of great affection for their young, and rush blindly into danger, or even suffer themselves to be killed, in attempting to rescue them.... we have stretched our length along a slab of rock which margins the bank and recedes far under it. the stream for the most part is rapid, but here narrows to slow, black depth. ever and ceaselessly does the water chafe and lap among the shelving rocks, and this, with the constant "drip," only seems to make the silence audible. fungi and golden mosses light up our dark retreat. never was green more green nor lichen tracery more ravishing. close-clinging and rock-loving is all life here. water percolates through the bank, and spreads its silver filament over all. far out and beyond the deep wood it comes from the scaurs, and the limestone sends its carbonate to dome our retreat. miniature stalactites hang from the roof, and bright bosses rise from the floor. frail fern fronds depend from the crevices, and as the light rushes in, masses of golden saxifrage gild all the chamber. the beams will not long stay, for the sun dips in the western woods. from the mouth of our recess we take in a silent river reach. it is thickly embowered and overhung. long drooping racemes of green tree flowers attract innumerable insects, especially those of the lime, and intent upon these a flycatcher sits lengthwise upon a branch. how beautiful are its short flights, the iridescence of its plumage, its white eye-lines, and barred forehead! numerous small waterfalls, the gauze and film veils of which, when the wind blows, and dripping moss, have attracted the dippers. kingfishers, too, in their green flight, dash over the still water. the remote pines have lost their light, and stand black against the sky. sundown has come, and it is the hour of vesper hymns. the woods are loud swelling volumes of sound. behind us is a woodland enchanted, though with no sadder spirits than blackbirds and thrushes that whistle to cheer it. this loud evening hymn lasts for an hour, then subsides, and the woods hush. the stem of the silver birch ceases to vibrate to the blackbird's whistle. the polyglot wood-thrush is dreaming of gilded fly and dewy morn, and finally that last far-off song has ceased. silence--an intense holy calm--is over the woods. chill comes, the dew rises, and twilight;--and the night side of nature. how rich and varied is that of the stream side! the fern-owls with their soft plumage and noiseless flight come out, as do the great moths and bustards. this prevalence of life at the same time is as nature would have it--the one acting as food for the other. the beat of unseen pinions is heard above, but no object visible--some night-haunting bird flying off to its feeding ground. through the short night summer snipe whistle and wail. newly-arrived crakes call from the meadows, and a disturbed lapwing gets up crying from the green cornstalks. maybe the disturber was the hare whose almost human cry now comes from the thorn fence. for it the corn sprouts have come for the last time, and soon it will be in the poacher's wallet. a loud splash comes from the water, and a great black trout has sucked down its prey. this is a large-winged night-fly. that first splash is a token of more abundant night food, and soon the reach boils. every speckled trout is "on its feed." how we long for the pliant, sympathetic rod! then, ye lusty trout, how would the undefinable thrill rush at intervals up our arm! but our mission to-night is not this. the herons scream, the wood-owls hoot, and--what is that other night sound? the crescent moon shows a bit of light at intervals; soon masses of cloud intervene. a faint whistle, unlike that of any bird, comes up stream, and although imperceptible the dark, still water is moved. the trout cease to rise. the whistle comes nearer, and then a rustle is heard. the osier beds are stirred, and some long dark object makes its way between the parted stems. a movement would dispel the dark shadow, and which in turn would divide the dark water and take it silently away. the otters have reconnoitered, and all is safe. they come paddling down stream, and, arriving at the pool, stop, tumble and frolic, rolling over and over, and round and round, and performing the most marvellous evolutions you could possibly conceive. they swing on the willow spray, and dash with lightning velocity at a piece of floating bark, tumble with it, wrestle with it, and go through a hundred wonderful movements. they are motionless, then begin to play, and so continue for nearly an hour, when, as if suddenly alarmed, they rush down stream to their fishing grounds, and leave us cold and benumbed. we plod through the meadow beneath the moon and stars, chilled to the marrow by the falling dew. otters are still abundant on the banks of most northern streams, as also among the rocks and boulders of the coast-line. human invasion drives them from their haunts, although, where waters remain unpolluted, they not unfrequently pass up the rivers by towns and villages during the still night. on the margins of the more secluded tarns of the fells, otters, too, are yet found. fitted for an aquatic existence, the structure of the otter beautifully exhibits the provisions suitable to its mode of life. on land it can travel swiftly, though the water is its best element. immersed in this, its coat appears smooth and glossy. in pursuing its prey it performs the most graceful movements, doubling and diving so rapidly that it is difficult to follow its evolutions. when fishing, its object is to get beneath the object pursued, as, from the construction of its eyes, which are placed high in the head, it is better enabled to secure its prey. this it seldom fails to do, its whole structure, as already remarked, greatly facilitating its movements in the water. its uniform dusky brown coat has, like all aquatic creatures, a soft under-fur with long hair above. the otter generally takes possession of a natural cavity, a drain, or a hole made by the inundation of the stream. the entrance is usually under water, and inclines towards the bank. situations where the latter is overhung with bushes and with tall water plants in the vicinity are generally chosen. from this the young, when three or four weeks old, betake themselves to the water. if captured now they may easily be domesticated. one of our friends has to-day a young otter, which he leads about in a leash. at bassenthwaite a man and his son trained a pair of otters to fish in the lake. they would return when called upon, or follow their master home when the fishing was over. the males in spring fight desperately, and once, when hidden, we witnessed a fight which lasted an hour, and so engrossed did the combatants become that we approached and, taking the part of the lesser, shot its aggressor. and now a word as to the food of the otter. that it destroys fish we are not about to deny. but this liking for fish has become such a stereotyped fact (?) in natural history that it is glibly repeated, parrot-like, and so continues until most readers have come to accept it. the otter destroys but few fish, using the word in its popular acceptation. what it destroys are for food, and not out of love of killing. the greater part of its diet consists of fresh-water crayfish, thousands of which it destroys, and it is for these that long journeys are so frequently made. this does not apply to the pairing season; the wanderings have then another end. many miles in a night are traversed for these crustaceans, the beds of mountain and moorland streams being tracked to their source, almost every stone on the way being examined. at least upon two occasions have we found the remains of the moor-hen after an otter's meal. chapter iv. couriers of the air. the power of flight being almost exclusively the characteristic attribute of birds, it is somewhat strange that even the most eminent naturalists should be silent upon it. and yet this is almost universally so. those who mention the speed of flight do so upon the most insufficient evidence, as witness michelet's statement that the swallow flies at the rate of eighty leagues an hour. roughly this gives us a thousand miles in four hours; but assuredly, even in its dashes, the swallow does not attain to anything like this speed. the duke of argyll is rather under than over the mark when he computes the speed at more than a hundred miles an hour. here, however, the mechanism of flight in the swallows is carried through an ascending scale, until in the swift it reaches its highest degree of power both in endurance and facility of evolution. although there are birds which may, and probably do, attain to a speed of one hundred and fifty miles an hour, this remarkable rate is not to be looked for in any of the birds of the swallow kind. there is something fascinating in the idea of eliminating time and space, and with this attribute popular fancy has in some measure clothed the swallows. at the greater rate of speed indicated above the swallow might, as has been stated, breakfast round the barbican, and take its mid-day _siesta_ in algiers. this, however, is a popular myth. in their migrations swallows stick close to land, and never leave it unless compelled; they cross straits at the narrowest part, and are among the most fatiguable of birds. from this it will be seen that although swallows may possess considerable speed, they have no great powers of sustained flight or endurance. these attributes belong, in the most marked degree, to several ocean birds. any one who has crossed the atlantic must have noticed that gulls accompany the ship over the whole distance; or, at least, are never absent throughout the voyage. the snowy "sea swallows," as the terns are called, seem quite tireless on the wing; though the petrels and albatross alone deserve the name of oceanic birds. sir edwin arnold, in an account of his voyage to america, writes as follows of the sea-swallows: "every day we see playing round the ship and skimming up and down the wave-hollows companies of lovely little terns and sea-swallows, the latter no larger than thrushes. these fearless people of the waste have not by any means followed us from land, living, as gulls often will, on the waste thrown from the vessel. they are vague and casual roamers of the ocean, who spying the great steamship from afar, have sailed close up, to see if we are a rock or an island, and will then skim away on their own free and boundless business. yonder tiny bird with purple and green plumage, his little breast and neck laced with silver, is distant one thousand miles at this moment from a drop of fresh water, and yet cares no more for the fact than did the irish squire who 'lived twelve miles from a lemon.' if his wings ever grow weary it is but to settle quietly on the bosom of a great billow and suffer it for a time to rock and roll him amid this hissing spendrift, the milky flying foam, and the broken sea-lace which forms and gleams and disappears again upon the dark slopes. when he pleases, a stroke of the small red foot and a beat of the wonderful wing launch him off from the jagged edge of his billow, and he flits past us at one hundred knots an hour, laughing steam and canvas to scorn, and steering for some nameless crag in labrador or fundy, or bound, it may be, homeward for some island or marsh of the far-away irish coast. marvellously expressive of power as is our untiring engine, which all day and all night throbs and pants and pulses in noisy rhythm under the deck, what a clumsy affair it is compared to the dainty plumes and delicate muscles which carry that pretty, fearless sea-swallow back to his roost." no deserts seem to bound the range of the petrels, and they are found at every distance from land. different species inhabit every ocean--from the fulmar in the far north to the giant petrel which extends its flight to the icebanks of the south. here the antarctic and snowy petrels appear, floating upon the drift ice, and never leaving these dreary seas. another bird of immense wing power is the tiny stormy petrel, the smallest web-footed bird known. it belongs to every sea, and although so seeming frail it breasts the utmost fury of the storm, skimming with incredible velocity the trough of the waves, and gliding rapidly over their snowy crests. petrels have been observed two thousand miles from nearest land, whilst at half that distance sir james ross once saw a couple of penguins quietly paddling in the sea. a pair of the rudimentary wings of this bird are lying before me as i write. these are simply featherless paddles, but by their aid so rapidly does the bird swim that it almost defies many of the fishes to equal it. the enormous appetite of the giant penguin (which weighs about eighty pounds) may have something to do with its restricted powers of flight, and in the stomach of one of these ross found ten pounds of quartz, granite, and trap fragments, swallowed most likely to promote digestion. but surely the lord of the winged race is the bird which does not rest; and this may almost be said of the man-of-war or frigate bird. he is a navigator who never reaches his bourne, and from his almost ceaseless flight it would seem as though earth and sea were equally prohibited to him. to a bird with such an immense and superior wing apparatus, the metaphor, "he sleeps upon the storm," becomes almost literal. this black, solitary bird is nearly nothing more than wings, his prodigious pinions measuring fifteen feet, even surpassing those of the condor of the andes. although sometimes seen four hundred leagues from land, the frigate bird is said to return every night to its solitary roost. of all birds, the albatross has, perhaps, the most extended powers of flight. it has been known to follow a vessel for several successive days without once touching the water except to pick up floating food; and even then it does not rest. in describing the flight of this bird from personal observation, captain hutton writes as follows: "the flight of the albatross is truly majestic, as with outstretched motionless wings he sails over the surface of the sea--now rising high in the air, now with a bold sweep and wings inclined at an angle with the horizon, descending until the tip of the lower one all but touches the crests of the waves as he skims over them. i have sometimes watched narrowly one of these birds sailing and wheeling about in all directions for more than an hour without seeing the slightest movement of the wings, and have never witnessed anything to equal the ease and grace of this bird as he sweeps past, often within a few yards--every part of his body perfectly motionless except the head and eye, which turn slowly and seem to take notice of everything. 'tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow; even in its very motion there was rest.'" but these birds and the frigate bird are sea and ocean species, and, with rare exceptions, are able to rest upon the waters. this, however, cannot be said of many of the land birds, and here observation is easier. as an antithesis to the apparently lifeless wings of the albatross, pettigrew compares the ceaseless activity of those of the humming-bird. in these delicate and exquisitely beautiful birds, the wings, according to gould, move so rapidly when the bird is poised before an object that it is impossible for the eye to follow each stroke, and a hazy circle of indistinctness on each side the bird is all that is perceptible. when a humming-bird flies in a horizontal direction, it occasionally proceeds with such velocity as altogether to elude observation. mention of the calm majestic flight of the albatross suggests the possibility of birds resting on the wing. an american naturalist asserts that birds of prey and some others have the power to lock securely together those parts of the wing holding the extended feathers, and corresponding to the fingers of the human hand. the action of the air on the wing in this condition extends the elbow, which is prevented from opening too far by a cartilage, and the wings may keep this position for an indefinite length of time, with no muscular action whatever on the part of the bird. while resting in this way, the bird cannot rise in a still atmosphere; but if there be a horizontal current, it may allow itself to be carried along by it, with a slight tendency downward, and so gain a momentum by which, with a slight change of direction, it may rise to some extent, still without muscular action of the wings. this same naturalist also believes it quite possible for birds to sleep on the wing. as bearing on this subject, professor j. s. newbury asserts that he once shot a bird which came slowly to the ground as if still flying, but reached it dead. he believed that it had died high in the air; but had never been able to account for the manner of its descent till now, when he found an explanation in the statement just given. thousands of gold-crests annually cross and recross the north sea at the wildest periods of the year, and unless the weather is rough generally make their migrations in safety. and yet this is the smallest and frailest british bird--a mere fluff of feathers, weighing only seventy grains. another of the tits, the oxeye, has been met upon two occasions at six hundred and nine hundred miles from land. with regard to those birds which cross the atlantic, it matters not for our purpose whether they are driven by stress of weather or cross voluntarily--suffice it they come. less likely birds that have occurred in britain are the belted kingfisher and american yellow-billed cuckoo. the white-winged crossbill must be mentioned with less certainty, for, although a north american bird, it is also found in some northern european countries. all birds of great and sustained powers of flight have one well-marked characteristic--they have long wings, with sharply-pointed ends. the general truth of this will be at once admitted if the rule be applied to the various species mentioned above. another point is worthy of notice. the apparent speed of flight to an unpractised eye is most deceptive. a heron, as it rises and flaps languidly along the course of a brook, appears not only to progress slowly but to use its wings in like manner. yet the duke of argyll has pointed out, and any one may verify the statement by his watch, that the heron seldom flaps his wings at a rate of less than from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and fifty times in a minute. this is counting only the downward strokes, so that the bird really makes from two hundred and forty to three hundred separate movements a minute. the rook and heron fly in almost straight lines, have large rounded wings, and float with the greatest ease upon the air. the rook in its measured flight makes about five-and-twenty miles an hour; the heron thirty. our short-winged game birds fly with incredible velocity, and any attempt to observe or count their wing movements leaves but a blurred impression on the eye, whilst in some species so quick is the vibratory movement as to prevent its being seen. driven grouse flying "down wind" have been known to seriously stun sportsmen by falling upon their heads. a grouse does not move its wings so rapidly as a partridge, though the late c. s. was once clean knocked out of a battery by a grouse he had shot falling upon him; and in this way loaded guns have frequently been fired by dead birds. the duke of beaufort upon one occasion picked up a brace of grouse which had cannoned and killed each other in mid-air, and colliding is not an unfrequent occurrence. as illustrating a remarkable quality of flight, the case of the kestrel or windhover may be taken. on a summer day one may frequently see this pretty little falcon standing against the blue in what seems an absolutely stationary position, as though suspended by an invisible silken thread. but let a meadow-mouse so much as move and it drops to the sward in an instant. as has been already stated, there is perhaps nothing more wonderful in nature than the power of flight, and no subject which yields such startling facts upon investigation. "the way of an eagle in the air" is one of those things of which solomon expressed himself ignorant; and there is something truly marvellous in the mechanism which controls the scythe-like sweep of wings peculiar to most birds of prey. the noblest of these, the peregrine, has been seen flying over mid-atlantic; and henry iv., king of france, had a falcon which escaped from fontainebleau, and in twenty-four hours after was found in malta, a space computed to be not less than 1,350 miles, a velocity equal to fifty-six miles an hour, supposing the hawk to have been on the wing the whole time. indeed, in montagu's opinion, the rapidity with which hawks and other birds occasionally fly is probably not less than at the rate of a hundred and fifty miles an hour, when either pursued or pursuing. the speed of flight of the peregrine cited above is about that of our best trained pigeons; and it may here be remarked that the flight of these two (otherwise dissimilar) birds very much resembles each other. the beautiful swallow-tailed kite has accomplished the feat of flying across the whole atlantic ocean, which is hardly to be wondered at seeing its vast powers of flight. lieuwenholk relates an exciting chase which he saw in a menagerie about one hundred feet long between a swallow and a dragon-fly (mordella). the insect flew with incredible speed, and wheeled with such address that the swallow, notwithstanding its utmost efforts, completely failed to overtake and capture it. the best speed of a railway train is only a little more than half the velocity of the golden eagle, the flight of which often attains to the rate of one hundred and forty miles an hour. of all birds, the condor mounts highest into the atmosphere. humboldt describes the flight of this bird in the andes to be at least twenty thousand feet above the level of the sea. upon one occasion a falcon was observed to cut a snipe right in two, with such strength and speed did it cut down its prey. sparrow-hawks and merlins have not unfrequently been known to crash through thick plate-glass windows when in pursuit of prey, or at caged birds. of all british birds, none is so beautiful or so secluded in its habits as the kingfisher. its presence is peculiarly in keeping with the rapid rocky trout streams which it loves to haunt. its low, arrow-like flight, as it darts like a streak of azure, green, and gold, is familiar to every angler. he hears it far down stream; it comes under the old ivied bridge, passes like a flash, and is gone--how quickly the following will show. mr. george rooper, the well-known biographer of the salmon, was travelling on the great western railway, which between pangbourne and reading runs parallel with, and close to, the thames. as the train approached the river a kingfisher started from the bank and flew along the river for nearly a mile. mr. rooper watched it the whole distance, and its relative position with the window never varied a yard; the bird flying at exactly the same pace as that at which the train travelled, and which the observer had just previously ascertained to be fifty-five miles an hour. this is about half the speed at which the eider-duck flies, as, when fairly on the wing, it makes upwards of one hundred and twenty miles an hour. the rapidity with which all birds of the plover kind fly is well known, and a "trip" of golden plover have been seen midway between hawaii and the mainland. an officer in donald currie's line recently brought home with him a specimen of the st. helena waxbill which he caught when on watch on the bridge of the _grantully castle_. at the time the nearest land was distant a thousand miles, and the little captive was so distressed that it quietly allowed the officer to capture it. it has been computed that a red-throated diver swims about four and a half miles on the surface of the water, and between six and seven beneath the surface per hour. macgillivray states that upon one occasion he watched a flock of red-breasted mergansers pursuing sand eels, when the birds seemed to move under the water with almost as much velocity as in the air, and often rose to breathe at a distance of two hundred yards from the spot at which they had dived. to show to what depth this bird flies beneath the water it may be mentioned that one was caught in a net at thirty fathoms; while a shag, or green cormorant, has been caught in a crab pot fixed at twenty fathoms below the surface; and guillemots literally fly under water without even using their feet. as bearing directly on the interesting subject of flight under water the case of another of the divers may be mentioned. it has been said that one of the strong and original strokes of nature was when she made the "loon," a bird which represents the wildness and solitariness of the wildest and most solitary spots. it dives with such marvellous quickness that the shot of the gunner gets there just in time to cut across a circle of descending tail feathers and a couple of little jets of water flung upward by the web feet of the loon. speaking of this bird burroughs says that in the water "its wings are more than wings. it plunges into this denser air, and flies with incredible speed. its head and beak form a sharp point to its tapering neck. its wings are far in front, and its legs equally far in the rear, and its course through the crystal depths is like the speed of an arrow. in the northern lakes it has been taken forty feet under water upon hooks baited for the great lake trout. i had never seen one till last fall, when one appeared on the river in front of my house. i knew instantly it was the loon. who could not tell a loon a half-mile or more away, though he had never seen one before? the river was like glass, and every movement of the bird as it sported about broke the surface into ripples, that revealed it far and wide. presently a boat shot out from shore, and went ripping up the surface toward the loon. the creature at once seemed to divine the intentions of the boatman, and sidled off obliquely, keeping a sharp look-out as if to make sure it was pursued. a steamer came down and passed between them, and when the way was again clear the loon was still swimming on the surface. presently it disappeared under the water, and the boatman pulled sharp and hard. in a few moments the bird reappeared some rods further on, as if to make an observation. seeing it was being pursued, and no mistake, it dived quickly, and when it came up again had gone many times as far as the boat had in the same space of time. then it dived again, and distanced its pursuer so easily that he gave over the chase and rested upon his oars. but the bird made a final plunge, and when it emerged upon the surface again it was over a mile away. its course must have been, and doubtless was, an actual flight under water, and half as fast as the crow flies in the air. the loon would have delighted the old poets. its wild, demoniac laughter awakens the echoes on the solitary lakes, and its ferity and hardiness were kindred to those robust spirits." another specially interesting bird which does something nearly approaching to flying under water is the dipper. the ouzel is essentially a bird of the running brook, though as to what part this pretty white-breasted thrush plays in the economy of nature naturalists are by no means agreed. its most frequent stand is upon some mossy stone in a river reach, and here its crescented form may oftenest be seen. it haunts the brightly-running streams in winter as in summer, and when these are transformed into roaring torrents seems to love them best. let us watch it awhile. it dashes through the spray and into the white foam, performing its morning ablutions. then it emerges to perch on a stone, always jerking its body about, and dipping, dipping, ever dipping. presently it melts into the water like a bubble, but immediately emerges to regain its seat, then trills out a loud wren-like song, but, breaking off short, again disappears. we are standing on an old stone bridge, and are enabled to observe it closely. by a rapid, vibratory motion of the wings, it drives itself down through the water, and by the aid of its wide-spreading feet clings to and walks among the pebbles. these it rapidly turns over with its bill, searching for the larv㦠of water flies and gauzy-winged _ephemerã¦_. it searches the brook carefully downwards, sometimes clean immersed, at other times with its back out, then with the water barely covering its feet. it does not always work with the stream, as we have frequently seen him struggling against it, but retaining its position upon the bottom. even at the present day there are naturalists who, from the examination of cabinet specimens, aver that it is not in the power of the bird to walk on the bottom of the brook, but then they know nothing of him along his native streams. taking advantage of two birds remarkable for their long and sustained powers of flight, experiments have recently been conducted with a view to utilising swallows and pigeons as war messengers. in this connection the use of trained pigeons is one of the oldest institutions in the world; though now that certain european powers have trained falcons to cut down pigeons, it is said that the pigeon-post is not sufficiently reliable. in consequence a number of french _savants_ recently approached the minister of war, and induced him to found a military swallow-cote whence the birds might be trained. the governor of lille was charged to test the plan, and certain experiments made at roubaix last year are now commanded to be repeated under the supervision of captain degouy of the engineers. during the coming autumn this gentleman is to be present at a grand flight of messenger swallows; and if his report is favourable, a swallow-cote will be founded and placed under the care of special trainers at mont valã©rian. the idea of engaging swallows in war is a pretty one, as in future all european wars will have to be conducted in "swallow-time"--when the warm winds blow from the sunny south. this arrangement will at least obviate night-watches in frozen trenches; nor is it likely that pickets will any longer be starved to death at their posts. the incident is also quoted in proof of the fact that we are nearing the time when europe will be governed by the parliament of man, the federation of the world. but, after all, the idiosyncrasies of france have a way of not being fulfilled; and the reign of the swallow will doubtless be as ephemeral as that of the _brav' gã©nã©ral_ himself. in all their military operations of late the french have made considerable use of pigeons in conveying despatches; and in the franco-german war the birds played a conspicuous part. upon several occasions, indeed, the inhabitants of beleaguered cities looked upon the successful flights of these birds as their only hope betwixt death and starvation. at the time the french were making trials with messenger swallows, the young german emperor ordered extensive experiments to be carried out with carrier pigeons, the same to be tested at the imperial manoeuvres. upon this, six of the first columbarian societies of germany each offered to supply twenty-four birds, which are now in training. so we have it that the french are endeavouring to train swallows, the germans pigeons, and the russians falcons. whether the falcons are themselves to convey messages, or are to be used to cut down the swallows and pigeons whilst so engaged, is not stated. the pigeon is a tried messenger, and has, moreover, some interesting and remarkable records. the claim of the swallow, on the other hand, lies all in its possibilities. in this connection "swallow" must stand in a generic sense, and include all birds of the swallow kind as well as the swift. although, as already stated, swallows are among the most fatiguable of birds, yet one of the american species--the purple martin--would seem to be an exception, and the fact of its having crossed the atlantic is well known. it is true that swallows attain to an immense speed in their rushes, and there is a well-authenticated instance of one having flown twenty miles in thirteen minutes. the probable speed of the swallow, flying straight and swift, is about one hundred and twenty miles an hour; its ordinary speed ninety miles. the swift attains to two hundred miles, and seems quite tireless on the wing. if swifts can be inspired with a sense of discipline; if french wars can invariably be arranged for the summer months; and if some arrangement can be made with the insect hosts to keep the upper air--_then_ something may come of the lille experiments. if these things cannot be, the french sharpshooter will never be asked to try flying shots at swifts rushing through the air at the rate of two hundred miles an hour. if the russians are training falcons to catch pigeons, the germans must train raptors to catch swallows. here is a fact which proves the possibility. the hobby falcon, a summer migrant to britain, hawks for dragon-flies--among the swiftest of insects--which it seizes with its foot and devours in mid-air. it cuts down swifts, larks, pigeons, and, where they are found, bee-birds--all remarkable for their great powers of flight. by way of testing the speed of flight in birds of the swallow kind, spallanzani captured and marked a sand-martin or bank-swallow--the feeblest of its genus--on her nest at pavia and set her free at milan, fifteen miles away. she flew back in thirteen minutes. in striking contrast with the rate at which birds with long pointed wings fly is the fact that one of a pair of starlings (which are short-winged birds) was captured and sent in a basket a distance of upwards of thirty miles by train. it was then freed, and was three hours before it found its way back to its nestlings. to turn from swallows to pigeons. the power of pigeons on the wing is proverbial. all trained birds of this species have two qualifications in a marked degree. the first is speed; the second long and sustained powers of flight. this proposition can be amply demonstrated, and the following are some of the most remarkable records. on the 6th of october, 1850, sir john ross despatched a pair of young pigeons from assistance bay, a little west of wellington sound; and on october 13th a pigeon made its appearance at the dovecote in ayrshire, scotland, whence sir john had the pair he took out. the distance direct between the two places is two thousand miles. an instance is on record of a pigeon flying twenty-three miles in eleven minutes; and another flew from rouen to ghent, one hundred and fifty miles, in an hour and a half. an interesting incident of flight is the case of a pigeon which, in 1845, fell wounded and exhausted at vauxhall station, then the terminus of the south-western railway. it bore a message to the effect that it was one of three despatched to the duke of wellington from ichaboe island, two thousand miles away. the message was immediately sent on to his grace, and by him acknowledged. in a pigeon competition some years ago, the winning bird flew from ventnor to manchester, two hundred and eight miles, at the rate of fifty-five miles an hour. as an experiment a trained pigeon was recently dispatched from a northern newspaper office with a request that it might be liberated for its return journey at 9.45 a.m. it reached home at 1.10 p.m. having covered in the meantime one hundred and forty miles, flying at the rate of forty miles an hour. in the north pigeons have long been used to convey messages between country houses and market towns; and in russia they are now being employed to convey negatives of photographs taken in balloons. the first experiment of the kind was made from the cupola of the cathedral of isaac, and the subject photographed was the winter palace. the plates were packed in envelopes impenetrable to light, and then tied to the feet of the pigeons, which safely and quickly carried them to the station at volkovo. here is another interesting instance of speed and staying power. the pigeons in this case flew from bordeaux to manchester, and not only beat all existing records, but flew more than seventy miles further than anything previously attempted by english flyers. the winning bird flew at the rate of eighteen hundred and seventy-nine yards a minute, or over sixty-four miles an hour, and that for a distance of one hundred and forty-two and a half miles. the same club has flown birds distances of six hundred and thirteen, and six hundred and twenty-five miles. these latter, however, were several days in returning, and in their case the only wonder is that they could accomplish the distance at all. the following is still more interesting, as it entailed a race between birds and insects. a pigeon-fancier of hamme, in westphalia, made a wager that a dozen bees liberated three miles from their hive would reach it in better time than a dozen pigeons would reach their cot from the same distance. the competitors were given wing at rhynhern, a village nearly a league from hamme, and the first bee finished a quarter of a minute in advance of the first pigeon, three other bees reached the goal before the second pigeon, the main body of both detachments finishing almost simultaneously an instant or two later. the bees, too, may be said to have been handicapped in the race, having been rolled in flour before starting for purposes of identification. the american passenger pigeon compasses the whole atlantic ocean. the speed of its flight is approximately known; it is able to cover one thousand six hundred miles in twenty-four hours. this, however, is marvellous, when it is seen that, flying at the rate of nearly seventy miles an hour, it takes the bird two days and nights to cross. what must be the nature of the mechanism that can stand such a strain as this? this pigeon is now recognised as a british bird. several examples have occurred, and whilst some of these were probably "escapes," others doubtless were wild birds. these had perfect plumage, were taken in an exhausted condition, and their crops showed only the slightest traces of food. as is well known, the passenger pigeon is a bird of immense powers of flight, and in its overland journeys often flies at the rate of a mile a minute. wild birds, however, can only come from america; and this opens up the interesting question as to the possibility of birds crossing the atlantic without once resting. naturalists of the present day say that this feat is not only probable, but that it is accomplished by several birds. mr. darwin somewhere asserts that one or two of them are annually blown across the ocean; and it is certain that half-a-dozen species have occurred upon the west coasts of england and ireland, which are found nowhere but in north america. mr. howard saunders states that passenger pigeons are often captured in the state of new york with their crops still filled with the undigested grains of rice that must have been taken in the distant fields of georgia and south carolina; apparently proving that they passed over the intervening space within a few hours. it certainly seems remarkable that a bird should have the power of winging its way over four thousand miles of sea; but recently two persons have recorded the fact that they have noticed pigeons settle upon the water to drink, then rise from it with apparent ease. and mr. darwin says that, where the banks of the nile are perpendicular, whole flocks of pigeons have been seen to settle on the water and drink while they floated down the stream. he adds that, seen from a distance, they resemble flocks of gulls on the surface of the sea. the passenger pigeon is one of the handsomest of its kind. the accounts of its migrations in search of food are known to all. it is said to move in such vast flocks as to darken the earth as they pass over, and that one of these columns brings devastation wherever it comes. in the anglo-belgian pigeon races, some of the birds attain to nearly a mile a minute, and this when the race is for five hundred miles. the english, french, and germans all rear pigeons in their fortresses; and the birds are utilised by the trinity house in conveying messages from the lightships. they are also in use on the indian stations. the following are additional remarkable instances of quick and long sustained powers of flight which show what the pigeon is capable of doing. thirty-three birds were recently brought from termonde, in belgium, and were liberated at sunderland at 5 a.m. a telegram received at the latter place stated that sixteen of the birds reached home at 1.35 the same afternoon, having accomplished the distance of four hundred and eighty miles in about eight and a half hours, or about fifty-six miles an hour. a week previous the same birds had flown from london to brussels. it has frequently been suggested that homing pigeons should be used to carry telegraphic messages between country houses and post offices. in many cases pigeons have been used as telegraphic messengers with the most successful results. sending into town, by the people of the hall is a frequent occurrence, and whenever a messenger had occasion to go, some pigeons, bred at the hall are sent in a hamper by the dog-cart or what-not. these are taken possession of by a local tradesman living near the post office, who also receives the telegrams. the latter are rolled up and tied either round the bird's leg, or so that it lies across the upper part of its breast. the pigeon is then liberated, and in about ten minutes from the time of despatch the telegram is delivered at the hall, five miles distant. the reverse process is repeated with the tradesman's pigeons kept at the hall if a reply to the telegram is required. the platform leading into the pigeon-house is connected with an electric bell that rings when the pigeon, reaching home, alights on the platform, and thus notifies the servants the arrival of a telegram; one of them then goes and unties it from the bird's neck. much saving in porterage is thus accomplished; the telegrams are delivered in a few minutes, and rarely, if ever, lost. the ordinary homing pigeon is best adapted for the purpose, being an inexpensive purchase. in proof of this fitness the following most remarkable incident may be recorded. a number of english homers were recently sent to lassay, an inland town of france, but for some reason the french police authorities refused to start them, and the birds were relegated to cherbourg, where they were liberated at 7 a.m. one of them was seen to alight on the roof of its loft at 11.30 the same forenoon. it had accomplished the entire distance of about three hundred miles, including one hundred miles of water, in a bee-line from cherbourg to birkenhead at the rate of over a mile a minute. this particular bird had never been any great distance from home, and although english bred it was from a famous strain of belgian "homers." the large provincial towns in the north of england are the great centres of pigeon-flying. recently as many as two thousand five hundred birds were liberated at a flight. every one of these pigeons were out of sight in one minute from the time they were thrown up, a fact which shows how strong is the "homing" instinct within them. the homing pigeon may not supersede the telegraph; but in disturbed times it is the business of an enemy to cut the wires, to tap them, or even to send misleading despatches along them. no such danger need be apprehended from a carrier pigeon, for, if well trained, it will fly straight from loft to loft, never parting with its tiny scroll unless killed or taken--a mishap which is not likely to befall more than one or two of a flight. as already stated, some remarkable results have already been achieved, not only by government birds--whose performances and proceedings are, of course, kept secret--but by those belonging to the numerous carrier-pigeon societies which have been established on the continent either for mere amusement or with more patriotic objects in view. thus, some years ago, a homing pigeon covered the six hundred and fifteen miles--air-line--between liã©ge, in belgium, and san sebastian, in spain, in the course of a single day; and in the united states as much as five hundred miles has been traversed in from twenty-four to twenty-eight hours--that is, the birds were absent from loft to loft for that period. but, as the progress of the pigeon from one station to another cannot be accurately followed, it may have halted on the way. the bird is believed to travel the first day without stopping, and being stiff and sore, to rest the second day, resuming its journey on the third, since it is seldom that "a return" comes back travel-stained or weary. when the rearing and training of carrier-pigeons for french military service was seriously undertaken, the first thing to be done was to find a breed of birds at once intelligent, hardy, strong, light on the wing, and of a dull, uniform colour, likely to escape notice and pursuit. all these attributes are possessed by the belgian breed, which is divided into two classes; the large, heavy antwerp, and the smaller, lighter luttrich variety. the scientific training, which must be begun early, is as follows: as soon as the young pigeons can fly they are taken out of the pigeon-house, put into a basket, and carried (always with the flying-hole of the basket kept carefully turned towards the pigeon-house), to an unknown spot at a short distance, where they are set free and let fly home. it is seldom that a pigeon fails, in the first short trial, to find its way back to its paternal nest. at each trial the distance is slightly lengthened. pigeons six months old are liberated at a distance of eighty kilometres from home, those of a year old at one hundred and fifty kilometres, those of two years at three hundred kilometres, and older tried birds at six hundred to eight hundred kilometres. these, of course, are average measurements, and are varied according to circumstance. the percentage of losses naturally increases with increasing distance. in long flights the birds meet with innumerable hindrances; rain, hail, fog, wind, and thunderstorms not only impede their flight, but often affect their wonderful sense of locality and direction. the birds are remarkably sensitive to electricity, so that thunderstorms are peculiarly baffling to them, and large forests, great extents of water, and ranges of mountains influence and alter the upper air currents, by the direction of which the pigeons, taught by some marvellous "instinct," are able to steer their course. the average speed of a pigeon is reckoned at a kilometre a minute, and on this basis, and taking into consideration the time of year, length of daylight, weather, &c., calculations are made of the distance a pigeon can be sent. in summer, when daylight begins at half-past three in the morning and lasts till half-past eight at night, a trained pigeon can fly about one thousand kilometres in a day, while on a foggy november day, when the daylight begins late and darkness comes on early, the same bird cannot accomplish more than four hundred kilometres. one great drawback hitherto attendant on the use of pigeons has been the supposed impossibility of making them fly backwards and forwards between two points; they would only fly in one direction. now, however, captain malogoli, the head of the italian military carrier pigeon depã´ts, has, after immense and unwearying trouble, succeeded in getting his pigeons to fly backwards and forwards between rome and civita vecchia (seventy-two kilometres). this practical success has shattered the theories of various ornithologists, as russ, who have affirmed that pigeons cannot be made to fly in two directions. the chief points to be observed in the rearing of pigeons are--roomy, warm houses, facing toward the sun; scrupulous cleanliness, light food, and abundance of clean, fresh water. the smaller the bird, and the quieter its colour, the better chance it stands of safety from human and other enemies; among the latter the falcon is the most dangerous. the military pigeon-post is best organised in germany, italy, and france. in the last french budget a sum of sixty-eight thousand francs was devoted to this branch of the service, and there are at present in france twenty-two sub-depã´ts, besides the chief pigeon station. in italy there are twelve sub-depã´ts, and five in the italian possessions in africa. the following are the regulations as to training and flying in connection with the messenger war pigeons in italy. the posts of digdegha, the wells of tata, as well as the detachments sent out to reconnoitre towards ailet, assur, &c., send their reports by means of pigeons from the dovecote installed at massowa, whence they are forwarded to the headquarters at saati. on rainy days, and when the communications are confidential, the despatches are introduced into goose-quills and sealed; but as this operation, above all when the troops are on the march, entails a certain loss of time, they must only, when possible, write a despatch on a leaf of a pocket-book with which every officer and non-commissioned officer is provided; the despatch is then tied to a tail-feather of the bird. conventional signs are also used in the case of a detachment being surprised by the enemy and not having time to send a telegram. for instance, when one or more pigeons arrive at the dovecote without despatches, and with the loss of some tail feathers, it is a sign that the troops have been attacked. sometimes marks made with colour supply such-and-such information. each detachment carries three or four pigeons in a light basket of bamboo and net. the distances being short, each despatch is sent by one pigeon. a first despatch is sent at the hour fixed in advance by the commander, the others successively as there is news to transmit. the pigeon-basket is borne by soldiers, who relieve one another at stated intervals. the grains of wheat and vessels of water are confided to a corporal, who has the care of the pigeons. when the detachment has to remain absent more than a day, they take with them four pigeons, with wheat and water in a leathern case. if they have to return in a day, they carry but three pigeons, with the food and drink necessary. the frequent arrival of these birds from all quarters presents a curious appearance. when they arrive they perch at the window of the dovecot, where their mates and young await them. to enter they must pass through a sort of cage-trap, which does not permit them to return, and at the same time separates them from the other pigeons. the weight of the newcomer sets an electric bell ringing; and this signal continues all the time the bird remains in the trap; thus giving notice to the sergeant of the guard, who takes the despatch and forwards it to headquarters. the liability of so defenceless a bird as the pigeon to attack has led to experiments being undertaken from time to time with young ravens, which make fairly quick and reliable messengers up to a distance of about fifty miles. as the raven is very teachable (it can be made to "retrieve" most creditably), and as it manifests a strong attachment to its birth-place, there seems no reason why its training should not be further extended in the new direction, for which its great spirit and endurance appear eminently to fit it. here i have only touched upon the speed and power of flight, but the whole subject is one of the most fascinating branches of natural history. no reference has been made to the marvellous movements of birds in the air, which constitute the very poetry of motion--the stationary balancing, hovering, circling, and gliding, all of which may be observed, especially among our own birds of prey. although much is known of the speed of birds and animals, there are but few ascertained facts concerning that of insects and fishes. the comparatively low intelligence of these two classes of animals makes it difficult to direct them. they rarely fly or swim in anything approaching to a straight line, and experiments give only approximate results. pike in pursuit of their prey seem to flash through the water; and salmon and trout move almost as quickly. the spanish mackerel, with its smooth, cone-shaped body, is among the swiftest of fishes, and for speed only finds a parallel in the dolphin. there is a great similarity in shape between these two, and both cut the water like a yacht. the first follows the fastest steamers with the greatest ease, in its dashes swimming at five times their speed. the bonito is also a fast swimmer; and all those fishes "trimmed" in like fashion with him. there is one insect to which attention may be drawn, as affording a most striking example of speed among lowly-winged creatures. that is the dragon-fly. i have frequently had an opportunity of dropping into company with the largest species (_libellula grandis_), in its aerial excursions in autumn by a particular roadside, along which there was a rushy-margined pool. at such times the writer has been occasionally on foot,--more frequently driving. on foot one has scarcely any means of judging of its speed, for in a moment it is past and gone out of sight. but what is the experience when you are driving, say at ten or twelve miles an hour? this rapid voyager passes over, proceeds beyond you almost out of sight, then turns, swerving widely from right to left, repasses again in both directions, traversing repeatedly the ground, while you are travelling, or rather dragging, over the same space of about a mile only once. we are apt to exaggerate in these matters, but with every allowance, having compared the flight of a dragon-fly with that of a passing hawk, swallow, or cuckoo, i have computed that this large species is capable of flying at a speed of from eighty to one hundred miles an hour--an enormous draw upon the creature's nerves and muscular powers, as manifested by occasional rests of a few minutes upon a bush or a piece of sedge, its habits not requiring uninterrupted flight at such a pace. perhaps the need of these occasional rests is an erroneous opinion founded upon too limited an area of observation. for cuvier has stated that m. poey, who had particularly studied the insects of cuba, informed him that at certain seasons of the year the northerly winds bring to the city of havannah and its neighbourhood an innumerable quantity of specimens of one of the species of _libellulã¦_. other instances of the periodical flights or migrations of dragon-flies have been noted by observers. and even butterflies have been seen to migrate to distant points of land, making flights of fifty or sixty miles across water. these long journeys may be relieved by occasional rests, as mr. newman and others have ascertained that lepidopterous insects are able to alight upon the water, rest awhile, and then rise with apparent ease--a fact readily credited by fishermen, who so frequently see the green-and-grey drake and other _ephemerã¦_ float down stream, and, if not taken by the trout, suddenly spring up again, and resume their aerial dances. but this power of rapid movement in the dragonfly, be the rate more or less, is in just keeping with its structure. the insect's body is slender, the chest strongly developed, though firm; the wings, four in number, are narrow, of great length, and consist of fine, thin, dry membrane, stretched upon a series of lightly made _costã¦_, or rafters. no wonder, then, that with such a mechanism the creature pursues its prey of smaller insects with such rapidity. there are many insects which one would little suspect being furnished with apparatus suited to swift and more or less continuous flight. house flies frequent the insides of our windows, buzzing sluggishly in and out of the room. but what different creatures are they when they accompany your horse on a hot summer's day. a swarm of these little pests keep pertinaciously on wing about the horse's ears; quicken the pace up to ten or twelve miles an hour, still they are there; let a gust of wind arise and carry them backwards and behind, the breeze having dropped, their speed is redoubled, and they return to their post of annoyance to the poor horse, even when urged to its fastest pace. but this example gives only a partial proof of the fly's power of flight, as the following will show. the writer was travelling one day in autumn by rail at about twenty-five miles an hour, when a company of flies put in an appearance at the carriage window. they never settled, but easily kept pace with the train; so much so, indeed, that their flight seemed to be almost mechanical, and a thought struck the writer that they had probably been drawn into a kind of vortex, whereby they were carried onward with little exertion on the part of themselves. but this notion was quickly dispelled. they sallied forth at right-angles from the carriage, flew to a distance of thirty or forty feet, still keeping pace, and then returned with increased speed and buoyancy to the window. to account for this look at the wings of a fly. each is composed of an upper and lower membrane, between which the blood-vessels and respiratory organs ramify so as to form a delicate network for the extended wings. these are used with great quickness, and probably six hundred strokes are made per second. this would carry the fly about twenty-five feet, but a seven-fold velocity can easily be attained, making one hundred and seventy-five feet per second, so that under certain circumstances it can outstrip the fleetest racehorse. if a small insect like a fly can outstrip a racehorse, an insect as large as a horse would travel very much faster than a cannon-ball. bees and wasps are even swifter than flies. here is another actual incident. the present writer has sprinkled individual wasps and bees with rose-coloured powder, and has found that thus handicapped they could with ease keep up with the fastest trains when speeding down "shap summit," one of the steepest gradients in the country. nor were these carried along in the rush of air caused by the train. they would come in and out of the window, sometimes disappearing for a minute or more, but frequently returning again and again. at distances of from five to ten miles they dropped behind, when others took their places. all of us have seen the flagging, lazy butterfly, flitting from flower to flower in our gardens--not quite so lazy, however, if goaded on by some urgent motive. for when this little flutterer, touched by some strange and mysterious feeling which we cannot read, mounts on sportive wings, "through fields of air prepared to sail," she hurries onwards and onwards to some new haven of real or fancied delight and happiness. such were the thoughts which occurred when one of these wanderers accompanied the writer by the roadside for a couple of miles, never flagging a yard behind, nay, sometimes being before a horse that was travelling at the rate of nine or ten miles an hour. what could all this speed and earnestness of the little creature mean? it is not easy to explain how the butterfly, with its broad, soft, feathery wings, should be able to accomplish the feat of speed just recorded.[1] [1] for several interesting facts concerning the flight of insects, especially the dragon-fly, i am indebted to the late dr. gough. in the tropics countless swarms of locusts sometimes suddenly make their appearance, and as suddenly vanish. they cover every leaf-bearing thing, and occasionally completely denude whole districts of greenery. so great are their powers of flight that they have been seen at sea nearly four hundred miles from nearest land. in natal the farmers, rightly or wrongly, believe that the locusts introduce injurious seeds upon their grass-lands, and the following would seem to show that their belief is well founded. a mr. weale, who was of their way of thinking, collected a packet of dried pellets and sent them to england. when closely examined under the microscope they revealed a number of tiny seeds, from which plants of seven kinds of grasses were ultimately raised. among animals, those which have been longest under the care of man have attained to the greatest degree of perfection in all those qualities it has been deemed wise to develop. with his mind bent on utility, man has striven to improve the staying and flying power of pigeons; the strength and swiftness of horses; and has himself proved to be a marvellous instance of speed and endurance. to observe the differences of locomotion, both as regards structural contrivance and speed among animals--the term "animal" being extended to every member, high or low, within the province of the animal kingdom--is one of the most fascinating of out-door studies. it is not an easy matter, however, to compute the speed or mileage of quick-moving animals. among quadrupeds, the horse perhaps may be considered the fleetest. "hambletonian" covered a space of four miles in eight minutes, which is but thirty miles an hour, if it could be continued. "firetail" ran a mile in one minute and four seconds; and the famous "eclipse" is said to have gone at the rate of a mile in a minute for a short distance. but it is difficult to form any exact estimate of his speed, as he never met with an opponent to put him to the test. during one of his trials, an old woman, according to youatt, was asked if she had seen a race. her reply was that "she could not tell whether it was a race or not, but she had seen a horse with a white leg running away at a monstrous rate, and another horse, a great way behind, trying to run after him; but she was sure he would never catch the white-legged horse, even if he ran to the world's end." the above records refer of course to horses galloping; but trotting, which is more or less an artificial mode of horse progression, has, with regard to speed, almost been reduced to an art. for facts concerning it we must look mainly to america, and perhaps no records are more interesting than those of the famous trotting mare "maud s." on september 1st, 1884, maud ran a mile over the hartford track in two minutes twenty-eight seconds; and every fourth day she trotted over the same distance, the first being the slowest, and the fourth the fastest--two minutes twenty seconds. at the end of eight days her training consisted of trotting over two or three mile journeys, with the result that the time was brought down to two minutes thirteen seconds; and three days later to two minutes eleven and three-quarter seconds. resting some days, maud was again tried, and among other times succeeded in trotting the mile in a fraction of a second over the above, but went marvellously in the last half-mile. subsequently to this she was shipped to lexington, kentucky, and when she had covered the mile distance in two minutes sixteen and a half seconds, it was decided that three days hence she should endeavour to beat her own great record. this she succeeded in doing by trotting a mile in two minutes nine and a half seconds; and a year later maud made the world's record--two minutes eight and three-quarter seconds. this is what no other horse ever accomplished, and the interesting phase of the situation is that the mare is even now in training to beat her own splendid record given above. as compared to the rate of speed in animals, those attained by man are interesting. a hundred yards has been run in ten seconds; two hundred yards in twenty and two-fifths; three hundred yards in thirty-one and a half; and a quarter of a mile in forty-eight and four-fifths seconds, by messrs. a. wharton, j. shearman, c. g. wood, and l. e. myers respectively. mr. w. g. george holds the championship for one mile and up to ten miles; his time for the former distance being four minutes eighteen and two-fifths seconds, and for the latter fifty-one minutes twenty seconds. for fifteen, twenty, and twenty-five miles mr. g. a. dunning holds the record; the first distance being covered in one hour twenty-four minutes and twenty-four seconds; the last in two hours thirty-three minutes forty seconds. the same gentleman is champion at forty miles. mr. j. a. squires has run thirty miles in three hours seventeen minutes thirty-six and a-half seconds; and mr. j. e. dixon is fifty-mile champion with six hours eighteen minutes and twenty-six and one-fifth seconds--all truly marvellous performances. chapter v. the snow-walkers. this morning- we looked upon a world unknown, on nothing we could call our own. around the glistening wonder bent the blue walls of the firmament; no cloud above, no earth below, a universe of sky and snow. the sun shines, and a rosy suffusion is over the landscape. all the fences are buried deep, and the trees stand starkly outlined against the sky. millions of snow-crystals glint athwart the fields. birds swarm in the garden--the home birds more confiding and the wild birds tame. tits hang to the suet bags, and a general assembly flock to the cornsheaf. a ring-ouzel flies wildly from the rowan-tree, and four or five species of thrushes are among the berries of the shrubs. so softly winnowed is the falling snow that it scarce bends the few grasses and dead plants that now appear above its surface. the kindly snow obliterates the torn and abraded scars of nature; but it not the less effectually reproduces the prints of her children. to the light the snow reveals the doings of the night. does a mouse so much as cross, she leaves her delicate tracery on the white coverlet. away from the homestead rabbits have crossed and recrossed the fields in a perfect maze. that ill-defined "pad" tracks a hare to the turnips. pheasants and wood-pigeons have scratched for mast beneath the beeches, and we find red blood-drops along the fence. these are tracked to a colony of weasels in the old wall. last night a piteous squeal might have been heard from the half-buried fence, and the little tragedy would be played out upon the snow. five wild swans cleave the thin air far up, and fly off with outstretched necks. the tiny brown wren bids defiance to the weather; darting in and out of every hole and crevice, usually reappearing with the cocoon of some insect in its bill. these delicate footprints reproduce the long toes of the lark, and those are the tracks of the meadow pipit. the hedge-berries are almost gone; and here the redwing and fieldfare have run along the fence bottom in search of fallen fruit. those larger tracks by the sheep troughs show that the hungry rooks have been scratching near, and the chatter of magpies comes from the fir-tree tops. scattered pine cones betoken a flock of incessantly chattering crossbills; and once in the fir wood we caught a glimpse of the scarlet appendages of the rare bohemian waxwing. the gaudily-coloured yellow-hammer shows well against the snow, and bathes its orange plumage in the feathered rain. how our british finches seem to enjoy the frost and snow! certain it is that now their stores of food become scant; but then they throw in their lot with the sparrows of barn-door and rick-yard. the bright bachelor finch stands out from his pure setting, and the daws look black against the snow. "tweet," "tweet," comes through the cold thin air, and is startling in its stillness; and now we may hear as well as see the flight of a flock of linnets and goldfinches. here observe a tall, nodding thistle-head, its once dark green leaves shrivelled up and turned to grey, its purple flower-rays to russet brown. they contain ripened seeds. a goldfinch hangs to the under surface, and a rose-breasted linnet clings to the topmost spray. the two frail things are not unlike in form, though the goldfinch is by far the handsomer bird. his prettily-shaped beak is flesh-coloured, as are also his legs. his head has patches of scarlet, white, and black, each well defined and setting off the other. the breast and back are of varying tints of warm russet brown, and the feathers of the wing are picked out with orange. his tail is alternately elevated and depressed as he changes his position; and the patches of golden yellow are well brought out as he flutters from spray to spray. thus do the linnet and the goldfinch go through the winter, together ranging the fields, and feeding upon the seeds they can pick up. along the meadow brook a stately heron has left its imprints; the water-hen's track is marked through the reeds; and there upon the icy margin are the blurred webs of wild ducks. a bright red squirrel runs along the white wall. in its warm furs it shows sharply against the fence. naturalists say that the squirrel hibernates through the winter; but this is hardly so. a bright day, even though cold and frosty, brings him out to visit some summer store. the prints of the squirrel are sharply cut, the tail at times just brushing the snow. the mountain linnets have come down to the lowlands; and we flush a flock from an ill-farmed field where weeds run rampant. when alarmed the birds wheel aloft, uttering the while soft twitterings, then betake themselves to the trees. the seeds of brook-lime, flax, and knapweed the twite seems partial to, and this wild-weed field is to them a very paradise. just now, walking in the woods, the cry of the bullfinch is heard as perhaps the most melancholy of all our birds, but its bright scarlet breast compensates for its want of cheeriness. a flock of diminutive gold-crests rush past us, and in the fir wood we hear but cannot see a flock of siskins. higher up the valley, towards the hills, tracks of another kind begin to appear. on the fells we come across a dead herdwick, trampled about with innumerable feet. we examine these closely, and find that they are only of two species--the raven and the buzzard. further in the scrub we track a pine-marten to its lair in the rocks. the dogs drive it from its stronghold, and, being arboreal in its habits, it immediately makes up the nearest pine trunk. its rich brown fur and orange throat make it one of the most lithely beautiful of british animals. a pair of stoats or ermines, with their flecked coats just in the transition stage, have their haunt in the same wood. from the snow we see that last night they have threaded the aisles of the pines in search of food. this clear-cut sharp track by the fence is that of a fox. another fascinating aspect of nature in winter are the woods. when snow-covered there is a grandeur and majesty about them such as they never wear at other times. the giant limbs of the trees stand starkly outlined against the sky, and nought but sound silence possesses the aisles of plumed pines. except the faint trickle of the stream, it would seem almost as though the pulse of nature had ceased to beat. of course, this only applies to the interior of the woods, and the suggestion is emphasised by the thick soft carpetings of pine needles where these have dropped for many tree-generations. once again we are enjoying the pleasure of wild shooting in winter, but now in the open glades. again there has been a slight fall of snow, and, sure, morning was never more beautiful. the feathered rain is crisp to the tread, and the warm sun converts the air to that of summer. the sea is blue, the hills rose-tinted, and the snow-crystals make the landscape gloriously, dazzlingly bright. a coating of snow will always arrest the eye of the observant sportsman, more especially if he have a _penchant_ for natural history. there are the tracks and trails of birds and animals, and what zest is added to the search in the possibility of finding a new one! only those who follow the tracks of the snow-walkers know really how rich is the land in all animate nature. be the stitching on the white coverlet never so faint or so delicate, it is always rendered faithfully. in the snow we read out the history of the wild creatures immediately about us, the existence of which we never even suspected. in our home fields there are two or three mice, as many shrews, and a couple of voles. these latter leave their tracks in the hedge-bottoms, or along the stream sides, and we see not only where they have burrowed, but what they have eaten. the shrews and mice are on dryer ground, and their delicate feet have pencilled the prettiest patterns upon the snow. the tracks of the partridge are pretty, too, and from them we read what ceaseless runners the birds are. a depression shows where they have roosted last night, and then their tracks may be followed through the stubble and seed fields. by the brook-side are the hair-like tracings of innumerable small birds; and the water margins here record the fullest registering. this may be owing to the soft brook banks and their aquatic life, when the rest of the fields are icebound. then many of the spawning fish are still on the redds, and the prospect of these may be an additional inducement to some of the fish-feeding creatures. here, clutching a tuft of couch-grass is a dead barn-owl, for which the intense cold has proved too much--one enemy less to the shrews and field mice, whose hasty tracks here and there show that more than once last night they have had to beat a hasty retreat. once during the day, as the ferrets were turned into a burrow, some one pointed out a brace of ermines that had doubtless been looking after the rabbits on their own account. they were still in their brown summer fur, and made their way over the snow and out of harm's way at a remarkably rapid rate. this little incident reminds us of a brown owl which emerged from a rabbit-hole just as the ermines did, and curiously enough these birds had a couple of eggs and a young one even in december, with the ground snow-covered. the heavy blurred tracks of grouse were at first difficult to determine, and the key to them was only to be found in the birds themselves, as they rose with a startling whirr. they had been driven from the higher to the lower ground in search of food. one of the terriers disinterred a spiny hedgehog from its warm, leafy retreat, and "prickles" probably felt much mystified to find himself in a world of dazzling whiteness. there was one other track which it would be long and devious to follow--one which had been abroad under the moon and stars, and from its trail would seem to have known the ways and the haunts of both furred and feathered game by heart--and that was the old poacher. the snow is a great tell-tale, but it causes the poacher's eye to grow keen and his step firm; and nothing but the gaol walls will prevent his being a snow-walker. his life has been one long protest against the game laws; and whatever he is, or is not, he believes them to be unjust. chapter vi. when darkness has fallen. a time of absolute quiet can never be observed in the country. it matters not as to time and season; there seems to be no general period of repose. there is always something abroad, some creature of the fields and woods, which by its voice or movements is betrayed. just as in an old rambling house there are always strange noises that cannot be accounted for, so in the by-paths of nature there are innumerable sounds which can never be localised. to those, however, who pursue night avocations in the country--gamekeepers, poachers, and others--there are always calls and cries which bespeak life as animate under the night as that of the day. this is attributable to various animals and birds, to night-flying insects, and even to fish. let us track some of these sounds to their source. "when comes still evening on, and twilight grey hath in her sober liv'ry all things clad," then it is that the white owl comes abroad. passing the remains of an old baronial hall, its piercing screech comes from the dismantled tower. here the owls have lived time out of mind, and we have seen and heard them, asleep and awake, through every hour of the day and night. it is unnatural history to assert, as mr. gray does, that the barn-owls ever mope or mourn or are melancholy. neither are they grave monks nor anchorites nor pillared saints. a boding bird or a dolorous! nonsense, they are none of these. they issue forth as very devils, and like another spirit of the night, sail about seeking whom they may devour. the barn-owl is the "screech" owl of bird literature; the brown owl the true hooting owl. this species is found in heavily-timbered districts, and it particularly loves the dark and sombre gloom of resinous pine woods. but the barn-owl is only the precursor of new life--life as animate under the night, as that of the birds and butterflies under the day. we follow the path by the river, and on through the meadows. among the nut-bush tops a bat is hawking for night-flying insects. great white moths get up from the grass and go looming away through the darkness. a bend in the stream brings us to a quiet river reach with brown pebbles and a shallow. a sentinel heron that has been standing watchful on one leg rises, and flaps languidly away down the river reach. the consumptive figure of the gaunt bird stands by the stream through all weathers. he knows not times nor seasons, and is a great poacher. in the wind, when taking his lone stand, his loose fluttering feathers look like drift-stuff caught in the bushes. he reminds one of the consumptive, but, unlike him, has wonderful powers of digestion, and withal an immense capacity for fish. woe to the luckless mort or trout that comes within reach of his formidable pike, or to the attacking peregrine that he attempts to impale on his bill. the heron is essentially a wanderer, and, like wordsworth's immortal leech-gatherer, he roams from pond to pond, from moor to moor. herons come and go by the same routes; and night after night have we flushed our fisher from the selfsame shallow. the peculiarly wild whistle of the curlew comes from out the night sky, and swifts screech for an hour after darkness has fallen. we are now by the covert side, and a strange churring sound comes from out the darkened glades. waiting silently beneath the bushes, it approaches nearer and nearer until a loud flapping is heard in the bushes. the object approaches quite closely, and it is seen that the noise is produced by a large bird striking its wings together as they meet behind. even in the darkness it may be detected that each wing is crossed by a definite white bar. the bird is a goatsucker or nightjar. had we it in our hand, we should see that it was a connecting link between the owls and the swallows, having the soft plumage and noiseless flight of the one and the wide gape of the other. the object of the noise it produces is probably to disturb from the bushes the large nightflying moths upon which it feeds. the name goatsucker the bird has from a superstitious notion that it sucks goats and cows--a myth founded probably upon the fact of its wide gape. it is certain that these birds may often be seen flitting about the bellies of cattle as they stand knee-deep in the summer pastures. the reason of this is obvious, as there insect food is always abundant. unless disturbed, the nightjar rarely comes abroad during the day, but obtains its food at twilight and dusk. upon the limestone-covered fells it conforms marvellously to its environment, it being almost impossible to detect its curiously mottled plumage as it basks upon the grey stones, not more still than itself. here it lays its two eggs, often without the slightest semblance of a nest, frequently upon the bare rock. quite a peculiar interest attaches to the bird, inasmuch as it is furnished with a remarkable claw, the use of which is guessed at rather than known. this claw is serrated on its inner edge, and from actual experiments made upon nightjars in captivity, we should surmise that its use is to free the long whiskers from the soft, silvery dust which usually covers the bodies of night-flying moths. certain it is that this substance gets upon the whiskers of the bird, and that the long hairs referred to are combed through the serrated claw. about the mouth the goatsucker is very swallow-like. it has a bullet-shaped head, large eyes, and a wide gape. like the swallows, too, it has a weak, ineffective bill, and weak feet. this is explained by the fact that the bird, except when nesting, is rarely seen on the ground, and that it captures its insect prey on the wing. from twilight till grey does the fern-owl "churr" and fly through the night. as we proceed, a splash comes from the river, and some large-winged fly has been sucked under. the night food comes on, and the reach boils. water-rats, voles, and shrews are busy among the stones searching for insect larvã¦, or gnawing the stalks of water-plants. the wafting of wings overhead betokens a curlew flying through the darkness to its feeding ground. the peculiarly lonely wail of the summer-snipe comes down stream, and a teal stretches her neck low over the sand. the river here resolves itself into a gorge, and runs deep betwixt shelving rocks. the water ceaselessly moans and chafes down there in the darkness. badgers have their haunt deep in the brambles, their tortuous burrows running far out among the boulders. from the tree-tops we may watch them digging for roots and wasps' nests, and now and then snapping at flies. passing the deep dub by the "force," we find old phil, the fisher, plying his silent trade even thus into the night. phil leads his own life, and is contemplative as becomes his craft. nature's every sight and sound he has, as it were, by heart, and he makes friends even with the creeping things. as we watch, a salmon, fresh from the sea, leaps from the silvery foam and flashes in the moonlight. one of the greatest night-helps to the gamekeeper in staying the depredations of poachers is the lapwing. it is the lightest sleeper of the fields, starting up from the fallows and screaming upon the slightest alarm. poachers dread the detection of this bird, and the keeper closely follows its cry. a hare rushing wildly past will put the plover away from its roost; and when hares act thus in the darkness, there is generally some good cause for it. the skylark and woodlark are both occasional night-singers, and it is common to hear cuckoos call in the densest darkness. still we follow on. rabbits have made pitfalls in the loose, yellow sand, and we see their white scuts as vanishing points in the darkness. mice rustle away, and a hedgehog comes to the pool to drink. one of the latter we saw just now taken in the keeper's trap, the latter baited with a pheasant's egg. the squeal of a foumart comes from the loose stones. later it will feed on the frogs now croaking from the ditch; these it kills by piercing their skulls. if the cuckoo tells her name to all the hills, so does the sedge-warbler to the fluted reeds. and, like that wandering voice, our little bird seems dispossessed of a corporeal existence, and on through summer is "still longed for, never seen"--and this though common enough, for you may wander long among the willows, with a bird in every bush, without one showing outside its corral of boughs. wherever vegetation grows tall and luxuriant, there the "reed-wren" may be found. it travels in the night: you go out some may morning, and the rollicking intoxication of the garrulous little bird comes from out the self-same bush from which you missed it in autumn. from the time it first arrives it begins to sing louder and louder as the warm weather advances, especially in the evenings. then it is that it listens to the loud-swelling bird-choir of the woods, selecting a note from this and another from that; for the sedge-warbler is an imitator, a mocking bird, and reproduces in fragments the songs of many species. the little mimic runs up and down the gamut in the most riotous fashion, parodying not only the loud, clear whistle of the blackbird, but the wholly differing soft, sweet notes of the willow-wren. this is kept up through the night, and the puzzle is when the little musician sleeps. if the sedge-warbler ceases its song through any hour of the day or night, a clod thrown into the bushes will immediately set it going again. yet what can be said of a song that a clod of earth will produce? sometimes for a moment it is sweet, but never long-sustained. in the north, where there are few ditches, the species frequents river-banks and the sides of tarns; in the south, it abounds everywhere in marshy places. here the rank grass swarms with them; the thicker the reed-patch or willow, the more birds are there. with perfect silence, a distant view of the bird is sometimes obtained at the top of the bushes, as it flits after an insect. as it runs up and clings to the tall grass stalks, it is pleasing both in form and colour. among the grasses and water-plants it has its game preserves. water-beetles, ephemerã¦, and the teeming aquatic insects constitute its food. to watch through a glass the obtaining of these is most interesting. reed-sparrow and reed-wren are pretty provincial names of the bird, each expressive enough. a powerful perfume rises from the ground-weeds, and stooping low, we detect dame's violet. the purple _hesperis matronalis_ emits its sweet smell only at night, and is fertilised by moths. this, too, holds good of the evening campion (_lychins vespertina_), only its scent is fainter. for this, however, the colour of its white petals amply compensates, as they are more easily seen in the darkness. further on, we detect _orchis bifolia_, which is also particularly sweet, and with the same object. all these emit fragrance at night, and are fertilised _only_ by night-flying insects. a crash! the underwood is rudely torn, and a form disappears in the darkness. the crackling of boughs and dead sticks mark on the stillness of night the poacher's sinuous path through the woods. soon his old black bitch slinks by the hedge, clears the fence at a bound, and doggedly follows her master's footsteps. crake answers crake from the meadows as they have done through the night. now they are at our feet, now far out yonder. the night call of the partridge comes from the gorse, and the first pheasant crows from the larch branches. on the hill we wade through a herd of recumbent heifers, their sketchy forms sharply outlined in the darkness. these are quietly chewing the cud, and turn upon us their great soft eyes; some even press their dewy noses against us. the sweet breath of kine is wafted on the night, and the drone of many insects. it is wonderful how lightly the creatures of the fields and woods sleep. the faintest rustle brings chirping from the bushes, and in the densest darkness the wood pigeons coo. jays screech in the glade, and the wood-owls hoot. one of the essentially night-singers is the grasshopper warbler. shy and retiring in its habits, it is rarely found far distant from aquatic vegetation. moist situations are most congenial, as among the plants that effect them it finds its winged food. although generally effecting such spots as indicated, it sometimes seeks out considerable elevations. these are covered with coarse grass, bent, furze, and heather; and here, far into the night, it reels out its continuous cricket-like song. it returns to the same spot year after year, and although from these the particular notes may be often heard, the singer itself is nowhere to be seen. at the least noise it drops from the support on which it may be depending into the grass beneath, then is silent. the song is long continued, but the sounds are constantly shifting, marking the restless track of the singer on the night. it needs no stretch of imagination to detect in the notes of this species the similarity to the grasshopper, and the "monotonous whirr like the spinning of a fishing-reel," is fairly expressible of the bird's song. perfect master of intricate maze and covert, it is never far from them. even though it has ventured above his accustomed limits, its vigilance sends it back at the least noise, though its retreat is rarely observed, for instead of flying, it creeps closely, never rising when alarmed. again we pass into the darkness. moles have thrown up ridges of loose, light soil; and these cross us again and again. the short, sharp bark of a fox comes from the scrub; and soon dog and vixen answer each other across the dale. and now we enter the park. the deer, disturbed in the darkness, get up and walk quietly away. a white fawn is outlined against the dark herd. whenever an owner dies, say the menials at the hall, a great bough is riven from the giant oak; whenever a new heir comes to the estate, a white fawn is born. under the dark slabs by the river the otters breed; but it is impossible to dislodge them. iron-sinewed, shaggy otter-hounds have tried, but never with success. the fishermen complain of the quantity of fish which the otter destroys. trout are found dead on the rocks; salmon are there bitten in the shoulder, but only partially eaten. the evolutions of the otter in its native element are the poetry of motion minus only the metre. when almost the whole of the insect-world has folded its wings in sleep, there is a class of night-flyers whose hours of activity are those of darkness. among the more interesting of these is the male glow-worm--the english lantern-fly--whose light may be plainly seen as he flits past, pale and ghostly against the dark background of some deeply-foliaged bank or shadowy wood. then there is the great army of night-flying moths, whose nocturnal wanderings present such a weird appearance in the darkness, and whose life-history contrasts so sharply with the sunny dalliance of their butterfly cousins. as moths have to contend with the night winds their constitution is more robust than that of the _rhopolocera_, or day-fliers. their bodies are thicker, their wings narrower and more strongly nerved. as they settle themselves on corrugated bark or grey stones to their deep, diurnal sleep, their sober and inconspicuous colouring invariably saves them even from detection. in many species this daily trance is so profound that a slumbering insect may be transfixed and never detect the occurrence until twilight again comes round. but if the closely-folded upper wings are quiet and sober in colouring this is only for protective reasons; for brilliant toilets are presented when twilight falls and affords its dewy veil. under the closely-folded wings of dusky grey are bright bodices of red, scarlet, crimson, and orange. what an admirable chapter "the loves of the night-flyers" would afford by one who had fondly watched the fairy things through the dewy hours of a short summer night. the twilight-flyers afford a distinct class to the night-flyers, and have several well-marked characteristics. these are termed hawk-moths, and have long, sharp, scythe-like wings. the death's-head moth, the largest and most interesting british species, belongs to this group. it seldom comes abroad before darkness has fallen, and is always conspicuous in its nocturnal flight. linnã¦us, following his habitual system of nomenclature, placed this insect in the "sphinx" family on account of the form of its magnificent caterpillar, and gave it the specific name of _atropos_, in allusion to the popular superstition. atropos being, according to hesiod, the one of the fates whose office it was to cut the thread of human life, spun by her sisters, clotho and lachesis. modern entomologists have preserved the idea of linnã¦us, giving to the new genus the name of _acherontia_--pertaining to acheron, one of the streams which, in the greek mythology, have to be passed before entering the infernal regions. a low, wailing sound which this insect emits has greatly added to the terror which its appearance inspires among ignorant rustics. the death's-head moth is a really splendid insect. its stretched wings cover four and a half inches, and it is the largest of the british lepidoptera. as is well known, it has its popular name from a marvellously good representation of a skull and crossbones upon the upper part of the thorax--a mark which has caused it to be an object of dread in every country which it inhabits. fluttering at the window in the darkness, or entering the house by the open door, just after the close of twilight, it is considered a certain omen of death. like the hoarse croak of the raven, and the "boding" hoot of the owl, the appearance of this moth is said to be followed by disease and death. the power possessed by the death's-head insect of emitting a shrill, creaking sound, is thought to be unique among the british lepidoptera, and each time the strange sound is emitted, the whole body gives a convulsive sort of start. the insect can be induced to utter this strange note by being irritated. another especially interesting night-flyer is the ghost moth. just as the twilight of a summer evening is deepening into darkness, and a soft, warm wind stirs the foliage of the woods, the ghost moth comes abroad. the observer sees a fitful apparition which suddenly vanishes into space. first a large insect with long wings is seen advancing, it comes straight on, then flutters in the air--and is gone. whilst endeavouring to discover the mysterious retreat of the moth, it will suddenly reappear, and even whilst the eye closely follows its flight, will again vanish. this effect is produced by the different colour of the wings on their upper and lower sides. above they are snowy white, and consequently visible even in the deep twilight; but on the under side they, as well as the whole body, are of a deep dusky brown so that when that side is suddenly turned towards the spectator it becomes invisible. as the male flies in the night, the white shining upper surface of the wings glitters curiously, almost appearing as if they were giving out their own light. standing in one of the rides of a woodland glade just as day is departing, one is pierced, thrilled by a perfect storm of song. this loud swelling volume of sound softens as the darkness deepens, and then only the polyglot wood-thrush is heard. the stem of the silver birch has ceased to vibrate to the blackbird's whistle, and as darkness comes a new set of sounds take possession of the night. but passing down through the meadows we have other thoughts than listening to these. another night singer is the blackcap. the flute-like mellowness and wild sweetness of its song give it a high place among british warblers--next only to the nightingale. the blackcap has neither the fulness nor the force, but it has all and more of the former's purity. this little hideling, with its timid obtrusiveness, never strays far from cultivation. one provision it requires, and this is seclusion. its shy and retiring habits teach it to search out dense retreats, and it is rarely seen. if observed on the confines of its corral of boughs it immediately begins to perform a series of evolutions until it has placed a dense screen of brushwood between itself and the observer. many times have we heard the round, full, lute-like plaintiveness of the nightingale, sounds that seem to seize and ingrain themselves in the very soul, that "make the wild blood start in its mystic springs." to us the delicious triumph of the bird's song lies in its utter _abandon_. the lute-like sweetness, the silvery liquidness, the bubbling and running over, and the wild, gurgling "jug, jug, jug!" to say this, and more--that the nightingale is a mad, sweet polyglot, that it is the sweetest of english warblers, the essence and quintessence of song, that it is the whole wild bird achievement in one--these are feeble, feeble! this "light-winged dryad of the trees" is still "in some melodious spot of beechen green and shadows numberless, singing of summer in full-throated ease," and here she will remain. unlike the songs of some of our warblers, hers can never be reproduced. attempt to translate it, and it eludes you, only its meagre skeleton remains. isaac walton, in his quaint eloquence, tries to say what he felt: "the nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet, loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. he that at midnight ... should hear, as i have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, 'lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth!'" although britain can show no parallel either in number or brilliance to the living lights of the tropics, we are not without several interesting phosphorescent creatures of our own. those whose business leads them abroad in the fields and woods through the short summer nights are often treated to quite remarkable luminous sights. last night the writer was lying on a towering limestone escarpment, waiting to intercept a gang of poachers. the darkness was dead and unrelieved, and a warm rain studded every grass blade with moisture. when the day and sun broke, this would glow with a million brilliant prismatic colours, then suddenly vanish. but the illumination came sooner, and in a different way. the rain ceased, and hundreds of tiny living lights lit up the sward. in the intense darkness these shone with an unusual brilliancy, and lit up the almost impalpable moisture. every foot of ground was studded with its star-like gem, and these twinkled and shone as the fireflies stirred in the grass. the sight was quite an un-english one, and the soft green glow only paled at the coming of day. one phase of this interesting phenomenon is that now we can have a reproduction of it nightly. the fireflies were collected, turned down on the lawn, and their hundred luminous lamps now shed a soft lustre over all the green. why our british fireflies are designated "glow-worms" is difficult to understand. _lampyris noctiluca_ has nothing worm-like about it. it is a true insect. the popular misconception has probably arisen in this wise. the female glow-worm, the light-giver, is wingless; the male is winged. the latter, however, has but little of the light emitting power possessed by the female. only the light-givers are collected, and being destitute of the first attribute of an insect, wings, are set down in popular parlance as worms. old mossy banks, damp hedgerows, and shaded woods are the loved haunts of the fireflies, and the warm nights of the soft summer months most induce them to burn their soft lustre. some widowed worm or firefly flirt may shed her luminous self in the darkness even on into dying summer or autumn. but this is unusual. it is not definitely known what purpose is served by the emission of the soft green light, but it has long been suspected that the lustre was to attract the male. gilbert white found that glow-worms were attracted by the light of candles, and many of them came into his parlour. another naturalist by the same process captured as many as forty male glow-worms in an evening. still another suggestion is that the phosphorescence serves for a protection or means of defence to the creatures possessing it, and an incident which seems to support this view has been actually witnessed. this was in the case of a carabeus which was observed running round and round a phosphorescent centipede, evidently wishing but not daring to attack it. a third explanation of the phenomenon is that it serves to afford light for the creature to see by. a somewhat curious confirmation of this is the fact that in the insect genus to which our british fireflies belong, the _lampyridã¦_, the degree of luminosity is exactly in inverse proportion to the development of the vision. fireflies glow with greatest brilliancy at midnight. their luminosity is first seen soon after dark: "the glow-worm shows the matin to be near, and 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire." as the insects rest on the grass and moss, the difference in the amount of light emitted is quite marked. while the luminous spot indicated by a female is quite bright, the males show only as the palest fire. when on the wing, the light of the latter is not seen at all. heavy rain, so long as it is warm, serves only to increase the brightness. the seat of the light of the glow-worm is in the tail, and proceeds from three luminous sacs in the last segment of the abdomen. the male has only two of these, and the light proceeding from them is comparatively small. during favourable weather the light glows steadily, but at other times it is not constant. the fireflies of the tropics--those comprising the genus _lampyridã¦_--vary to the extent that while certain species control their light, others are without this power. the light of our english glow-worm is undoubtedly under its control, as upon handling the insect it is immediately put out. it would seem to take some little muscular effort to produce the luminosity, as one was observed to move continually the last segment of the body so long as it continued to shine. the larv㦠of the glow-worm is capable of emitting light, but not to be compared to that of the developed insect. both in its nature and immature forms, _lampyris noctiluca_ plays a useful part in the economy of nature. to the agriculturist and fruit-grower it is a special friend. its diet consists almost wholly of small shelled snails, and it comes upon the scene just as these farm and garden pests are most troublesome. british fireflies probably have never yet figured as personal ornaments to female beauty. this is, and has always been, one of their uses to the dusky daughters of the tropics. they are often studded in the coiled and braided hair, and perform somewhat the same office as diamonds for more civilised belles. spanish ladies and those of the west indies enclose fireflies in bags of lace or gauze, and wear them amid their hair or disposed about their persons. the luminosity of our modest english insect is far outshone by several of its congeners. some of these are used in various ways for illumination, and it is said that the brilliancy of the light is such that the smallest print can be read by that proceeding from the thoracic spots alone, when a single insect is moved along the lines. in the spanish settlements, the fireflies are frequently used in a curious way when travelling at night. the natives tie an insect to each great toe; and on fishing and hunting expeditions make torches of them by fastening several together. the same people have a summer festival at which the garments of the young people are covered with fireflies, and being mounted on fine horses similarly ornamented, the latter gallop through the dusk, the whole producing the effect of a large moving light. another phosphorescent little creature found commonly in britain is a centipede with the expressive name _geophilus electricus_. this is a tiny living light which shows its luminous qualities in a remarkable and interesting fashion. it may not uncommonly be seen on field and garden paths, and leaves a lovely train of phosphorescent fire as it goes. this silvery train glows in the track of the insect, sometimes extending to twenty inches in length. in addition to this, its phosphorescence is exhibited by a row of luminous spots on each side its body, and these points of pale fire present quite a pretty sight when seen under favourable circumstances. it has been stated that the light-giving quality of the fireflies might be designed to serve them to see by; but this fails to apply to the little creature under notice, as it is without eyes. there are still other british insects which have the repute of being phosphorescent, although the evidence is not yet quite satisfactory. among them are the male cricket and "daddy-longlegs," both of which are reported to have been seen in a phosphorescent condition. but if there is a dearth of phosphorescent land creatures which are native, this has no application to the numerous luminous creatures living in our southern british seas. among marine animals the phenomenon is more general and much more splendid than anything which can be seen on land, as witness the following picture by professor martin duncan: great domes of pale gold, with long streamers, move slowly along in endless procession; small silvery discs swim, now enlarging and now contracting; and here and there a green or bluish gleam marks the course of a tiny but rapidly rising and sinking globe. hour after hour the procession passes by, and the fishermen hauling in their nets, from the midst drag out liquid light, and the soft sea jellies, crushed and torn piecemeal, shine in every clinging particle. the night grows dark, the wind rises and is cold, and the tide changes, so does the luminosity of the sea. the pale spectres sink deeper and are lost to sight, but the increasing waves are tinged here and there with green and white, and often along a line, where the fresh water is mixing with the salt in an estuary, there is brightness so intense that boats and shores are visible. but if such sights are to be seen on the surface, what must not be the phosphorescence of the depths! every sea-pen is glorious in its light; in fact, nearly every eight-armed alcyonarian is thus resplendent, and the social pyrosoma, bulky and a free swimmer, glows like a bar of hot metal with a white and green radiance. chapter vii. british birds, their nests and eggs. oology may be said to be the latest of the sciences; and although perhaps not a very profound one, it is certainly among the most interesting. those who are not ornithologists, or specially interested in natural history, can have but little idea of the progress made of late in all that pertains to the nidification of british birds. expensive and elaborately illustrated treatises have been written on the subject; naturalists have spent thousands of pounds in tracking birds to their breeding haunts; and some of the best scientific workers of the day are devoting their lives to this and the kindred subject of migration. then again city "naturalists" have their continental collectors, and are building up quite a commerce about the subject. the money value of a complete set of clutches of eggs of british birds is about â£200, although more than double this sum would be given for eggs taken within the british islands. of course a great number of birds do not breed and never have bred here; for whilst the number of species comprising the home list is three hundred and sixty-seven, only about two hundred breed within our shores. not a few of the eggs of british birds are worth more than their weight in gold, whilst those of certain species which are supposed to have become extinct bring quite fabulous prices. a well-marked pair of golden eagle's eggs have been known to fetch â£25. the market value of an egg of the swallow-tailed kite is three guineas, of pallas's sand-grouse thirty shillings, while ten times that amount was recently offered for an egg of this asiatic species taken in britain. on the other hand, the eggs of certain of the social breeding birds are so common in their season as to be systematically collected for domestic purposes. and this in face of the fact that many of them are remarkable alike for size, shape, and beauty of colouring. this applies particularly to the guillemot, whose eggs are often remarkably handsome. as a rule the colour of these is bluish green, heavily blotched, and streaked with brown or black; and the form that of an elongated handsome pear. the guillemot is one of our commonest cliff-birds, and is found in greatest abundance at flamborough head. the eggs are systematically gathered by men who are let down the rocks in ropes. they traverse the narrowest ledges, placing the eggs which they gather daily in baskets fastened round their shoulders. the guillemot makes no nest, lays but one egg, and incubation lasts about a month. the birds sit upright, and when suddenly alarmed, as by the firing of a gun, the eggs fall in showers into the sea. most of those collected at flamborough are sent to leeds, where the albumen is used in the preparation of patent leather; whilst the eggs taken on lundy are used at bristol in the manufacture of sugar. at the british breeding-stations of the gannet, or solan goose, thousands of birds breed annually, though in numbers less than formerly. in this case the young birds, not the eggs, are taken; and on north barra from two thousand to three thousand birds are captured in a season. the collector kills the gannets as they are taken from the nests, and they are then thrown into the sea beneath, where a boat is in waiting to pick them up. in the faroes the people keep january 25 as a festival in consequence of the return of the birds. the difference in size and colour which the eggs of different birds exhibit is even more apparent than the great diversity of shape. the giant eggs of wild swans and geese, or the extinct great auk, are tremendous when compared with those of the warblers and titmice; while the egg of the golden-crested wren is smaller still. this, the smallest british bird, is a mere fluff of feathers, and weighs only eighty grains. the relative sizes of the eggs named are as a garden-pea to a cocoanut. another interesting phase of the subject is the number of eggs laid by different species. the solan goose, guillemot, cormorant, shag, puffin, and others lay but one egg; whilst some of the tiny tits have been known to produce as many as twenty. in this respect the game-birds and wild-fowl are also prolific, and a partridge's nest containing from fifteen to twenty eggs is not at all an uncommon occurrence. where a greater number of eggs than this is found, it is probable that two females have laid in the same nest. certain species, again, habitually bred once, twice, or thrice a season; whilst others less prolific have but a single egg, and lay but once during the year. almost as interesting as the eggs they contain are the nests themselves. birds of the plover kind almost invariably deposit their eggs in a mere depression in the ground; while many of the shore-haunting birds lay theirs in sand and shingle--often upon the bare stones. the present writer once found a ringed dotterell's nest on a bank of _dã©bris_, the eggs being stuck right on end, and absolutely resembling the drift stuff. the lapwing's eggs invariably have their smaller ends pointing inward. this bird is an early breeder, and eggs may often be found by the middle of march. it is these first clutches that fetch such fancy prices in the market, as much as fifteen shillings having been paid for a single egg. so anxious are the poulterers to obtain these that one of them expressed himself to the effect that if he were assured of having the first ten eggs he would not hesitate to give five pounds for them. among birds the ground builders are the most primitive architects; but their very obtrusiveness certainly aids them to escape detection. partridges and pheasants almost invariably lay their olive eggs upon dead oak-leaves, and, moreover, cover them when they leave the nest. the red speckled eggs of the grouse are very much of the colour of the heather, as are those of wild ducks to the green reeds and rushes. the nest of the cushat, or woodpigeon, consists of a mere platform of sticks, and the eggs may almost always be seen through the interstices of the crossed twigs. the goatsucker makes no nest, but lays its eggs among burning bits of limestone on the sides of the fells; and that of the golden plover is equally non-existent. among tree builders the jay is slovenly and negligent, while the scarlet bull-finch is equally careless. hawks, falcons, and birds of the crow kind construct substantial platforms of sticks; though the crafty magpie is an exception, and constructs a domed nest. the reason for this is not easy to understand, but, being an arrant thief itself, the pie is perhaps suspicious of birddom in general. the pretty water-ouzel, or dipper, also builds a domed nest, which as a rule resembles a great boss of bright green moss. the domicile of the wren is simply a small edition of the last, and often contains as many as seven or eight eggs. a curious habit may frequently be observed in connection with the wren's nesting, that of beginning several structures and then abandoning them. nests, too, are not unfrequently built and occupied in winter, quite a colony of wrens at this time huddling together for the sake of warmth. mr. weir watched a pair at work building, and found that although the nest was commenced at seven o'clock in the morning it was completed the same night. there can be no question as to the clever adaptation of the wren's nest to its surroundings. when it is built in a mossy bank its exterior is of moss, often with a dead leaf on the outside. a nest which was against a hayrick was composed outwardly of hay; while another, in a raspberry bush, was wholly composed of the leaves of that plant. probably the only hang-nests of british birds are those of the gold-crest, reed-warbler, and long-tailed titmouse. the first is usually hung among the long, trailing tassels of the pine, where it is most difficult to detect. it is quite one of the prettiest examples of bird architecture, and is thickly felted with wool, feathers, and spiders' webs. the eggs are white, speckled with red. montague kept a brood of eight nestlings in his room, when he found that the female bird fed them upon an average thirty-six times an hour, and that this was continued sixteen hours a day. besides being built in pines, the nests are sometimes attached to yews and cedars. the cradle of the reed-warbler is invariably hung upon the stalks of reeds, rushes, and other aquatic plants; and the whole structure is often swayed about so much by the wind as not unfrequently to touch the water. the bottle-shaped nest of the long-tailed tit is almost as remarkable as its builder. it is exquisite alike in form and material, and its interior is a perfect mass of feathers. in one nest alone were found two thousand three hundred and seventy-nine, chiefly those of the pheasant, wood-pigeon, rook, and partridge. sometimes a great many eggs are found in the nest of the long-tailed titmouse--as many as twenty, it is stated--and these are white, speckled, and streaked with red. the colours of eggs in relation to birds and the site of their nests is an exceedingly interesting phase of the philosophy of the subject. it is found as an almost invariable rule that birds which lay white eggs nest in holes as a means of protection. the high-flying, loud-screeching swift is an instance of this. so is the burrowing sand-martin, the kingfisher, the shell-duck, and the woodpecker; also the puffin and the stock-dove, which breed in disused rabbit burrows. all these lay white eggs. the hole which the swift selects is usually in a high building; while the delicate bank-swallows drill their holes in river banks or sandholes. the eggs of the kingfisher are perhaps the most beautiful of all. they are beautifully round, delicately white, glossy, and suffused with an exquisite rosy flush. for breeding, the kingfisher either drills a hole for itself or occupies that deserted by some small rodent. the seven or eight eggs are placed at the end of the burrow, upon a mass of dry fish bones ejected by the bird. the nest is so friable that it is almost impossible to remove it, and at one time it was said that the authorities at the british museum were prepared to pay one hundred pounds for an absolutely perfect nest of the kingfisher. the sheld is the largest and handsomest of british ducks. it invariably breeds in a burrow on a plateau commanding the sea, and when approaching its nest plumps right down at the mouth of the hole. its creamy eggs are large and round; and for a day or so after the young are hatched they are kept underground. emerging from their retreat, they are immediately led or carried down to the tide. the young seem to be able to smell salt water, and will cover miles to gain it. an interesting fact anent another of our british ducks centres about the golden-eye, an exquisite study in black and white, the back of the neck and head being burnished with violet and green. a trait which the golden-eye has is its almost invariable habit of nesting in holes in trees--remarkable in the case of a duck--so that the laps place darkened boxes by the sides of rivers and lakes for the ducks to lay in. often as many as a dozen eggs are found, and the nests are lined with the soft down of the birds. the golden-eye has been seen to transport its young to the water from a considerable altitude. while botanising by the side of a lake, where these beautiful birds breed in great numbers, a lap clergyman observed one of them drop into the water, and at the same time an infant duck appeared. after watching awhile and seeing the old bird fly to and from the nest several times, he made out that the young bird was held under the bill, but supported by the neck of the parent. all the british woodpeckers bear out the theory already stated. they lay glossy white eggs, and their nests, (if the touchwood upon which their eggs are deposited can be so called,) are always built in holes in growing wood or decayed timber. the stock-dove, one of our pretty wild pigeons, nests in colonies in rabbit-burrows, as does the brown owl. when ferreting for rabbits the writer has put both these birds out of the holes instead of their rightful owners. the nuthatch is yet another bird which upholds the same rule, and whose case is peculiarly interesting. it not only lays purely white eggs in holes in trees, but if the hole for ingress and egress is one whit too large it is plastered up by the industrious bird until it barely admits the body of the clever little architect. the cuckoo is quite a bohemian among birds, and it is doubtless owing to its vagrant habits that there yet remain several points in its life-history which have to be cleared up. the most interesting of these questions are those which relate to its nesting and nidification. it was once thought that the cuckoo paired, but it is now known that the species is polygamous. the number of hens that constitute a harem is not known, but from the number of bachelor birds the males must greatly predominate over the females. dissection conclusively proves that each female lays a series of eggs, and that these occur in the ovary in widely different stages of maturity. the older naturalists thought that the cuckoo laid its eggs actually in the nests of other birds, but it is now known that it conveys them thither in its bill. the egg of the cuckoo has been found in the nests of sixty different species, several of which are exceedingly small, and moreover domed. among the sixty nests patronised were the unlikely ones of the butcher-bird, jay, and magpie--all either bird or egg destroyers. this may seem to reflect on the cuckoo's stupidity; and the bird certainly exhibits deplorable ignorance of the fitness of things when it deposits its egg in the nest of the diminutive goldcrest or the cumbersome one of the cushat. a goldcrest might conveniently be stowed away in the gape of a young cuckoo without the latter detecting that the morsel was much more than a normal supply. the nests in which the eggs of cuckoos are most frequently found are those of the meadow-pipit, hedge-sparrow, and reed-warbler. now the eggs of these birds vary to a very considerable degree; and the question arises whether the cuckoo has the power of assimilating the colour of its egg to those among which it is to be deposited. certain eminent continental ornithologists claim that this is so, but facts observed in england hardly bear out the conclusion. brown eggs have been found among the blue ones of the hedge-sparrow, redstart, wheatear; among the green and grey ones of other birds; and the purely white ones of the wood-pigeon and turtle-dove. the cuckoo's egg is brown, and it must be admitted that the great majority of the nests which it patronises contain eggs more or less nearly resembling its own. there is a general family likeness about those laid by the bird, not only in the same clutch, but from year to year. admitting that the eggs of the cuckoo as a species vary more than those of other birds, it is yet probable that the same female invariably lays eggs of one colour. this can only be surmised by analogy, though the one fact bearing on the question is where two cuckoo's eggs were found in the same nest, and which differed greatly. more might have been learnt from the incident had it been known for certain whether the eggs were laid by the same or different birds. there is a general tendency in the habits of animals to become hereditary, and it seems not unreasonable to suppose that a cuckoo which has once laid its egg in the nest of any particular species should continue to do so, and that its offspring also should continue the practice in after years. a possibility with regard to the cuckoo is that it is not so destitute of maternal instinct as is generally supposed, and that it occasionally hatches its own eggs. it is certain that a female has been seen with her breast destitute of feathers, and with young cuckoos following her and clamouring to be fed. some other species of the genus nearly akin to our own bird are quite normal in their nesting habits, and i here suggest that, under certain circumstances, our english cuckoo may be so likewise. the dotterel is one of the most interesting of british birds. it is a summer visitant, and breeds upon the tops of the highest mountains. it is every year decreasing as a species in consequence of the persistency with which it is hunted down for its feathers; these are used for dressing flies. i have found it breeding upon skiddaw, sea fell, and helvellyn, though not since the year 1884. part of the interest which attaches to the bird arises from the fact of its extremely local distribution, the mountains named being perhaps the only ones on which it is known to breed in this country. hewitson, the eminent ornithologist, spent five consecutive seasons in looking for a dotterel's nest; and it was upon great robinson and the hindsgarth range that he ultimately found its eggs. the large price offered for these has acted as a prize for the dotterel's extermination by the shepherds; and some years ago a quarryman had a dog which was trained to find the nests. owing to the great number of trout streams in the lake district, angling is general; and, as has been said, the dotterel's decrease is due entirely to the great demand for skins. the birds are mainly shot either on their spring or autumnal migration, and at the former season the grandfather of the present writer upon one occasion bagged seventeen birds in a morning. although eagles are now more than rare in britain, there was a time when they bred among the crags of cumbria. gray and sir humphrey davy watched the eagles in their eyries, and the former tells how he saw them robbed of their young. to say nothing of the carnage made on hares, grouse, and waterfowl, these birds during the breeding season destroyed a lamb daily. it is no wonder that the farmers, shepherds, and dalesfolk were careful to plunder the eyries, though this was not done without very considerable risk. in one case a man was lowered down the rocks a distance of fifty fathoms, and during the descent he had to protect himself against the attacks of the parent birds. year by year the eggs or eaglets were taken, and as their presence was injurious to the interests of the farmers, the latter were willing to pay for their extermination. if the nest contained young birds, these were to be the cliff-climber's remuneration; but if eggs, every neighbouring farmer paid for each egg five shillings. the nests were formed of the branches of trees, and lined with coarse grass and bents that grew on the neighbouring rocks. on the eagles being so frequently robbed of their young, they became unsettled and removed from crag to crag. on one mighty escarpment more inaccessible than the rest they nested for fourteen consecutive years. these eagles and their progenitors had probably bred in the near vicinity for centuries; and the conservatism of birds--especially birds of prey--is quite remarkable. of this two instances may be given. in _cotheca wolleyana_ it is recorded that a peregrine falcon's nest on a hill called arasaxa, in finland, is mentioned by the french astronomer maupertius as having been observed by him in 1736. in 1799 it was rediscovered by skjã¶ldebrand and acerti. wolley himself found it tenanted in 1853, and by examining the remains of a young bird lying near the nest, proved that it belonged to this species. it is probable, therefore, that this particular eyrie had been used by the same species of falcon for one hundred and seventeen years. the following is another instance, hardly less remarkable, though having reference to an altogether different kind of bird. the particular incident is well known to naturalists, and perhaps the latest rendering of it is that by the nestor of british ornithology, professor newton. he says: "when the blue titmouse has taken possession of a hole, she is not easily induced to quit it, but defends her nest and eggs with great courage and pertinacity, puffing out her feathers, hissing like a snake, and trying to repel the fingers of the intruder.... the branch containing the nest may even be sawn off and conveyed to a distance (a cruel experiment) without the mother leaving it, and cases have been known in which, when this has been done, she has still continued to sit on her eggs, hatch them, and rear her brood. with equal persistence will this species year after year use as a nursery the same hole, and a remarkable instance of this kind is on record. in 1779, according to one account, in 1785, according to another, it is said that a pair of these birds built their nest in a large earthenware bottle which had been left to drain in the branches of a tree in a garden at oxbridge, in the township of hartburn, near stockton-on-tees, and safely hatched their young. the bottle having been allowed to remain in the same position by the occupiers of the farm, then and still a family of the name of callendar, was frequented for the same purpose and with a like result, until 1822, when, the tree becoming decayed, the bottle was placed in one near by, and the tenancy continued until 1851. in that year the occupiers of the farm omitted drawing out the old nest, as had been the constant practice before the breeding season, and in consequence the birds chose another place; but in 1852 they returned to the bottle, and have annually built in it, or in a second bottle, which has lately been placed close by it, up to the present year, 1873, with the exception of one season, when a pair of great titmice took possession of their inheritance. the intruders were shot, and the tenancy, it is hoped, will not be again disturbed." many birds show that they have the power of not only cleverly adapting themselves to circumstances in matters concerning their nesting, but that they are also equal to unforeseen accidents, which not unfrequently occur. from the secluded haunts and hideling habits of birds of the rail kind, it would hardly be imagined that they were endowed with much intelligence. here is a striking instance, however, to the contrary. a pair of waterhens built their nest upon an ornamental piece of water of considerable extent, which was ordinarily fed from a spring, and into which another large pond was occasionally emptied. this upon one occasion was done while the female was sitting, and, as the nest had been built at low water, the sudden influx from the second pond caused the water to rise so rapidly as to threaten the destruction of the eggs. this the birds seemed aware of, and immediately took precautions against it. the gardener on the estate, knowing of the sudden rise of water, went to look after the nest, though quite expecting to find the eggs ruined. instead of this he saw both birds busily engaged about the nest, and adding, with all possible despatch, fresh materials to the fabric to bring it above the impending flood. this they not only succeeded in doing, but it was observed that upon the first rush of water they had removed the eggs to a distance of some feet from the margin of the pool. in the meantime the nest rose rapidly in height, and when the water began to retire the eggs were brought back and placed in the nest. in a few days these were hatched, and the young were swimming with their parents about the pool. the nest plainly showed the formation of the old and new material, and testified to the instinct or reason of the bird architects. in this connection birds have been known to adapt their nests to changed forms of architecture; and almost innumerable little devices may be seen in individual nests tending to their special safety or protection. as an instance of adaptation to haunt it may be mentioned that in the north, buzzards and ravens invariably nest among the rocks of the crags, whilst in the south their nests are just as invariably found in trees. both the eggs and plumage of game birds offer interesting instances of this adaptation. the pencilled plumage of the snipe lying still in the brown marshes it is impossible to detect, although the birds get up at one's feet everywhere. the same may be said of the woodcock in the leaf-strewn woods, and of the nests and eggs of both species. the eggs of the wild-duck assimilate to the colour of the green reeds, and those of the lapwing to the ploughed field or the upland. the colour of the red grouse conforms very nearly to that of the purple heather among which it lies, as do the richly-speckled eggs. the partridge has a double protection. it is difficult to pick out her quiet brown plumage from a hedge-bottom so long as she remains still. she adopts the duns and browns and yellows of the dead leaves, among which she crouches. when she leaves her eggs she is careful to cover them with dead oak-leaves; but this seems almost superfluous, for there is no great contrast between the tint of the eggs and that of the leaves among which they lie. a hen pheasant lying in a bracken-bed is equally difficult to detect; and this applies particularly to all the young of the game birds just mentioned. the bright, dark eyes of birds and animals frequently betray them, as these are almost invariably large and prominent. a short-eared owl on a peat-moss i have mistaken for a clod of turf, and a gaunt heron with wind-fluttered feathers for drift stuff caught in the swaying branches of the stream. another characteristic case of protective imitation is furnished by the nightjar or goatsucker. this night-flying bird, half owl, half swallow, rests during the day on bare bits of limestone on the fells. its mottled plumage exactly corresponds with the grey of the stones, and its eggs, in colour like its plumage, are laid upon the bare ground without the slightest vestige of a nest--and again entirely resemble the stone. it will be remarked that all the birds mentioned live much upon the ground, obtaining the principal part of their food therefrom, and that therefore they have need of special protection. incubation in every case takes place on the ground; and just as the imitation of the plumage of the female bird is perfect, so will the fact tell upon the survival of the species. there is no such need of protection for tree builders, as these, for the most part, are out of the way of predatory animals. the chaffinch is by far the most abundant bird of our fields and woods; and there is one good reason why it should be so. it invariably covers its nest on the outside with dead lichens, like to those of the trunk against which it is built. against boys and other predatory creatures the device succeeds admirably, and the chaffinch as a species flourishes vigorously. the wren constructs her nest of moss, placing it upon a mossy background so as to present no sharp contrasts. sometimes she interweaves one or two dead oak-leaves, so as to render the deception more deceitful; and, from the number of wrens which abound, she evidently succeeds. starlings and sparrows and jackdaws, which build in holes at a considerable elevation, and have therefore less need of protection, hang out straws and sticks and bits of wool and feather as impudent advertisements. wheatears and such birds as build in low walls cannot afford to do this, but instead build neat nests leaving no trace without. several of our leaf-warblers drag dead leaves to the outside of their nests, and a hundred others employ like ingenuities. with regard to sexual colour, the dull summer plumage which characterises so many ground-breeding birds is all the more remarkable as they are the mates of males for the most part distinguished by unusual brilliancy. the few exceptions to this rule are of the most interesting character, and go eminently to prove it. in these exceptions it happens that the female birds are more brightly plumaged than the males. but in nearly the whole of the cases this remarkable trait comes out--that the male actually sits upon the eggs. now this fact more than any other would seem to indicate that the protection afforded by obscure colouring is directly intended to secure the bird's safety during the most critical period of its life-history. and it has been seen that the law of protective colouring most influences those birds which breed on the ground. one remarkable instance of this may be given, that of the dotterel, a bird already mentioned. this is a species of our own avi-fauna, one which breeds on the summits of the highest mountains. mr. gould has remarked that dotterel have not unfrequently been shot during the breeding season with the breast bare of feathers, caused by sitting on the eggs; and the writer knows of his personal knowledge that the shepherds on the cumbrian mountains occasionally kill dotterel on the actual nest, and that these almost invariably turn out to be males. in winter the colouring of the sexes is almost identical; but when the breeding season comes round the female dons a well-defined, conspicuous plumage, while it is found that the dull-coloured male alone sits upon the eggs. mr. wallace has pointed out that bee-eaters, motmots, and toucans--among the most brilliant of tropical birds--all build in holes in trees. in each of these cases there is but little difference in the plumage of the sexes, and where this is so the above rule is almost invariable. again, our native kingfisher affords an illustration. the orange-plumaged orioles have pensile nests, which is a characteristic of the order to which they belong, most of the members of which are conspicuous. bird enemies come from above rather than below, and it will be seen that the modifications referred to all have reference to the upper plumage. in 1888 an egg of a great auk was sold for one hundred and sixty guineas, whilst more recently an egg of the same species fetched two hundred and twenty-five pounds; and although these may seem enormous sums to give for a relic, the transactions are not without others to keep them in countenance. only a few years ago two eggs of the same kind fetched one hundred and one hundred and two guineas respectively; while the egg first named realised thirty-three pounds ten shillings a little over twenty years ago. at that time it was discovered, together with four others, packed away in a dust-covered box in the museum of the royal college of surgeons, these being sold in 1865. from this it would seem that in the ornithological market the complete shell of a great auk's egg is worth nearly one hundred and seventy pounds, and a broken one only seventy pounds less. it will be seen that the purchase of one of these may be a good investment; and what a mine of wealth a great auk that was a good layer might prove to its fortunate possessor can only be conjectured. at the present time the number of eggs of this species known to exist is sixty-six, twenty-five of which are in museums and forty-one in private collections. of the total number forty-three are retained in great britain. when a bird becomes so rare that the individual remains can be counted, the same may be taken to be practically extinct as a species. the great auk has pursued a policy of extinction for the past two or three centuries, until now, like the mighty moa and the dodo, it has ceased to exist. the great auk, or gare-fowl, was one of those birds which, from long disuse, had lost at once the power of flight and preservation. it was a great shambling bird, as large as a goose, and ill adapted to travel on land. how these things told against it may be inferred from the story of one captain richard whitbourne, who writing of the discovery of newfoundland in 1620, says that among the abundant water-fowl of these parts are penguins (great auks) "as bigge as geese, and flye not, for they have but a short wing, and they multiply so infinitely, upon a certain flat island, that men drive them from thence upon a boord, into their boats by hundreds at a time." this process of extinction went on in iceland and elsewhere until about the middle of the present century hardly any birds remained. the icelanders robbed the auks of their eggs for domestic use, and upon one occasion the crew of a british privateer remained upon one of the skerries all day killing many birds and treading down their eggs and young. this went on until the last birds were taken, and there is but the faintest hope that it may yet linger on in the inaccessible north. although awkward, and travelling with the greatest difficulty on land, the great auk was perfectly at home in the water, and travelled both upon and under the surface with the rapidity of a fish. the time of haunting the land was during the breeding season, in early summer. at this period the auk resorted to the rocks, in the dark recesses of which the females deposited one large egg--large even for the size of the bird. these had a whitish-green ground, streaked with brown, and nearly five inches in length. chapter viii. minor british game birds. at the time of the heaviest bird migrations in autumn, vast flocks of woodcocks pitch on the english coasts. they stay through the winter, and in spring the majority again cross the wild north sea _en route_ to their northern breeding haunts. the woodcock is a "shifting" species, and just as any bird is erratic in its wanderings, so it is interesting to naturalists. the british association is already on the track of the "woodsnipe," as are several individual observers in a more literal sense. there was a time when the nesting of the woodcock in england was of such rare occurrence as to be recorded in the natural history journals. we now know that it has bred in almost every english county, and that the number of birds which remain in our woods to breed is annually increasing. this fact proves that the woodcock's habits are being modified, and ornithologists have now to discover the reasons of its extended range. in coming to this country, woodcocks generally travel in the night and against a head-wind. those which are exhausted pitch upon the east coast, and here lie resting until nightfall, when they pass on. the probability is that if these birds had not experienced a rough passage they would not have touched the eastern seaboard, but would have kept well in the upper currents of the air, and first dropped down in our western woods or even those of ireland. the migratory bodies are usually preceded by flocks of tiny goldcrests; and so invariable is this rule that the latter have come to be called "woodcock-pilots." the males precede the females by a few days; the latter bringing with them the young that have been bred that year. it is a point worthy of notice, and one upon which much confusion exists, that the birds that come to us are usually in the very best condition. soon after their arrival they disperse themselves over the leaf-strewn woods, the same birds being known to resort to the same spots for many successive years. they seek out the warmer parts of the wood, and in such secluded situations sleep and rest during the day. at dusk they issue forth in their peculiar owl-like flight, to seek their feeding grounds. like many birds they have well-defined routes, and daily at twilight may be seen flying along the rides and paths of the woods or skirting along certain portions of plantations. coppice-belts they like best, especially such as contain spring-runs. it is here that the bird most easily finds food, the soft ground enabling it to probe quickly and to a considerable depth in search of earthworms. these constitute its principal diet, and the quantity that a single bird will devour is enormous. the long mobile bill of the woodcock is a study in itself. the rapidity with which the bird uses it in following a worm in the ground is marvellous. it is extremely flexible--so much so as to be bent and twisted into every shape without suffering harm--and it is as sensitive as flexible. every sportsman knows that woodcocks are here to-day, gone to-morrow. he often finds that where there were plenty yesterday not a single 'cock remains. ireland, perhaps, affords the best shooting. it was here that the earl of clermont shot fifty brace in one day. this feat was the result of a wager; and the bag was made by two o'clock in the afternoon, with a single-barrelled flint-lock. the birds were shot in a moist wood; and it is in such spots on the mild west coast that the woodcock finds its favourite haunt. in england the birds affect coppice-woods, frequenting most those which are wet, and such as have rich deposits of dead and decaying leaves. most of these copses are of oak and birch and hazel, and being only of a few years' growth are thick in the top. killing 'cock, as they dash through the twigs of these and seldom rising above the bushes, is one great test of a shooter's skill. then the birds have a habit of dropping down at a short distance, which almost invariably deludes the inexperienced gunner. when they are put up from their resting places during the day the flight is rapid; at evening it is slow. it is now that they are easiest to shoot; though in some parts of the country they are still taken in nets as they fly at dusk through the paths of the woods. netting woodcocks was at one time the common way of taking them; for they have always been highly esteemed as food. another method of capture was by "gins" and "springs;" and it would seem that in times past the "woodsnipe" was considered a stupid bird. none of the denizens of the woods conforms better or more closely to its environment. the browns and duns and yellows of its plumage all have their counterpart in the leaves among which it lies; and it has been pointed out that the one conspicuous ornament of the bird is covered by a special provision from the gaze of those for whose admiration it is not intended. this is the bright colouring of the tail feathers, which cannot be seen except at the will of the bird or in flight. its protection lacks in one thing, however, and that is its large dark eye; this is full, bright, and (so to speak) obtrusive. it is not often that a special provision of this kind is injurious to its owner; but the lustre which beams from the woodcock's eye is apt to betray its presence, and even to negative the advantage of its protective colouring. this has long been known. hudibras has it that: "fools are known by looking wise, as men find woodcocks by their eyes." the woodcock is an early breeder, the eggs being found by the second week in march. these are usually four in number; and the nest is placed among dry grass, leaves, and fern. the young are able to run immediately they are hatched, and are sometimes found with portions of shell adhering to their down. in a few days they are led to the vicinity of water, where they remain until they are able to fly. it is said that a small bank of moss is sometimes constructed by the old birds, upon which worms are placed. in its yielding substance they have their first lesson in boring, and obtain the kind of food which constitutes their chief diet in after life. one of the most interesting traits about the woodcock is the fact of its occasionally conveying its young through the air; which is done by only one or two other birds. this is no recent discovery. the fact was known as early as the middle of last century; though gilbert white rightly surmised that those observers were mistaken who fancied the young were conveyed either by or in the bill. it is just as erroneous, however, to substitute the claws, as some have done, for the bill. the truth is, that when the parent bird wishes to convey her young one from a place of danger to one of safety, the tiny thing is gently pressed between the feet and against the breast, the aid of the bill being resorted to only when the burden has been hastily taken up. in this way the whole of the brood is sometimes removed from one part of a wood to another, if the birds have been much disturbed. this trait may be confirmed by any one who will look out the bird in its haunts, and is all the more interesting as it seems to be quite an acquired one. the bird is in no way adapted to transport its young through the air. there are upwards of a dozen species of british plover; birds interesting to the naturalist, dear to the heart of the shore-shooter and to the sportsman of the marshes. some of these are summer visitants to our shores, others come in winter, while a few stay with us throughout the year. the common green plover or peewit, with its crest, its peculiarly rounded wings, its plaintive cry, is the best known; and this species breeds with us, as the abundance of its eggs shows. in autumn the old birds and their young descend from the uplands where the latter are bred, and seek out the mud-banks and ooze-flats on which to spend the winter. plashy meadows and marshes are also favourite feeding grounds; and here the lapwing makes "game" for an army of gunners. the vast flocks of plovers that congregate in autumn are said to be growing in numbers. hundreds of thousands of eggs are collected annually; bunches of green plover are displayed at the gameshops during the autumn; and yet there are more of these birds in england than ever there were. this may be accounted for by the closeness with which the plover conforms to its environment through every season. the plover is dainty eating, as are also its eggs. "to live like a plover"--meaning to live on the wind--is a saying of no aptitude. all the species are voracious feeders on substantials. their chief food consists of insects and worms from ploughed land; but immediately upon the setting in of frost they betake themselves to the mosses and marshes, or even to the coast and estuaries of rivers. here they feed liberally and at large, becoming plump and fat. on these grounds the birds often remain till the return of spring. although many are shot, most of the birds that find their way to market are taken in nets by professional fowlers. when the flocks are heaviest, and during hard weather, from fifty to eighty plovers are sometimes secured at one raising of the net. flying with the lapwing may often be seen flocks or "trips" of golden plover--one of the most beautiful birds of its family, and much less common as a species than the last. like the rare dotterel it breeds on the highest mountains, and in the nesting season has the golden markings of its back set off by the rich velvety black of its breast. this is an adornment donned only for the summer season, and is changed at the time of the autumnal migration from the elevated breeding grounds to the lowlands. at all times it has a piping, plaintive whistle, which conforms well to the wild solitudes where it is heard. the flocks of golden plover are usually smaller than those of green, and are more compact. when feeding together the two kinds are not easily discriminated. the moment they take wing, however, a difference is detected; the golden plover flying straight and quick, often in a v-shaped bunch; the green going loosely and without apparent order. all plover are restless and shifting before a change of weather, and when this is for the worse the golden plover always fly south. they are delicate birds, in fact, and little fitted to withstand the rigours of our northern climate. as a table bird it is more dainty even than the green plover, and fetches a higher price. the death-dealing punt-gun is terribly destructive to this species, from the compact mode of flying described above. as many as a hundred birds have been killed at a single shot. the beautiful little ringed plover, or sea-lark, is another of our breeding species. it is permanently resident on our coasts, and is one of the most interesting of british shore-birds. at no time infrequent, there is a considerable accession in winter; and it is a pretty sight to watch a flock of these feeding among sand or shingle, or even upon a mud-flat. it is in such spots, too, that it lays its creamy-spotted eggs (pointed like those of all plovers), often without the slightest semblance of a nest. no shore bird is as nimble as the ringed plover. it runs with the utmost grace and ease, picking up tiny crustaceans as it goes. although not uncommon, the ringed plover is somewhat locally distributed, which may also be said of the kentish plover. this is a rare species, and is very seldom found in numbers far from the south-eastern counties--from the saltings of essex and kent. in haunt and habit it much resembles the "sea-lark." only one other shore bird is resident with us throughout the year; this is the oyster-catcher. sea-pie and olive it is also called on some parts of our coasts. it is easily distinguished by its well-defined black and white markings, and every shore-shooter knows its shrill rattling whistle, its short uneasy flights, and its restless paddlings up and down the ooze. watch the sea-pie from behind some boulder and see how admirably adapted is its bill to its wants. flattened sideways and as hard as stone, no bivalve can resist it. it breeds among the weed and driftwood just above high-water mark, and lays three or four eggs of a cream-coloured ground, blotched and spotted with varying shades of rich dark brown. the little ringed plover is an exceedingly rare british bird, and is like our own ringed plover in miniature. the grey plover and the turnstone are spring and autumn visitants, having their breeding haunts in the far north, though it is probable that the first has bred a few times within the british islands. specimens have been seen in the london markets attired in summer plumage, and the birds themselves have been observed about the fame islands in june. the grey plover is fairly numerous after its advent in september, keeping in small flocks and sticking closely to the coast lines. it is larger than the green and golden plovers, is sometimes seen in company with them, and like them assumes a black breast in the breeding season. it occurs less frequently in the bags of the puntsman than the birds just named; it is rarely obtained far inland. like its congeners it forms a delicate morsel to the _gourmet_. the turnstone, also known as the hebridal sandpiper, is a handsome bird in black, white, and chestnut. in its haunts it feeds upon various sea and sand haunting creatures, which it obtains by turning over the stones with its bill. in this office the birds often assist each other. it comes in september in limited numbers, going north to its breeding haunts early in spring. the dotterel and norfolk plover are summer visitants. the former breeds upon the tops of the highest mountains, and rarely stays more than a few days during the times of the spring and autumn migrations. it is every year decreasing in consequence of the persistency with which it is hunted down for feathers for dressing flies. we have found it breeding upon skiddaw, sca fell, and helvellyn. the norfolk plover, thick knee, or stone curlew, is a summer visitant, coming in small numbers, and being only locally distributed. it breeds in a few of the eastern counties. december, with its frost and snow, its cold grey skies, and biting northern weather, always brings with it skeins of swans, geese, and wild-fowl. the heart of the fowler warms as he hears the clangour and wild cries of the birds afar up, for although he cannot see their forms, he easily determines the species. he hears the gaggle of geese, the trumpetings of wild swans, and the cry of the curlew as it hovers over the lights. among the fowl that are driven down by stress of weather are wisps of snipe, and, although comparatively small, no game is dearer to the heart of the inland sportsman or shore-shooter. four species of snipe are found in britain, though one of these, the red-breasted or brown snipe, can only be looked upon as a rare straggler. the remaining three species are the common snipe, the great snipe, and the jack snipe. all snipe have a peculiar zig-zag flight, and this peculiarity renders them most difficult to kill. bagging the first snipe constitutes an era in life of every sportsman, and is an event always remembered. another characteristic of birds of this genus is the beauty and design of their plumage. the ground colour is streaked and pencilled in a remarkable manner with straw-coloured feathers, which enables the bird to conform in a marvellous manner to the bleached stalks of the aquatic herbage which constitutes its haunt. the arrangement is somewhat similar to that of the woodcock lying among its dead oak-leaves. the common snipe is one of our well-known marsh birds, although drainage and better farming have not only restricted its breeding haunts, but have caused it to be less numerous. still it probably breeds in every county in england, and our resident birds are augmented in numbers by bands of immigrants which annually winter within our shores. these mostly come from scandinavia, and soon after their arrival may be seen dispersing themselves over the marshes in search of food. at this time they are exceedingly wary, and the alarm-note of a single bird will put every one up from the marsh. the startled cry of the snipe resembles the syllables "scape, scape," which is often a literal translation of what takes place before the gunner. the bird feeds on plashy meadows, wet moors, by tarns and stream sides, and on mosses which margin the coast. and this being so it is one of the first to be affected by severe weather. if on elevated ground when the frost sets in it immediately betakes itself to the lowlands, and when supplies fail here it soon starves, becoming thin and skeleton-like. under ordinary circumstances the bird is a ravenous feeder, lays on a thick layer of fat, and is certainly a delicacy. soon after the turn of the year snipe show an inclination to pair, one of them circling high in the air, and flying round and round over their future nesting site. it is now that they produce a peculiar drumming noise, caused as some say by the rapid action of the wings when making a downward swoop; while others assert that the noise is produced by the stiff tail feathers; others again that it is uttered by the bird itself. this "bleating" much resembles the booming of a large bee, and has given to the bird several expressive provincial names. to many northern shepherds the noise indicates dry weather and frost. the snipe is an early breeder, and in open seasons its beautiful eggs may be found by march or early april. these are laid in a depression among rushes or aquatic herbage, and have a ground colour of greenish olive, blotched with varying shades of brown. incubation lasts only a fortnight, and the result of this are young which run as soon as they are hatched, and clothed in an exquisite covering of dappled down. the birds strongly object to any intrusion on their breeding haunts, though this presents a capital opportunity of hearing the peculiar sound already referred to. the male will be seen flying high in circles, and whenever he indulges the remarkable action of his wings in his curving descent the sound proceeds from him. upon being hatched the young are immediately led to water and the protection of thick and dank herbage. here, too, food is abundant, which for these tiny things consists of the lowest forms of aquatic life. it is interesting to watch snipe boring for food, and it is surprising what hard ground their admirably-adapted long mobile bills can penetrate. this is an exceedingly sensitive organ however, the outer membrane being underlaid by delicate nerve fibre, which infallibly tells the bird when it touches food, although far hidden from sight. the seeds which are sometimes found in birds of the snipe kind have come there not by being eaten, but attached to some glutinous food, and eaten accidentally. the second species, the great snipe, long remained unknown as a british bird, owing to its being considered only a large variety of the bird above mentioned. pennant was the first to elevate it to the rank of a species, and, once pointed out, its claim was admitted. the great snipe does not breed in britain, and those killed here are mostly birds of the year, these occurring from early to late autumn. during a single season the writer shot three examples of this bird; one was flushed from turnips, the other two from a high-lying tussocky pasture--an ideal spot for hares, and for which we were on the look-out. in going away the great snipe is much slower than its common cousin, and is not given to zig-zaging to such an extent. it lies close, flies heavily, and on the wing reminds one very much of the woodcock. unlike its congeners, it does not soon "plump," but flies straight away. "solitary snipe" is misleading, as a pair are often found in company; whilst double snipe, woodcock snipe, and little woodcock are each expressive and descriptive. with regard to food and habit, this species has much in common with its congeners. it is usually found on high and dry situations from october to the end of the year, and seems to prefer loose soil to wet marshes, as the former give a greater variety of food. this consists of worms, insects and their larvã¦, beetles, tiny land-shells and grit. when in season the birds are loaded with flesh and fat. only a slight nest is constructed at breeding time, when four eggs are laid; these are olive-green with purplish-brown blotches. the bird is not known to breed with us, though it does in scandinavia, and here it is sometimes known to tear up the surrounding moss with which to cover its back. this it does for the purpose of concealment, a proceeding which is sometimes practised by the woodcock. the following interesting fact is recorded by two gentlemen who have observed the bird in its breeding grounds. "the great snipe has a _lek_ or playing ground, similar to that of some of the grouse tribe, the places of meeting, or _spil-pads_, being frequented by several pairs of birds from dusk to early morning. the male utters a low note resembling _bip, bip, bipbip, bipbiperere, biperere_, varied by a sound like the smacking of a tongue, produced by striking the mandibles smartly and in rapid succession; he then jumps upon a tussock of grass, swelling out his feathers, spreading his tail, drooping his wings in front of the female, and uttering a tremulous _sbirr_.... the males fight by slashing feebly with their wings, but the combat is not of long duration." as the characteristics of the great snipe become known, it will doubtless be recorded as occurring more frequently than it has been in the past. as has been suggested, it is most probable that in a big bag of snipe the rarer species may frequently have been overlooked, especially as the common snipe varies in size, perhaps more than any other bird. the jack snipe is the smallest british species, and is only a winter visitant to this country. it breeds upon the _tundras_ of the far north, and arrives here late in september. unlike its congeners, it is usually seen singly, and it procures its food in the boggiest situations. it feeds much at dusk both morning and evening, and when satisfied retires a short distance upland, where among dry grass tufts it rests during the day. its food consists of worms and other soft-bodied creatures; under favourable conditions it lays on much fat, and is considered a delicacy at table. upon its first coming it makes for wet meadows, plashy uplands, and sea-coast tracts, although the weather regulates the altitude at which the bird is found. if severe frost sets in it leaves the hill-tarns for lower land, and seeks the protection of grass and rushes by the margins of streams. open weather, however, soon drives it from the valleys. the jack snipe is very local in its likes, and will return again and again to the same spot; in ordinary seasons its numbers are about equal to those of the common snipe. it lies well to the gun, often until almost trodden on, and birds have been known to have been picked up from before the nose of a dog. it is more easily killed than any of its congeners, for although it flies in a zig-zag manner it invariably rises right from the feet of the sportsman. about april the birds congregate for their journey northwards, and there is no authentic record of the species having bred in britain. mr. john wolley, an english naturalist, discovered in lapland the first known eggs of the jack snipe. and this is how he relates the interesting find: "we had not been many hours in the marsh when i saw a bird get up, and i marked it down. the nest was found. a sight of the eggs, as they lay untouched, raised my expectations to the highest pitch. i went to the spot where i had marked the bird, and put it up again, and again saw it, after a short low flight, drop suddenly into cover. once more it rose a few feet from where it had settled. i fired, and in a minute had in my hand a true jack snipe, the undoubted parent of the nest of eggs! in the course of the day and night i found three more nests, and examined the birds of each. one allowed me to touch it with my hand before it rose, and another only got up when my foot was within six inches of it. the nest of the 17th of june, and the two of the 18th of june, were all alike in structure, made loosely of dried pieces of grass and equisetum not at all woven together, with a few old leaves of the dwarf birch, placed in a dry sedgy or grassy spot close to more open swamp." at one time snipe were commonly taken in "pantles" made of twisted horsehair. these were set about three inches from the ground, and snipe and teal were mostly taken in them. in preparing the snares the fowler trampled a strip of oozy ground, until, in the darkness, it had the appearance of a narrow plash of water. the birds were taken as they went to feed in ground presumably containing food of which they were fond. chapter ix. water poachers. if trout streams and salmon rivers are ever more interesting than when the "march-brown" and the may-fly are on, surely it must be when the fish are heading up stream for the spawning grounds. then the salmon leave the teeming seas and the trout their rich river reaches for the tributary streams. at this time the fish glide through the deep water with as much eagerness as they rushed down the same river as silvery samlets or tiny trout. maybe they stay for a short time at some well-remembered pool, but the first frosts remind them that they must seek the upper waters. a brown spate rolling down is a potent reminder, and they know that by its aid the rocks and weirs will be more easily passed. if the accustomed waterways are of solid foam the fish get up easily, but the soft spray gives them little hold. let us watch them try to surmount the first obstacle; and here, by the white water rocks it is a silvery sight to see the salmon "run." there is a deafening roar from the waterfall, and the almost impalpable spray constitutes a constant maze of translucent vapour. ever and anon a big fish throws its steel-blue form many feet above the water, endeavouring to clear the obstacle. many times it is beaten back, but at last it gains a ledge, and by a concentrated effort manages to throw itself into the still deep water beyond. instead of leaping, the female fish try to run through the foam and on from stone to stone until a last leap takes them over. where no passes exist many fish are picked up dead, the majority of these prove to be males, and this preponderance is also noticeable upon the breeding grounds. the spawning redds are selected where the tributaries are clear and pure--where there is bright gravel and an entire absence of sediment. here the fish settle down to their domestic duties, and their movements seem to be regulated by a dulling stupor. this facilitates observation, but it also assists the poacher in his silent trade. once settled, the female fish scoops out a hollow in the sheltering gravel, and is closely attended by her lord. whilst spawning is proceeding, observe with what care he attends her, and in what evolutions he indulges. he rises and falls, now passing over, now under her, and settling first upon this side, then upon that. observe, too, how he drives off the young unfertile fish which are ever lying in wait to devour the spawn. the eggs are deposited at intervals in the sand, and when the milt has been fertilised the whole is covered over, there to remain until spring. the salmon deposits nearly a thousand eggs for every pound of its live weight, and from the quantity of spawn in some salmon rivers it would seem that nothing which man could do--save pollution--would have any appreciable influence upon the increase of the species. the fecundity of trout is even greater than that of salmon, while a tiny smelt of only two ounces contains upwards of thirty-five thousand eggs, and even these are as nothing compared with the rate of increase of several marine and "coarse" fish. an individual cod has yielded more than six million; a turbot fourteen million; and a twenty-eight pound conger eel fifteen million eggs. the eggs of salmon are nearly as large as the seed of a garden pea, and those of good trout only slightly less. the ova is of a delicate salmon colour and the cell-walls are semi-transparent--so much so that the embryo shows plainly through. although delicate in appearance they are elastic and capable of sustaining great pressure, and an egg thrown upon a flat surface will rebound like an india-rubber ball. the economy of the extreme prolificness of the sporting fishes of britain can best be understood when we come to consider the host of enemies which beset both salmon and trout in the very first stages of their existence. nature is prolific in her waste, and a whole army of nature's poachers have to be satisfied. so true is this that the yearly yield of the largest salmon-producing river in the kingdom is computed at about the produce of _one female fish_ of from fifteen pounds to twenty pounds in weight; the produce of all the rest being lost or wasted. sometimes a single ill-timed spate will destroy millions of eggs by tearing them from the gravel and laying them bare to a whole host of enemies.[2] these enemies are in the air, on the land, in the water, and nothing short of an enumeration of them can convey any idea of their numbers and wholesale methods of destruction. in addition to the yearling salmon and trout which for ever haunt the skirts of the spawning grounds, there are always a number of mature unfertile fish which for a part of the year live entirely upon the spawn. an instance of this is recorded by a river watcher on the thames, who states that while procuring trout ova in a stream at high wycombe, he observed a pair of trout spawning on a shallow ford, and another just below them devouring the ova as fast as it was deposited by the spawner. the keeper netted the thief, and in its stomach was found upwards of two ounces of solid ova, or about three hundred eggs. eels particularly root up the gravel beds, and the small river lamprey has also been seen busily engaged in the like pursuit. these have a method in going about their depredations that is quite interesting. small parties of them work together, and by means of their suckers they remove the stones, immediately boring down after the hidden spawn. if a stone be too large for one to lift another will come to its aid, even four or five having been seen to unite their forces. it is a good-sized stone which can resist their efforts, and the mischief they do is considerable. even water beetles and their larv㦠must, on account of their numbers and voracity, come within the reckoning, and among the most destructive of these are water-shrimps and the larv㦠of the dragon-fly. have we not been told that while the loved may-fly is "on," all hours, meats, decencies, and respectabilities must yield to his caprice, so that the pink-spotted trout, rushing from every hover, may be lifted gently from its native stream to gasp away its life among the lush summer grass? but if the gauzy-winged fly is one of the loved likes of the trout, the former has its day, for none of the larv㦠of water beetles is so destructive to spawn and fry as this. pike and coarse fish are equally partial to the same repast, and even salmon and trout devour the young of their own kind. waterfowl are among the trout-stream poachers, and the swan is a perfect gourmand. my swan and her crew (five cygnets) would dispose of two million five hundred thousand eggs in that time. some of the best trout streams in the country have been depopulated of fish by these birds, and the thames as a fishing river is now greatly suffering from the number of swans allowed upon it.[3] both wild and domestic ducks are destructive to spawn and almost live on the "redds" during the breeding season. we have more than once shot moorhens in autumn with spawn dripping from their bills, and the birds themselves gorged with it. the coot has been charged with the same crime, though as yet guilt has only been brought home to it with regard to coarse fish; and to the silvery bleak it is said to be particularly partial. the grebe or dabchick must be looked upon as an arrant little poacher not only of eggs and fry but of fish in every stage of growth. it is said that a pair of dabchicks will do more harm on a river than a pair of otters, which, however, is perhaps not so terrible as it sounds. fourteen little grebes fishing about a mile of trout stream, as we have known, is overstepping the balance of nature, and would certainly injure the river; and mr. bartlett has stated that a pair of these birds which he kept in confinement cost the zoological society a considerable sum in providing small fish for them. frank buckland had a grebe sent to him which had been choked by a bullhead, and the same fate has not unfrequently befallen kingfishers and other aquatic feeders. the vegetarian water-voles may be written down innocent with regard to spawn, or at the worst "not proven." our british voles are miniature beavers that haunt the water sides and lead a fairy-like existence among the osier-beds and lily-pads. they know but little of winter, and therefore of the spawning season, and their delectable lives are lived on through ever-recurring summers. until lately naturalists knew but little of the life-history of the voles, and the country folk called them "water-rats" and "field-mice," and knew little beyond except that they tunnelled their meadow-banks. as the little creatures pass from one bank to another they swim fearlessly towards the observer, and when within a few yards of the side suddenly disappear and enter their holes from beneath. much abuse has been heaped upon the vole for its alleged propensity for destroying ova, but as yet nothing has been proved against it. we have watched scores of these little creatures feeding on the succulent leaves of water-plants, but have never detected them searching the "redds" or taking trout fry. it has been asserted that voles feed upon flesh when opportunity offers, but perhaps we cannot better vindicate their general character in this respect than by relating an incident which has occurred annually for some years past. in a quiet pool known to us, a couple of moorhens have annually hatched and reared one or more broods under the shadow of an old thorn-tree, the nest being interwoven with one of the lower boughs which floats on the surface of the water. under the roots a pair of voles have annually brought forth several young families; and yet perfect amity seems to exist between the birds and the rodents. we have seen the eggs lying for hours uncovered and unprotected, and at other times the young birds, not more than a few hours old, swimming about in the water when the voles were constantly feeding, crossing and recrossing from bank to bank. if voles were addicted to killing birds the downy young of the moorhen would have afforded tender morsels, and have been easily obtained in a small confined pool ere they were able to take wing. [2] "sometimes while stealing along in a quiet deep channel but a few yards wide, worn through the rock, or between it and the green bank opposite, the spectator would marvel at the broad expanse of shingle or barren sand. little would he wonder if, after a week's rain, he sought the same spot, when tweed was coming down in his might, and every tributary stream, transformed for the nonce into a river, swelled the mighty flood. then timber trees, sawn wood, dead animals, farming implements, even haystacks would come floating down, and the very channel of the river would be diverted, sometimes never to return to its ancient course. sad was the havoc occasioned among the embryo spawn; torn from its bed, it would be carried down stream, to be devoured by the trout or the eel, or to perish amid the waste of waters. we felt on these occasions pretty safe. our principal enemies were dispersed: the gulls sought worms in the ploughed uplands; the kingfisher and the solitary heron flew away to the smaller streams, where the less turbid water permitted them to see their prey. the cold, slimy, cruel eel, alone of all our enemies, was then to be dreaded. crawling along at the bottom of the water, his flat wicked head pressed against the gravel, so as to escape the force of the stream, the wily beast would insinuate himself into every crevice or corner, where a small fish might have taken shelter, or a drowned worm be lodged, and all was prey to him." _the autobiography of a salmon._ [3] "one had better throw open his pond or river to all the poachers in the district than indulge in a taste for swans. if any one doubts this, let him row up the thames from weybridge to chertsey, or on to laleham, during the latter end of the month of april or early in may, and take particular and special notice of what the swans are doing. if he has still any doubt, and likes to kill one or two and cut them open, he will solve his doubts and do a service at the same time; he may be fined for it, but he will certainly suffer for a good action and in a good cause. a swan can and will devour a gallon of fish-spawn every day while the spawn remains unhatched, if he can get it; and it is easily found. i leave the reader to calculate what the few hundreds (i might almost say thousands) on the thames devour in the course of two or three months. their greediness and voracity for fish-spawn must be witnessed to be believed. if this were not so, the thames ought to swarm to excess with fish, whereas it is but poorly supplied. here is a little calculation. suppose each swan only to take a quart of spawn per diem, which is a very low average indeed; suppose each quart to contain fifty-thousand eggs (not a tithe of what it does contain). i am not speaking of salmon and trout here, their ova being much larger; suppose only two hundred swans (about a fourth, perhaps, of the number really employed) are at work at the spawn, and give them only a fortnight for the period of their ravages. now what is the result we get? why, a little total of one hundred and forty million. one hundred and forty million of eggs! suppose only half of those eggs to become fish, and we have a loss of seventy millions of fish every year to the river thames--a heavy price to pay for the picturesque, particularly when the reality may perhaps be doubled, or trebled, or even quadrupled." francis francis. when the eggs of salmon and trout have been submitted to the action of clear running water for a few months they begin to hatch. prior to this the young fish may be seen inside packed away in a most beautiful manner. the embryo increases in bulk until on some warm april day the tiny fish bursts its shell and finds itself in a wide world of waters. individual eggs may be seen to hatch, and the process is most interesting. first the shell splits at the part corresponding to the back. then a tiny head with golden eyes appears, and after two or three convulsive waves of his little tail the now useless shells fall from off him. he seems to enjoy the watery element in which he finds himself, for away he swims as fast as his tiny fins and wriggling tail will carry him, round and round in a circle, until presently he sinks down again to the sheltering gravel, for the first time breathing freely by his delicate gills. every young salmon and trout has a tiny umbilical sac attached, and upon the contents of which it must feed until it has learnt to look out for itself, a period of from six to eight weeks. frank buckland has stated that no other animal increases so rapidly at so little cost, and becomes such a valuable article of food as the salmon. at three days old it is nearly two grains in weight; at sixteen months it has increased to two ounces, or four hundred and eighty times its first weight; at twenty months old, after the smolt has been a few months in the sea, it becomes a grilse of eight and a half pounds, having increased sixty-eight times in three or four months; at two and three-quarter years old it becomes a salmon of twelve pounds to fifteen pounds; after which its increased rate of growth has not been satisfactorily ascertained, but by the time it becomes thirty pounds it has increased one hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred times the weight it was at first. the only parts of a young salmon or trout which is fully developed immediately it leaves the egg are its eyes. these are golden with a silver sheen, and beautifully bright--the great aids in steering clear of an almost innumerable set of enemies which this new stage of existence brings. and it is really difficult to say whether these game fishes have more enemies when in the egg or after they are hatched. of some of the former we have already spoken, and now let us look to the latter. the heron is a great trout-stream poacher, and destroys quantities of immature fish. this has long been known, but the fact received striking confirmation from an incident which occurred at the rearing-ponds at stormontfield. here a heron was shot as it left off fishing, when it immediately disgorged _fifty fry_. in the trout stream the heron stands looking more like a lump of drift-stuff caught in the bushes than an animate object. gaunt, consumptive, and sentinel-like, the bird watches with crest depressed, standing upon one leg. at other times it wades cautiously with lowered head and outstretched neck, each step being taken by a foot drawn gently out of the water, and as quietly replaced in advance. occasionally the wader steps into a deep hole, but this causes not the slightest flurry. the walk is changed into a sort of swimming, and paddling deep in the water until the feet again touch firm ground. woe to the trout or samlet that comes within range of the heron's terrible pike, for it is at once impaled and gulped down. this impalement is given with great force, and a wounded heron has been known to drive its strong bill right through a stout stick. if a fish is missed a sharp look-out is kept for its line of escape, and a stealthy step made towards it. should the distance be beyond range of the bird's vision, a few flaps of the wings are tried in the eagerness of pursuit. nothing from the size of fry to mature fish comes amiss to the heron, and the young whilst still in the nest consume great quantities. their swallow is insatiable, though sometimes they gaff an individual which is difficult to dispose of. shooting late one evening in summer we were standing by a stream the banks of which were riddled with the holes of water-voles. it was almost dark, when a large bird flapped slowly over the fields and alighted by the bank. it took its stand, and as we lay low its sketchy form was sharply outlined against the sky. it was a heron; and for an hour among the dank weeds and wet grass we watched it feed. after a prolonged struggle with some object in the water it rose. just as it did so we fired, and running up to the winged bird were in time to see a live vole which it had disgorged. as an example of "the biter bit," it is related that a heron was seen one evening going to a piece of water to feed; the spot was visited the next morning, when it was discovered that the bird had stuck its beak through the head of an eel, piercing both eyes; the eel thus held had coiled itself so tightly round the neck of the heron as to stop the bird's respiration, and both were dead. upon another occasion a heron is said to have swallowed a stoat, but in this case also the prey was promptly disgorged. an authoritative statement has been made to the effect that the heron's services in the destruction of pike, coarse fish, rats, and water-beetles may fairly be set off against its depredations in trout-streams. but to this we must dissent; and if a trout stream and a heronry are to flourish in the same neighbourhood, the former must be covered in with netting, especially during the spawning season. another bird which is an enemy to both salmon and trout in their fry stage is the black-headed gull. this bird with its laughing cry hovers over the stream and never lets slip an opportunity of snapping up a brown trout or silvery samlet that has left its place of refuge. the late francis francis was fully aware of this fact, and he set down both gulls and terns as most notorious offenders. a couple of hundred gulls will devour at least a thousand smolts per day; and the birds may be seen at loch lomond travelling to and from gull island and the burns all day, each with a trout or parr in its beak. this must have a considerable effect on the future supply of grilse in the tweed. as to what part the pretty white-breasted dipper plays in the economy of salmon rivers and trout streams naturalists are by no means agreed. frank buckland said that one might as well shoot a swallow skimming over a turnip-field as a dipper over the spawning beds. and this view of the dipper's economy we believe to be the right and just one. last autumn we had occasion to walk over many miles of trout streams. in these, fish of every size were upon the gravel beds which constitute the spawning "redds." almost at every turn the white chemisette of the brook bird glinted from some grey stone and went piping before us up stream. as many of these were seen actually rummaging among the pebbles, some few were shot for examination. although the post-mortems were carefully conducted, no trace in any single instance of the presence of ova of either trout or salmon could be found, but only larv㦠of water-haunting insects, roughly representing the four great families of trout-flies. in opposition to the above, however, it must be admitted that individual dippers have been seen with tiny fish in their bills, and even to feed their young ones upon them. birds in confinement have also been fed upon minnows, but this _penchant_ might be an acquired one. it may be asserted, then, that the ouzel has been known to eat fish, but that fish forms no chief portion of his food; and finally, that it would be quite incorrect to describe it as a fish-eating bird, and therefore as an enemy to salmon and trout. the birds will not long stay where the water is slow or logged; they must have the white foam, the torrent, the pebbly reaches, and the shallows. in fact, they could not obtain their food under conditions other than these. the mountain burns abound with various aquatic insects and their larvã¦, and in limestone districts in innumerable fresh-water molluscs. as already shown, not only is the ouzel innocent of destroying eggs of salmon and trout, but it is indirectly beneficial to a fishery. it is well known that among the chief enemies to spawn are the larv㦠known as caddisworms, that of the dragon-fly, may-fly and stone-fly, and also of the various water-beetles. now all these have been found in the stomach of the dipper, and therefore it must confer a decided benefit on the salmon and trout streams which it haunts. of all our british birds none is so beautiful or so secluded in its habits as the kingfisher; and its presence is peculiarly in keeping with the rapid, rocky trout streams which it loves to haunt. although glowing with metallic lustres, and beautiful in its adaptation and every movement, the kingfisher builds but a careless nest, a loose structure of dry fish bones--the hard indigestible parts of its food which, in common with birds of prey, it has the power of ejecting in pellets by the mouth. again, let us look out the bird in its haunts. we follow the course of the hazel-fringed stream over a mile of its pebbly reaches; now a dipper flits from a green mossy stone, and a pair of sandpipers start with tremulous wings and skirt the shingle-strewn banks. among the flags the water-voles gnaw the sweet saccharine aquatic plants, and the water-hens run and hide under the friendly roots of an overhanging thorn. the may-fly is upon the stream, the silvery fresh run fish are all animation, and even the great black trout in the "willow dub" condescends to take a fat blue-bottle that is spinning round and round the pool. dragon-flies dart hither and thither, bronze fly and bee are upon the wing, and the carpet of grass and flowers is alive with innumerable insects, all busily engaged in fertilising their floral friends, or revelling in nectar, and gilded with golden pollen. the lime-trees are "a murmurous haunt of summer wings," and the breath of summer is on our cheek. over there is an overhanging, leafless bough and upon it has just alighted a kingfisher. at first its form is motionless, then it assumes more animation, and anon is all eye and ear. then it falls, hangs for a moment in the air like a kestrel, and returns to its perch. again it darts with unerring aim and secures something. this is tossed, beaten and broken with a formidable beak, and swallowed head foremost. this process is again and again repeated, and we find that the prey is small fish. from watching an hour we are entranced with the beauty of the fluttering, quivering thing as the sun glints from its green and gold vibrations in mid-air. we gain some estimation, too, of the vast amount of immature fish which a pair of kingfishers and their young must destroy in a single season.[4] later in summer the young brood may be seen with open quivering wings, constantly calling as the parent birds fly up and down stream. their food consists almost entirely of fish throughout the year, though during the rigour and frosts of winter they betake themselves to the estuaries of tidal rivers, where their food of molluscs and shore-haunting creatures are daily replenished by the tides. kingfishers are among the most persistent of trout-stream poachers, and as many as eighty of these beautiful birds have been killed in a season on a famous nursery in the midlands. as in the case of the heron, nothing will save the fry from these marauders but covering in the rearing ponds with the finest wire net. however one may wish to protect the kingfisher, there is no denying the fact of its _penchant_ for fish, especially the fry of salmon and trout; the bad habit is bred in him. [4] "then the kingfisher, with rufous breast and glorious mantle of blue, would dart like a plummet from his roost, and seize unerringly any little truant which passed within his ken. the appetite of this bird was miraculous; i never saw him satisfied. he would sit for hours on a projecting bough, his body almost perpendicular, his head thrown back between his shoulders; eyeing with an abstracted air the heavens above or the rocks around him, he seemed intent only upon exhibiting the glorious lustre of his plumage, and the brilliant colours with which his azure back was shaded; but let a careless samlet stray beneath him, and in a twinkling his nonchalant attitude was abandoned. with a turn so quick that the eye could scarce follow it, his tail took the place of his head, and, falling rather than flying, he would seize his victim, toss him once into the air, catch him as he fell, head foremost, and swallow him in a second. this manoeuvre he would repeat from morning till night; such a greedy, insatiable little wretch i never saw!"--_the autobiography of a salmon._ the fact of salmon and trout devouring the spawn of their own kind has been already referred to, and unfortunately the practice is continued after the eggs are hatched. the big fish sometimes so terrify the tiny trout and samlets that the latter throw themselves clear out of the water and lay gasping on the pebbles, while the would-be devourer beats about the shallows disappointed at losing his prey. an old "kelt" salmon has been seen to devour fifty of his own progeny for breakfast; and the pike is a greater water-wolf still. this fish has been known to increase at the enormous rate of from eight to ten pounds a year when favourably placed for feeding. so voracious a creature is the pike, and furnished with such digestion, that it will destroy a half-pound trout a day for twelve months--a terrible drain upon any stream. then it has an all-capacious maw for silvery smolts as they are making their way down to the sea, and of these at certain seasons it devours myriads. of course pike keep coarse fish under, which are indirectly injurious to trout, and in this way confer a benefit upon the angler. there is another way in which he is beneficial, and that is as a scavenger. a diseased salmon or trout never lives more than a few minutes in his presence, for he gulps down fish, fungus, and all. in this connection there is one fact which ought not to be overlooked. of late years disease has played terrible havoc in some of the best rivers in the country. in one of these, known to the writer, scarcely a fish is caught which does not show scars left by the disease--want of tail, partial loss of fins, and white patches where the fungus has previously grown. that numbers of the fish attacked do survive there can be no question; and that the disease may be prevented at the cost of a few fish we have but little doubt. this may be considered a bold assertion; but in these days of artificial rearing, re-stocking, and preservation, anglers and angling associations are apt either to forget or to ignore the balance of nature. now, nature rarely overlooks an insult. destroy her appointed instruments and beware of her revenge. that the salmon and trout may live a whole host of stream-haunting creatures are condemned, and that often upon the most insufficient evidence. the creature against which the angler "breathes hot roarings out" is the otter. but how few fish does the otter really destroy! the evidence to be gathered by those who live along its streams all goes to show that eels and freshwater crayfish form the staple of its food. in search of these, it wanders miles in a night and will not partake of soft-bodied fish so long as they can be found. the economy of the otter ought not to be overlooked in connection with sport and our fish supply. probably its increasing rarity has as much to do with the disease alluded to as had the extermination of the nobler birds of prey with the grouse disease. a falcon always takes the easiest chance at its prey; and an otter captures the slowest fish. in each case they kill off the weakest, the most diseased, and thereby secure the survival of the fittest. most of the newspaper paragraphs anent the doings of otters are mere legendary stories without any foundation in fact. the otter is not a "fish-slicer." salmon found upon the rocks with the flesh bitten from the shoulders are oftener than not there by agents other than _lutra_. a great deal of unnatural history has been written concerning the "water-dog," mostly by those who have never had opportunity of studying the otter in its haunts. that it occasionally destroys fish we will not deny; but this liking has become such a stereotyped fact (?) in natural history that it is glibly repeated, parrot-like, and has continued so long, that most have come to accept it. ask the otter-hunter, the old angler of the rocky northern streams, the field naturalist who has many a night stretched his length along a slab of rock to observe the otter at home--and each has the same answer. abundance of otters and plenty of trout exist side by side; and where the fastnesses of the former are impregnable, there disease is foreign to the stream. many otters, many trout; this is a bit of nature's economy there is no gainsaying. here is an actual incident. there is a certain reach on a well-known trout stream which is so overgrown with wood and coppice as to render it unfishable. this reach swarms with handsome well-fed trout; and yet far back among the rocky shelves of the river a brood of otters are brought forth annually, have been in fact time out of mind. and yet another incident. of forty-five dead otters killed in hunting, in two only were there remains of fish food, and this consisted of eels--deadly enemies either to trout stream or salmon river. these forty-five otters, for the most part, were killed before six in the morning, and consequently when their stomachs were most likely to contain traces of what had been taken in their night's fishing. one of the most curious enemies of our freshwater fishes is a small floating water-weed, the bladderwort. along its branchlets are a number of small green vesicles or bladders, which, being furnished with minute jaws, seize upon tiny fish, which are assimilated into its substance. this is a subtle poacher, the true character of which has only lately been detected. the bladderwort is a fairly common plant, and no very special interest attached to it ere its fish-eating propensities were discovered. its tiny vesicles were known to contain air, and the only use of these so far as was known was to keep the plant afloat--a belief, be it remarked, all the more reasonable because many aquatic plants actually have such air receptacles for that very purpose. the tiny bladders attached to the leaves and leaf-stalks are each furnished with a door, the whole acting on the eel-trap principle, entrance being easy but exit impossible. there is nothing very formidable about the delicate green jaws of the vegetable trap, only that any tiny water creature that ventures in to look round out of mere curiosity never by any chance emerges alive. the first time that the bladder-wort was actually caught at its fish-poaching proclivities, so to speak, was by professor moseley, of oxford. he and a friend had, in a large glass bowl, a plant of this species and also a number of young roach just hatched. the murderous plant held several of the tiny fish in its jaws; and upon an experiment being tried in a separate vessel, it was found that a single plant had captured no less than a dozen fish in the space of six hours. one of these was caught by the head, another by the tail, a third by the yolk-sac, and in another instance two bladders had seized the same fish, one holding on at each extremity. in spite of all this tiny ferocity it must be admitted that this little plant poacher is more interesting than dangerous, and so long as it confines its attention to coarse fish neither the salmon-fisher nor trout-angler will concern himself much about its aquatic depredations. there is one wholesale method of destruction which particularly affects salmon, which cannot be passed over. this is done by almost innumerable nets, and is usually practised at the mouths of rivers and generally without the slightest regard to the economy of the fish supply. and it has been found that as salmon and the means of transit increase, so does the number of destructive nets. theoretically, legislation is levelled against this wanton destruction, but practically the law is a dead letter. at every tide, in certain seasons, hundreds of thousands of salmon-fry and smolts are sacrificed; and in a certain firth it is recorded how a fisherman in his nets walked, in many places, knee deep in dead smolts, and that the ground for a considerable distance was silvered with their scales. under these circumstances the samlets sometimes accumulate to such an extent that they have to be carted on to the nearest land and used as manure. this waste of valuable fish food is so great that it can hardly be reckoned, and in future years must tell greatly upon the british yield of salmon. mill-wheels[5] and hatches, too, are often great sources of destruction. [5] "in this neighbourhood i escaped, by pure good fortune, a danger that i afterwards learnt proved fatal to thousands--nay, tens of thousands--of my young companions. the stream had apparently divided, and whilst i followed the course of the right-hand one, the greater number passed down the wider but less rapid left-hand division. here they speedily encountered a terrific mill-wheel, and, dashing on one side, they found their progress stopped by a small net, which being placed under them, they were landed literally by bushels. my informant, who escaped by passing under the mill-wheel at the imminent risk of being crushed to death, assured me that the bodies of our unlucky brethren were used as manure! and, degrading as the suggestion is, it seems not impossible, for the numbers taken could not be sold or used for food."--_the autobiography of a salmon._ another enemy to salmon and trout is the great black cormorant--a poacher that studies their migratory and local movements, and acts accordingly. it is the habit of this bird to visit small rivers which flow into the sea, especially during the late winter and early spring months. at these seasons the smolts are preparing to come down, and the kelts of salmon and sea trout are assembling in the large pools prior to their return to salt water. a brace of cormorants which were shot at their fishing were found to contain twenty-six and fourteen salmon smolts respectively, and a trustworthy water bailiff asserts that he once watched a couple of cormorants hunt and kill a kelt salmon, and that after dragging it ashore they commenced tearing it up, when they were driven off. it was once thought that both the cormorant and heron only ate that which they could swallow whole, but this is now known not to be strictly correct. and now, finally, we come to the man poacher. fish poaching is practised none the less for the high preservation and stricter watching which is so characteristic of the times. in outlying country towns with salmon and trout streams in the vicinity it is carried on to an almost incredible extent. there are many men who live by it, and women to whom it constitutes a thriving trade. these know neither times nor seasons, and, like the heron and the kingfisher, poach the whole year round. they provide the chief business of the county police-court, and the great source of profit to the local fish and game dealer. the wary poacher never starts for his fishing grounds without having first secured his customer; and it is surprising with what lax code of morals the provincial public will deal when the silent night worker is one to the bargain. of course the public always gets cheap fish and fresh fish--so fresh, indeed, that the life has not yet gone out of it. it is a perfectly easy matter to poach fish, and the difficulty lies in conveying them into the towns and villages. the poacher never knows but that he may meet some county constable along the unfrequented country roads, and consequently never carries his game upon him. this he secretes in stacks and ricks and disused farm buildings until such times as it may be safely sent for. country carriers, early morning milk carts, and women are all employed in getting fish into town. in this the women are most successful. sometimes they may be seen labouring under a heavy load carried in a sack, with faggots and rotten sticks protruding from the mouth; or again with a large basket innocently covered with crisp green cresses which effectually hide the bright silvery fish beneath. the methods of the fish poacher are many. the chances of success, too, are greatly in his favour, for he works silently and always in the night. he walks abroad during the day and makes mental notes of men and fish. he knows the beats of the watchers, and has the waterside, as it were, by heart. he can work as well in the dark as in the light, and this is essential to his silent trade. during summer and when the water becomes low the fish congregate in deep "dubs." this they do for protection, and if overhung with trees there is always here abundance of food. if a poacher intends to net a "dub" he carefully examines every inch of its bottom beforehand. if it has been thorned, he carefully removes these small thorned bushes with stones attached, and thrown in by the watchers to entangle the poachers' nets and so allow the fish to escape. at night the poacher comes, unrolls his long net on the pebbles, and then commences operations at the bottom of the river reach. the net is dragged by a man at each side, a third wading after to lift it over the stakes, and so preventing the fish from escaping. when the end of the pool is reached the trout are simply drawn out upon the pebbles. this is repeated through the night until half-a-dozen pools are netted, and maybe depopulated of their fish. netting of this description is a wholesale method of destruction, always supposing that the poachers are allowed their own time. it requires to be done slowly, however, and if alarmed they can do nothing but abandon their net and run. this is necessarily large, and when thoroughly wet is most cumbersome and exceedingly heavy. the capturing of a net stops the depredations of the poachers for a while, as these being large take long to make. for narrow streams pretty much the same method as that indicated above is used, only the net is smaller, and to it are attached two poles. the method of working this is similar to that of the last. a species of poaching which the older hands rarely go in for is that of poisoning. chloride of lime is the agent most in use, as it does not injure the edible parts. this is thrown into the river where fish are known to be, and its deadly influence is soon seen. the fish become poisoned and weakened, and soon float belly uppermost. this at once renders them conspicuous, and as they are on the surface of the stream, they are simply lifted out of the water in a landing-net. this is a wholesale and cowardly method, as it frequently poisons the fish for miles down stream; it not only kills the larger fish, but destroys great quantities of immature ones which are wholly unfit for food. trout which come by their death in this way have the usually pink parts of a dull white, with the eyes and gill-covers of the same colour and covered with a thin white film. this substance, too, is much used in mills on the banks of trout streams, and probably more fish are destroyed by this kind of pollution in a month than the most inveterate poacher will kill in a year. throughout summer fish are in season, but the really serious poaching is practised during close time. when spawning, the senses of both salmon and trout seem to become dulled, and they are not at all difficult to approach in the water. the fish seek the higher reaches to spawn, and stay for a considerable time on the pebble beds. the salmon offer fair marks, and the poacher obtains them by spearing. a pronged instrument is driven into the fleshy shoulders of the fish, and it is hauled out on to the bank. in this way sometimes more fish are obtained in a single night than can be carried away; and when the gang is chased by the watchers the fish have generally to be left behind, as they are difficult things to carry. the flesh of spawning fish is loose and watery, and is most insipid and tasteless. it is, however, sold to the poorest class of people at a few pence per pound. in one outlying village during last close season poached salmon was so common that the cottagers fed their poultry upon it through the whole winter. it is said that several fish were taken each over twenty pounds in weight. another way of securing salmon and trout from the spawning "redds" is by means of "click-hooks." these are simply large salmon-hooks bound together shaft to shaft and attached to a long cord; a bit of lead balances them and adds weight. these are used in deep rivers, where spearing by wading is impracticable. when a fish is seen the hooks are simply thrown beyond it, and then gently dragged until they come immediately beneath; a sharp "click" usually sends them into the soft under-parts of the fish, which is then drawn out. that natural poacher, the pike, is frequently ridded from trout streams in this fashion. of course, poaching with click-hooks requires to be done in the light, or by the aid of an artificial one. lights attract salmon and trout just as they attract birds, and tar brands are frequently used by poachers. shooting is sometimes resorted to, but for this class of poaching the habits and beats of the water bailiffs require to be accurately known. the method has the advantage of being quick, and a gun in skilful hands and at a short distance may be used without injuring the fleshy parts of the body. that deadly bait, salmon roe, is now rarely used, the method of preparing it having evidently gone out with the old-fashioned poachers, who used it with such deadly effect. the capture of either poachers or their nets is often difficult to accomplish. the former wind their sinuous way, snake-like, through the wet meadows in approaching the rivers, and their nets are rarely kept at home. these they secrete about farm buildings, in dry ditches, or among the bushes in close proximity to their poaching grounds. were they kept at home the obtaining of a search warrant by the police or local angling association would always render their custody a critical one. they are sometimes kept in the poachers' houses, though only for a short period when about to be used. at this time the police have found them secreted in the chimney, between the bed and the mattress, or even wound about the portly persons of the poachers' wives. the women are not always simply aiders and abettors, but in poaching, sometimes play a more important rã´le. they have frequently been taken red-handed by the watchers. the vocation of these latter is a hard one. they work at night, and require to be most on the alert during rough and wet weather--in the winter, when the fish are spawning. sometimes they must remain still for hours in freezing clothes; and even in summer they not unfrequently lie all night in dank and wet herbage. they see the night side of nature, and many of them are fairly good naturalists. if a lapwing gets up and screams in the darkness they know how to interpret the sound, as also a hare rushing wildly past. it must be confessed, however, that at all points the fish poacher is cleverer and of readier wit than the river watcher. chapter x. wild ducks and duck decoying. there is no european country, however fortunately situated, which has so many species of wild-fowl as britain. this is partly owing to its insular position, and partly to the food-abounding seas which are on every coast. in their primitive condition these islands must have constituted a very paradise for wild-fowl, and we know that the marsh and fen lands of the south-eastern counties were breeding haunts of myriads of fowl not more than two centuries ago. even now there are nearly thirty species of wild duck which are either resident or annual visitants to our marine and inland waters. nearly half of these are now known to have bred within the british isles, the remaining ones coming from the north only at the severity of winter. wild ducks divide themselves into two natural groups according to habit and the manner in which they obtain their food. sportsmen and fowlers refer to those divisions as "surface" and "diving" ducks. those which comprise the first class feed exclusively upon the surface and inhabit fresh water; the latter are mostly marine forms, and in procuring their food the whole body is submerged. among the surface-feeding ducks are the shoveller, sheldrake, mallard, pintail, gadwall, garganey, widgeon, and teal; whilst the latter include the tufted duck, scaup, scoter, surf scoter, velvet scoter, pochard, and golden-eye. other british ducks which would come naturally into one or other of these groups, but are more or less rare, are the eiders, american widgeon, red-crested pochard, smew, the mergansers, and the buffel-headed, long-tailed, ruddy sheld, steller's western, ferruginous, and harlequin ducks. from the fact of their resorting to inland waters the surface-feeding ducks are perhaps the best known. all of them are shy, wary birds, and as difficult of approach as to bring down. nearly all the species which inhabit fresh water feed during the night, and fly off to the hills to rest and sleep during the day. all of them are birds of considerable powers of flight, and an interesting fact in their economy is the power of the males to change their summer plumage so as to resemble that of the females. as this adaptation only takes place during the breeding season it is probably done for protective reasons. the common mallard or wild duck, and the teal, being resident breeding birds, are the first to become noticeable in winter, and many thousands are annually taken in the few remaining decoys of this country. the mallard is an exceedingly handsome bird, and one of the largest of its kind. it is an early breeder, and soon after the brown duck begins to sit the male moults the whole of its flight feathers. so sudden and simultaneous is this process that for six weeks in summer the usually handsome drake is quite incapable of flight; and it is probably at this period of its ground existence that the assumption of the duck's plumage is such an aid to protection. the mallard is not strictly a ground builder, as its nest is sometimes at a considerable altitude, nests of a rook and a hawk having been taken advantage of. in such case the young birds are probably brought to the ground in the bill of the old one. to such an extent did the mallard at one time breed among the fens in this country, that it was customary before the young could fly for a number of persons to engage in what was termed a "driving of ducks," when as many as one thousand eight hundred birds have been taken. although wild and wary under ordinary circumstances, the mallard upon occasion has shown remarkable tameness. in severe weather two hundred birds have assembled upon a pond and accepted oats at not more than an arm's length from the feeder. under ordinary circumstances the common wild duck feeds upon floating grasses, grain, insects, and worms; a well-grown mallard sometimes weighs three pounds. the teal is the smallest of the wild ducks, and is an exquisitely-formed and prettily-marked species. it is dear to the fowler as the gourmet, for it is easily decoyed or stalked, and when procured affords delicate eating. many a time does the heart of the shore-shooter warm as he hears the whistle of a bunch of teal, and sees them drop down like a plummet. they love to haunt the margins of fresh-water streams and lakes, and when put away from these rise rapidly and as though they had been shot from the water. it is only when their inland resorts are hard frozen that they are driven to the sea, and once here every art of the fowler is used in coming up with them. as many as eighty-five and upon another occasion one hundred and six teal have been picked up after a well-directed shot from a punt-gun--the former by sir ralph payne-gallwey, the latter off the irish coast. both shots were at flying birds. the teal is an early breeder, and being resident is among the first of the ducks seen on the decoys, and with the mallard is the species most abundantly taken. it is liable to the same sexual change in the breeding season, and during the time it has young is most affectionate in tending them. an anecdote is related of how a country lad having fallen in with a brood of teal drove them before him to a lodge. the mother teal followed after, keeping close at hand. when the boy had driven them into a little shed within the yard, the old bird, still following, ran in after them, and in spite of there being dogs and men about did not betray the least alarm. the sheldrake is one of the largest and handsomest of its kind, and although rare as a resident bird, i have frequently found its nest in rabbit burrows on the shores of morecambe bay. it is at all times one of the most distinctive of the ducks with its bright and well-defined chestnut and white plumage. the head and neck are black, but this glows with an iridescent green. naturalists do not consider this a true duck, but from structural modifications as a connecting link between the ducks and geese. it usually breeds on a plateau commanding the sea, and when approaching its nest it plumps right down to the mouth of the hole. its creamy white eggs are large and round, eight to twelve being usually found in the burrow. for a day or so after the young are hatched they are kept underground, and immediately upon emerging are led down to the tide. i have not unfrequently taken the eggs from the sand-hills and hatched them under hens--a quite successful experiment up to a certain point. the young seem to be able to smell salt water, and will cover miles of land to gain it. if, however, the distance prove impracticable they will surely leave in autumn when the migratory impulse is strong upon them. this instinct is particularly marked in all sea-fowl, and wild swans, geese, and ducks call loudly to their farm cousins as they pass over. there is a great wildness about the clangour and cries of migratory fowl, coming as it does far up in the wintry sky. reverting to the breeding of the shelduck, the parents have been observed conveying the newly-hatched young to the sea on their backs when the nest has been far inland. in holland recesses are cut in the dunes and sand-hills so as to encourage the birds to breed, and each morning the nests are visited and the eggs collected. ordinarily not more than a dozen eggs are laid, but under this system as many as thirty are produced by a single duck. after the 18th of june the persecution ceases and the birds are allowed to hatch in peace. most of the nests are lined with fine down little inferior in quality to that of the eiders, this too becoming a commercial commodity. being driven from their bleak northern haunts by the ice, widgeon appear in immense flocks in winter, and are by far the commonest of the migratory ducks. they first begin to arrive about october, and continue coming until the end of the year. although found upon inland lochs and rivers, they love to frequent weed or grass-grown ooze and mud-banks, where they sleep and feed. the widgeon is an exception to most of the wild ducks, as it feeds more by day than by night, and, like geese, it is particularly fond of nibbling the short grass on the saltings. it has a wild whistle which resembles the syllable "whew"--by which name the bird is known on many parts of the coast. sometimes during a lull in a spell of rough weather vast flocks concentrate themselves on the ooze, and it is at this time they are sought by the puntsman or fowler. when good shots have been obtained at such masses of birds over a hundred have been killed at a single shot, and this explains why widgeon are sold so cheaply in the markets. when winter breaks up the flocks retire northward, only a few remaining to breed on the northern parts of britain. the widgeon is not known to have nested in england. the shoveller is another handsomely-plumaged duck, and has its name from its shovel-shaped bill, by which characteristic it may be known at a glance. it is a winter visitant to our shores, though not in any great numbers, and breeds not unfrequently in several of the south-eastern counties as well as more sparingly in the north. it rarely frequents the sea, being fond of fresh water, and is remarkable in the fact that it does not reach down like other ducks to procure its food; it rather filters the water through its bill, retaining the solid animal matter, and allowing the rest to filter through two peculiar processes with which it is fitted. it is rather a foul feeder, swims low in the water, and is admirably fitted for its special mode of life. the gadwall, which has been described as a "thoroughbred" looking duck, is the rarest yet mentioned. it may not unfrequently be passed over, not only on account of its great shyness, but because it so much resembles the common domestic ducks. it is rare, too, as a breeding species, but an experiment tried in norfolk shows how easily it may be acclimatised. here, on the south acre decoy, a pair of captured birds were pinioned and turned down, until now, these having bred and attracted others, it is computed that between fourteen and fifteen hundred birds are on the water. the gadwall affords admirable eating. the garganey or summer teal is the smallest of the wild ducks with one exception. unlike the rest, it is not a winter visitant, but only comes to us in early spring on its way northward, and again in autumn on its southward journey. it is an active species, swimming and flying quickly. on land it feeds upon water-weeds, frogs, and grain, and at sea upon crustaceans and molluscs. a few of the migratory birds are known to remain and nest in the reed beds in norfolk, though the great majority seek their northern breeding grounds. blue-winged teal is a name given to this prettily-marked species, which to those who know its congener is fairly descriptive. the last of the surface-feeding ducks is the pintail, and if this is also described as handsome it is because there are but few of the wild ducks which are not. it is one of the most graceful, too, and owing to the long central tail feathers of the male is sometimes called the sea-pheasant. although often obtained by fowlers along the coast, it is also found on inland decoys, and feeds upon aquatic plants, insect larva, and molluscs. its flesh is next in delicacy to that of the teal, and is held in estimation at table. it is much more rare in the northern than in the southern counties, and off the coast of cornwall thirty-seven birds have been bagged at one shot. the pintail breeds but rarely in england. we now come to the diving ducks. speaking generally, the "surface" ducks haunt fresh water; diving ducks the sea. the most prominent of these are the scaup; common, velvet, and surf scoters; the pochard, golden-eye, and tufted duck. the inland sportsman or decoy-man knows little of the diving ducks. some of them keep close to land, but for the most part they are at home far out at sea. it is interesting to watch parties of these playing and chasing each other over the crests of the waves, and seeming indifferent to the roughest weather. the three scoters may be met with fifty miles from land in loosely floating flocks of thousands. the common scoter is a winter visitant to our coasts, sometimes coming in such numbers that the waters between the eastern counties and holland seem covered with them. this also holds good with regard to the west coast, where the scoters arrive in july. they stay for some days on fresh water; but, once launched on their winter haunt, it is not unusual for a single fisherman to take half a cartload in his "dowker" nets in a morning. the scoter is entirely black; it dives remarkably well, and can remain a long time under water. it feeds upon mussels and other soft bivalves, following the advancing tides shoreward in search of them. these facts the fisherman notes, and works accordingly. he marks where the birds feed, sees their borings and stray feathers, and when the tide has ebbed spreads his nets. these are attached by a peg at each corner, and laid about fifteen inches above the ground. returning to feed with the tide, the ducks dive head foremost into the nets and become hopelessly fast. another of the sea-ducks, the scaup, is also taken in large numbers in this way. but, owing to the oily nature of their flesh and its fishy taste, these birds are rarely eaten. it is owing to this fact that during lent in catholic countries the flesh of the scoter is allowed to be eaten. close cousin to the last and somewhat rarer is the velvet scoter, a handsome duck, with velvety black plumage relieved by a purely white patch on the wing and a crescent-shaped spot of the same colour under the eye. this, too, is a winter visitant, enjoying and obtaining its food in the roughest wintry seas. a few velvet scoters may always be seen among the immense flocks of the common kind. in haunt and habit, as well as food, the common and velvet scoters are identical. the surf scoter is the rarest of the three british species, and is intermediate in size between the two last. with black plumage like its congeners, it is characteristically marked by a white spot on the forehead and an elongated white streak down the neck. the roughest seas have no terror to the surf scoter, and it is such an expert diver as to be able to fish at a depth of several fathoms. none of the scoters breed in britain, but nest in the great northern marshes. another of the well-known marine ducks is the pochard, or dun-bird. to fishermen and fowlers it is known as "poker" and "redhead," owing to the bright chestnut colouring of its head and neck. this, with its black breast and beautifully freckled grey back, make it a handsome bird. it is somewhat heavily made, swims low in the water, and from its legs being placed far behind for diving it is awkward on land. in winter the pochard is abundant on the coast, but it is one of the shyest of fowl and is always difficult of approach. if alarmed it paddles rapidly away, turning its head and keeping its eye on the intruder. as a consequence of its extreme wariness pochards are much more frequently netted than shot. this kind of fowling was mainly practised on flight ponds near the coast, especially in the south-eastern counties. and this is how it was done: "the water was surrounded with huge nets, fastened between poles laid flat on the ground when ready for action, each net being perhaps sixty feet long and twenty feet deep. when all was ready, the pochards were frightened up out of the water. like all diving ducks, they are obliged to fly low for some distance, and also to head the wind before rising. just as the mass of birds reached the side of the pool, one of the immense nets, previously regulated by weights and springs, rose upright as it was freed from its fastenings by the fowler from a distance with a long rope. if this were done at the right moment, the ducks were met full in the face by a wall of net and thrown helpless into a deep ditch dug at its foot for their reception." most of the marine ducks are unfit for the table, the pochard and tufted ducks being exceptions--probably from the fact of their often resorting to fresh water. akin to the last is the red-crested pochard or whistling duck--a rare british visitant, closely resembling its congener, but having a long silky crest on the head, and rich black neck, breast, and abdomen. the visits of this beautiful bird are very rare. the scaup is another sea-duck which makes its appearance in autumn in large numbers, resorting to low oozy coasts, where it finds its food. this consists principally of shell-fish, especially mussels; hence it is sometimes called "mussel-duck." it is an expert diver, and a flock of hundreds of scaup may sometimes be seen to immerse themselves at the same moment. like the division to which it belongs, the scaup is a heavy thick-set duck, and among the least eatable of its kind; yet hundreds are taken by the fishermen in their nets. another of the winter ducks is the golden-eye, the mature male of which is among the handsomest and wariest of its kind. the golden-eye reaches our shores about the end of october; the great majority being birds of the year, with only a few matured males among them. their extreme wariness makes it almost impossible to approach a flock, and when on sheets of fresh water they persistently keep near the middle. if the duck is difficult to come at by the shore-shooter or on land, it is equally puzzling to the puntsman. instead of paddling away like other ducks when alarmed, it immediately takes wing, and after having dived, it can shoot from the water without waiting on the surface an instant. this species has also several remarkable characteristics. the members of a flock paddling in the sea are never all immersed at once, one or more always remaining on the surface as sentinels. another trait is the almost invariable habit of nesting in holes, so that the laps place darkened boxes by the sides of rivers and lakes for the ducks to lay in. often as many as a dozen eggs are found, and the nests are lined with the soft down of the ducks. on our coasts these ducks feed upon crustaceans and molluscs, and many fishermen know it by the name of "mussel-cracker." "rattlewing" is another provincial name owing to the musical whistle which the bird makes with its wings when flying. its short rounded wings are ever restless; the shy little duck is ceaselessly swimming, diving, flying--never seeming to sleep and never still. the pride of plumage of the golden-eye stands it in little stead at table, where it is considered nearly worthless. an interesting incident which lingers in the writer's memory had for its subject a pair of male golden-eyes in all the glory of matured plumage. a friend during a solitary ramble by a rush-grown mountain tarn had the good fortune to see these birds well within shot. being a keen sportsman and fowler his fingers tingled to touch the trigger which should bring the rare prize to his hand. he was quite unaware of any other presence when a couple of shots awoke the echoes of the valley, and the ducks floated lifeless upon the water. when the white smoke lifted from the brush and reeds it showed the head and shoulders of a keen sporting friend of the first observer, and a beautiful drake now adorns the collection of each. the tufted duck is a prettily-marked species, and has the feathers on the back of the head elongated into a drooping crest. the upper plumage generally is black, flashing with green, bronze, and purple lustres, and the under plumage white. although numbers of tufted ducks breed upon fresh water in this country, the great majority are only winter visitants, coming in october and leaving again in march. it rarely congregates in flocks, but is mostly found in scattered squadrons about shores and channels. norfolk and nottingham are the counties where the tufted ducks are known to breed, and here on decoys or in parks they find favourite retreats. the nest is made under a clump of grass or rushes, and from ten to thirteen eggs are laid. eider-ducks are among the most interesting of our sea-birds. three species are found in this country; these are the common eider, the king eider, and steller's eider. the british eiders are essentially sea ducks--rarely even entering rivers, and seldom roving far inland. occasionally found in our southern seas, they become more numerous as we ascend the east coast, until upon the farnes, off northumberland, we reach their most southern breeding haunts. on holy island and lindisfarne a few pairs of st. cuthbert's ducks have bred time out of mind. except during times of nesting, the whole life of the bird seems spent upon the element whence it derives its food--crustaceans, namely--and this it always obtains by diving. in their northern breeding haunts the eiders begin to collect about the first week in may, and by the end of the third week most of the ducks have begun to lay. as soon as the colony has got well about this business the drakes leave the land, and for weeks may be seen between the islands, or spreading themselves down the coast-line in search of favourite feeding grounds. they never go far from the ducks however, nor do they at this time take long flights. in fact, the eider, unlike most ducks, is not migratory at any season, and seldom strays far from the spot where it was bred. during the nesting season, as at all others, the plumage of the male and female birds is very dissimilar. in the former, the upper part of the head is of a rich velvety black, while the sharply-contrasting neck and back are of the purest white; beneath, the plumage is black. at the same period the female is of a subdued rufous brown, with more or less dark markings; the tail feathers are now nearly black. the colonies of breeding eiders often consist of an immense number of birds, and the nests lie so thickly together that it is difficult to avoid stepping into them. they are usually placed upon some slight elevation; and here in any faint depression the duck collects a small quantity of sea-weed and drift stuff, which she forms into a felty mass by kneading it with her breast. upon this four or five eggs are laid in the course of a week; the eggs are pale green, rather like those of the heron. even before the last egg is laid it is seen that a few feathers are scattered about the nest, and as incubation proceeds these increase in quantity. for the sitting bird covers her treasures over with down plucked from her breast; this she does day by day until a very considerable quantity buries the eggs. it is this down which has become such an important article of commerce. if the eiders are sitting under natural conditions the eggs are hatched in about twenty-six days, and the young birds are almost immediately taken down to the water. they show no hesitation in entering the sea, and, once upon it, are quite at home. it is here that they sun themselves, feed, and sleep. on a rock-bound bit of coast it is interesting to watch the ducklings paddling along by the stones and feeding upon the tiny bivalves that are common along the bays and inlets. these remarks refer to the breeding of wild eiders; but, unfortunately, colonies of birds under natural conditions are becoming more and more rare each year. the commercial collector has almost everywhere stepped in, and is putting a terrible drain upon this interesting species. "where the brown duck strips her breast, for her dear eggs and windy nest, three times her bitter spoil is won for woman; and when all is done she calls her snow-white piteous drake, who plucks his bosom for our sake." there is truth in these lines every one. in our own country the birds breed along the shores of the firth of forth, as well as in the orkneys and shetlands; on colonsay and islay it also abounds, and less frequently in many other northern breeding stations. it is in still more northern haunts, however, that the vast breeding colonies are found--in the faroes, iceland, and along the shores of the scandinavian peninsula. in norway, as in some other places, this bird is protected by law, though only to be persecuted the more persistently by private individuals. on one island, that of isafjardarjup, the eider ducks are said to nest in thousands. speaking of the breeding sites by the shore, mr. shepherd, who visited the colony, tells us that the brown ducks sat upon their nests in masses, and at every step started from beneath the feet. on this island, of three-quarters of a mile in length, it was difficult to walk without stepping into the nests. the island was one that was farmed. a thick stone breakwater ran along its coasts just above high-water mark. at the bottom and sides of the wall, alternate stones had been left out so as to form a series of compartments for the ducks to nest in. every compartment was tenanted, and as the visitors walked along the ducks flew out all along the line. these were welcomed by the white drakes, which were tossing on the water, "with loud and clamorous cooing." a farmhouse on the island was tenanted in like manner. the house itself was "a great marvel." ducks were hatching on the turf walls which surrounded it, in the window embrasures, on the ground, on the roof. "the house was fringed with ducks," and "a duck sat in the scraper." then a grassy bank close by was cut into squares, every one of which was occupied. a windmill was packed; and so was every available object on the island--mounds, rock, and crevices. this was an eider-down farm. so tame were the ducks as to allow the farmer's wife to stroke them as they sat on their nests. of course there is another side to this pleasant picture, as we see, when we learn how the "good lady" of the island repays the confidence of the birds. but we will allow dr. hartwig to tell it in his own way. he says: "the eider-down is easily collected, as the birds are quite tame. the female having laid five or six pale greenish-olive eggs, in a nest thickly lined with her beautiful down, the collectors, after carefully removing the bird, rob the nest of its contents, after which they replace her. she then begins to lay afresh--though this time only three or four eggs--and again has recourse to the down of her body. but the greedy persecutors once more rifle her nest, and oblige her to line it for the third time. now, however, her own stock of down is exhausted, and with a plaintive voice she calls her mate to her assistance, who willingly plucks the soft feathers from his breast to supply the deficiency. if the cruel robbery be again repeated, which in former times was frequently the case, the poor eider-duck abandons the spot, never to return, and seeks for a new home where she may indulge her maternal instinct undisturbed by the avarice of man." nature is prolific even in her waste; but although eiders are plentiful, their breeding places are local, and this drain on them cannot long be continued without telling materially upon the species. in the locality referred to, each nest yields about one-sixth of a pound of down, worth from twelve to fifteen shillings a pound, and one pound and a half is required to make a single coverlet. the eggs are pickled for winter use, one or two only being left to hatch. it need only be added that the eider is said to be the swiftest of all ducks, flying at the rate of nearly a hundred miles an hour. of the remaining rarer ducks are the ruddy-sheld, the long-tailed, and harlequin ducks. the ruddy-sheld is an exquisitely coloured duck with rufous plumage; and the harlequin, with its numerous bright colours, may be said to be the handsomest and rarest of all. the long-tailed duck is sometimes called the sea-pheasant, and is not unfrequently found on our coasts in rough weather. duck decoying is one of the oldest methods of taking winter wild-fowl. it has been practised for centuries, and perhaps nowhere with greater success than in our own country. owing to its insular position britain has always been a great resort of fowl, and in times past it was visited by myriad of swans, geese, and ducks, many of which annually remained to breed. the marsh and fenlands of the south-eastern counties constituted tracts alike favourable for food and nesting, and for the most part the birds were undisturbed. but as the plough invaded their haunts the marsh was converted into corn-land, and from that time the breeding sea-fowl have steadily declined in numbers. the oldest decoys were merely adapted sheets of water, but when these, by virtue of having been drained, were no longer available, artificial ones were constructed in likely situations and planted round with timber to secure their privacy. many of the decoys were farmed by fowlers, and the more valuable afforded a considerable source of revenue to the owners. speaking of the dwellers in croyland, camden says that: "their greatest gain is from the fish and wild ducks that they catch, which are so many, that in august they can drive at once into a single net three thousand ducks." he further adds that they call the pools in which the ducks are obtained their corn-fields, though there is no corn grown for miles round. for the privilege of taking fish and fowl three hundred pounds sterling were originally paid to the abbots of croyland, and afterwards to the king. although the "driving of ducks" was allowed, a code of fen laws decreed that neither nets nor engines should be used against the fowl "commonly called moulted ducks" before midsummer day yearly. in the early days of the decoys enormous quantities of fowl were taken in them. as many as 31,200 duck, teal, and widgeon were captured near wainfleet in a single season, and 2,646 mallards in two days. in these early times it is said that a flock of wild ducks has been observed passing over the fens in a continuous stream for eight hours together. lincolnshire is pre-eminently the land of wild-fowl, and at one of the smallest decoys--that at ashby--where the records have been carefully kept, it is seen that from 1833 to 1868, 48,664 ducks were captured in the pipes; 4,287 being the best take for any one year. both now and in times past the ducks have always been sent to the london markets, and constitute an important food supply. the waters of the decoys are, of course, always fresh, and, being mostly frequented by the surface-feeding ducks, the great majority of the birds taken are held in estimation at table. it is true that widgeon and other of the diving ducks are sometimes driven to the decoys by rough sea weather, but these are too wary to enter the pipes, nor do they stay after the storms have abated. the ducks which constitute the commercial supply are mostly mallard and teal, with a few widgeon and a sprinkling of the rarer or marine forms according to season and the severity of the weather. i have before me a complete record of the fowl taken at one decoy for nearly a century, and this is interesting as showing not only the number of divers taken, but also a record of the species. that the migratory fowl return to the same waters year after year is confirmed by the fact that at the ashby decoy, already referred to, a "grey" duck with a conspicuous white neck spent eight winters there; and another abnormally coloured one visited it regularly for four or five years. the duck decoys, once common throughout the country, fell into general disuse about the beginning of the present century; and their decline has been contemporaneous with the improvements made in firearms and all relating to shooting. often as many marine ducks are bagged by one shot from a punt gun as the fowler can take in a day, and whilst the former can follow the birds, the latter must wait for their coming before he can commence decoying. duck decoying is one of the most interesting phases of woodcraft, and really skilled modern fowlers are as rare as trained falconers. moreover, decoying is one of the fine arts. the decoy-man surrounds his craft with as much mystery as the old fish poacher his preparation of salmon roe, and fowling secrets are often kept in families for generations. the best decoys are those about two or three acres in extent, and surrounded with wood. on larger ones fowl are difficult to work, and although there may be thousands on the water, none may be near enough to a "pipe" to regard either the dog or the "call" ducks. before speaking of the actual working, it may be well to give a general outline of a decoy. imagine then a stretch of water about the size indicated, and having five or six radiating arms or inlets--a figure represented exactly by a starfish, or the body and legs of a spider. the arms, called "pipes," curve away from the main pool so that it is impossible to see more than a short distance up them. they are also arranged that whichever way the wind blows, one or other of the pipes may be approached without getting to windward of the quick-scented fowl. the "pipes" are covered over with netting, and gradually diminish in height and width till they terminate in a "tunnel-net." wooden palings bound these, built obliquely, over-lapping at regular intervals, and connected by low barriers. by this arrangement any one standing behind the palings is only visible to whatever is further up the "pipe," and cannot be seen by the occupants of the pool. this then is the general structure. and now we must look to other matters essential to the general working of a decoy. about midsummer the "call" ducks are put upon the water, and their training is at once taken in hand. as this is an important part of the process, the ducks should be young, made very tame, and taught to come to any pipe from all parts of the pool when they are whistled. previously these have been pinioned to prevent their flying away, and they cannot leave the lake. still another requisite is a well-trained dog. custom has always established that this shall be red and as "foxy"-looking as possible; and certainly dogs of this colour prove especially attractive to wild-fowl. about the beginning of september mallard and teal begin to congregate in the decoys, and a month later, if easterly winds prevail, there will probably be a flight of fowl from the north, consisting of mallards, teal, widgeon, pochards, and shovellers. these are attracted to the decoys by the resident birds, but more because it is their habit to fly off at dusk, and return at daybreak to sleep and enjoy themselves in the fancied security of the reedy pool. nothing requires more care and judgment than the successful decoying of ducks. it is carried on most successfully between nine and ten in the morning and three and four in the afternoon. in open weather the fowl are captured almost entirely by means of the dog, but as soon as frost sets in they are taken by feeding them in the pipe, and keeping a piece of water constantly open near it. now as to the actual working. if the birds are sluggish the trained dog cleverly works them from the bank, and either drives or attracts them by curiosity to the pipe to be worked, being also aided by the decoy ducks and induced to stay by finding corn scattered about. by skilful manipulation the fowl are worked up the pipe, the dog trotting in and out of the reed-screens and luring them further and further away. soon they have made sufficient progress to enable the man to show himself, and this he does at the same time waving his hat. retreat to the pool is cut off, and the terrified birds rush up the pipe only to find themselves in the narrowing tunnel-net which terminates it. this is at once detached, and the final scene is the wringing of the ducks' necks by the decoy man. as all the pipes curve to the right the decoying is unseen from the pool, and one set of fowl can be "worked" whilst others are sleeping or preening themselves on the lake. further aids of concealment for the working of the decoy other than those enumerated are banks of earth and brushwood running parallel to the palings. as sportsmen would rather shoot fowl than snare them, the decoy is mostly interesting nowadays to naturalists and antiquarians. to show their value, however, in times gone by, it may be mentioned that a corporation has been known to invest trust funds in one, and that a decoy in suffolk, which sent a ton and a half of wild-fowl to london four times a week, realised â£1,000 a year. in this 16,800 ducks were captured in a single season. chapter xi. field and covert poachers. as compared with the doings of human "mouchers," there is a class of field poachers whose depredations are tenfold more destructive. these are nature's poachers, and their vigils never cease. in season and out, by night and by day, they harry the things of the field and wood. playing as some say a questionable part in the economy of nature, they play a very certain part in the economy of our game, both winged and furred. strange anomaly it is, that whilst our game stock could not be preserved a year without their agency, the hand of every one is against them. so long as nature is founded on its present beneficent plan, so long will the swallow be speared by the shrike, and every wood be the scene of plunder and prey. nature is one with rapine, and the close observance of every woodland way only emphasises the fact. every sylvan thing is but a unit in a possible chain of destruction. the bee-bird captures the butterfly, and is stricken down in the act by the hawk; the keeper kills the raptor, and the keeper's hobnobbing with death is delayed but a while. the greatest and smallest murder but to live, and whilst the eagle kills the lordly stag, the merlin is lark-hawking on the down. only those whose harvest is gleaned in the open, who have observed in all weathers and through every hour of the day and night, can form any adequate conception of how dependent is one form of life upon another. the way of an eagle in the air is one of those things concerning which solomon professed himself unable to understand, and the scythe-like sweep of wings of the majestic bird is one of the most glorious sights which nature has to offer. just as the eagle is the largest, so the merlin is the smallest british bird of prey, and to see this miniature falcon rush past on the breast of a mountain storm gives an idea of its almost marvellous velocity of flight. within the whole range of animate nature, nowhere is the adaptation of means to an end more strikingly exhibited than among the raptors--the plunderers. the furred poachers are not less appropriately fitted with their weapons of destruction; and so perfectly adapted is the otter to its environment that its movements in the water are as the very poetry of motion. let us follow these poachers of the field and covert to their haunts, and there observe them in their wild home. the sparrow-hawk is a roving arab of the air and the most arrant of poachers. ask the keeper to detail to you the character of this daring marauder, and he will record a black and bloody list of depredations against the bird. he knows nothing, however, of the laws which govern the economy of nature, and if he did, or would, what are they compared to the shilling per head for those he can display on the vermin-rails. the kestrel or windhover acts in quite a different fashion to the sparrow-hawk. it is persecuted less, and confidently approaches human habitations. and yet at certain seasons the kestrel is as destructive in the covert as its congeners. when the pheasants represent little more than balls of down he clutches them from out the grass as he clutches a mouse or cockchafer. coming from out the blue, one hears the pleasant cry of kee, kee, keelie, and there he hangs rapidly vibrating his wings, yet as stationary as though suspended by a silken thread. presently down he comes, plump as a stone, and without touching the ground sweeps a "cheeper" from off it, and soars high above the covert. the depredations are only committed, however, when the game is exceedingly small, and the benefit which the kestrel confers on the woods by its presence far outweighs any harm it may do. the artificial methods of game-rearing now in vogue are most conducive to disease. in extenuation of the thefts of our little marauders it may be pleaded that they invariably pick off the weak and ailing birds, and therefore tend to the survival of robust and healthy stock. the presiding spirits of the moors are the beautiful little merlins. they work together, and quarter the heather like a brace of well-broken pointers. not an object escapes them. however closely it may conform to its environment, or however motionless remain, it is detected by the sharp eye of the merlin and put away. the miniature falconry in which the merlin indulges on the open moorlands, where nothing obstructs the view, is one of the most fascinating sights in nature. the "red hawk" is plucky beyond its size and strength, and will pull down a partridge, as we have witnessed repeatedly. the young of moorfowl, larks, pipits, and summer snipe constitute its food on the fells. it lays four bright red eggs in a depression among the heather, and about this are strewn the remains of the birds indicated. to be seen to advantage this smallest of british falcons ought to be seen in its haunts. it is little larger than a thrush, and in the days of falconry was flown by ladies, its game being larks, pipits, pigeons, and occasionally partridges. on the moorlands it may be seen suddenly to shoot from a stone, encircle a tract of heather, and then return to its perch. a lark passes over its head, and its wings are raised and its neck outstretched; but it closes them as if unwilling to pursue the bird. then it flies, skimming low over the furze and heather, and alights on a granite boulder similar to the one it has just left. as we approach, the male and female flap unconcernedly off, and beneath the block are remains of golden plover, ling birds, larks, and young grouse. at night the waterside is productive of life, and here it is most varied. like most poachers, the heron is a night fisher, and there is one equally destructive which carries on its nefarious trade under the full light of day--the kingfisher. and the kingfisher is a poacher in another respect. it never constructs the hole in which its young is reared, but takes possession of that of some small burrowing rodent, or even that of the little sand-martin. the buzzard is another bird of the moorlands, but can hardly be convicted of poaching. when it takes moor-game these are invariably found to be diseased or late hatched birds, and it certainly has not speed to pull down a full-grown grouse. many times during whole summer afternoons have we seen the buzzards wheeling about when the young grouse have been following the brooding birds, but never have we seen them swoop at one. and seeing that as many as sixty mice have been taken from the crop of a single bird, surely the buzzard ought to be protected. during times of severe frost the buzzard often performs deeds of daring to obtain a meal. when a lad, wordsworth was in the habit of setting "gins" for woodcocks, and one morning on going to examine his snares he discovered a buzzard near one which was struck. the bird of prey attempted to escape, but being held fast could not. a woodcock had been taken in one of the snares, which when fluttering had been seen and attacked by the buzzard. not content, however, with the body of the woodcock, it had swallowed a leg also, round which the noose was drawn, and the limb was so securely lodged in the latter's stomach that no force that the bird could exert could withdraw it. in the glades and woodlands the garrulous blue-jay is a sad pilferer, to say nothing of its poaching propensities. in the spring it sucks innumerable eggs, and makes free right and warren of the peas and beans in the keeper's garden, and those sown in the glades for the pheasants; and so the old man's whole knowledge of woodcraft is directed against it. in addition to this, the jay does indirect harm, which multiplies the cunning engines devised for its destruction. for by pilfering the crops before mentioned, which are planted with the object of keeping the wandering pheasants on the land, a poor show of birds may be the result when october comes round, and the keeper's reputation suffers. even the audacious pies steal both pheasant and partridge chicks, and consequently each find a place in the "larder." the brown-owl is mostly a rabbit poacher, but its congener, the barn-owl, poaches to good effect, as a subsequent statement will show. almost all the birds of the crow-kind are persistent poachers, and are generally shot down. it is probable that the number of grouse on the higher hill ranges is very much kept in check by the great number of carrion-crows which everywhere exist among the fells. they impale the eggs of the red grouse upon their bills, and carry them away to eat at leisure. under some wall or rock great numbers of egg-shells may often be found, testifying to the havoc which these sable marauders commit. this bird is one of the great features of the northern fell fauna, and is well known to the dalesmen and shepherds, who give it a bad character. in spite of much persecution, however, it is still a common resident, keeping to the sheep-walks in search of food, and breeding among the mountains. although a great carrion-feeder, it will kill weak and ailing lambs, picking out the eyes and tongues of these when they are reduced to a helpless condition. they are resident birds in the north, and only the snows of winter drive them to the lowlands in search of food. as the hooded crow is only a seasonable visitant, it is but little felt as a poacher. the keeper has the shrikes or butcher-birds in his black list, but these do little harm, as their shambles in the blackthorns abundantly prove. mention of the noble peregrine marks a poacher of the first water. as the bird sits watching from the jag of a mountain crag, it is the very emblem of passive speed and strength. nowhere but in the birds' haunts can these attributes be seen to perfection. a trained falcon is slow of flight and uncertain of aim as compared with a wild bird. its symmetry, its stretch of wing, its keen eyes and cruel talons, all speak to the same end. while some of the larger hawks are treated with indifference by the bird-world, not so the peregrine. a pair of buzzards pass over, but the cheep and chatter of field and hedgerow go on. a peregrine sails, down dale and all is hushed! a strange experience this at noon in the heyday of summer--but the shadow of the peregrine stills all life. a terrified screech is heard, and bird life seeks the thickest retreats. the depredations of the peregrine are greatest, of course, during the breeding season; and at this time it even carries off the newly-born lambs of the small, black-faced mountain sheep. now hardly anything comes amiss. partridges, ducks, pheasants, hares, grouse, plover--each is taken in turn, and the birds forage over a wide area. a barndoor fowl sometimes supplies a meal, or a dead sheep (so long as the flesh is sweet), thrushes, pigeons, gulls, and a number of water and shore-haunting birds. once scrambling among boulders in search of alpine plants, a large bird of prey was seen advancing on the wing. at a distance the under-parts appeared white, but the bird, coming directly over, enabled us to recognise distinctly the dark bars across the feathers of the abdomen. its flight under these circumstances was a sort of flapping motion, not unlike that of a ringdove; and its head turned rapidly in various directions, the eye peering into the rocks and crannies of the ghylls in search of any skulking prey. soon this silent hunting was all changed. above us was a ledge covered with blood, bones, and feathers. we were close to the nest. just as we were discovered one of the falcons went "whizz" past our face, almost touching it. then it gives a wild yelp, as in one gyration it shoots upwards, and screams round the crag. again the bird dashes along the cliff, and is joined by the female, who from her nest has been quietly watching us. the peregrine's outstretched wings measure three feet, and it makes a velocity of fifty-seven miles an hour. one at the above rate flew one thousand three hundred and fifty miles. so great is its power and speed of flight that a bird belonging to colonel thornton was seen to cut a snipe in two in mid-air. falcons will occasionally search after their prey when it has been driven to seek shelter from the closeness of pursuit. the goshawk, which falconers use mostly for taking hares and rabbits, frequently does this, and will watch for hours when its game has taken to cover. as well as ground-game the goshawk poaches pheasants and partridges, numbers of these being killed by the bird in its wild state. through a wooded country it pursues its quarry with great dexterity; and it possesses great powers of abstinence. during the day it remains solitary in dark fir-woods, coming out to feed at morning and evening.... we advance over the heather; and there, skimming towards us, is a large hawk--a harrier. as it flies near the ground, working as a pointer or setter would do, the species cannot be doubted. now it stoops, glides, ascends, stoops again, and shoots off at right angles. rounding a shoulder of a hill, it drops in a dark patch of ling. a covey of young grouse whirr heavily over the nearest brae--but the marsh harrier remains. it has struck down a "cheeper," and is dragging its victim to the shelter of a furze-bush. a male and female harrier invariably hunt in consort, and afford a pleasant sight as they "harry" the game, driving it from one to the other, and hawking in the most systematic fashion. they thoroughly work the ground previously marked out, generally with success. in hawking the quiet mountain tarns their method is regulated according to circumstance. in such case they not unfrequently sit and watch, capturing their prey by suddenly pouncing upon it. at one time the golden and white-tailed eagles bred not uncommonly in the mountainous environment of the english lake district. most majestic of the winged poachers, they held sway over a wide area, and suffered no intrusion. the eyries were perched high upon the almost inaccessible fastnesses of the mountains. it is asserted by the shepherds of the district that the eagles during the breeding season destroyed a lamb per day, to say nothing of the carnage made on hares, partridge, pheasants, grouse, and the water-fowl that inhabit the lakes. the farmers and dalesmen were always careful to plunder the eyries, but not without considerable risk to life and limb. a man was lowered from the summit of the precipitous rocks by a rope of fifty fathoms, and was compelled to defend himself from attack during his descent. the poet gray in his _journal_ graphically describes how the eyries were annually plundered, upon one of which occasions he was present. wordsworth says that the eagles built in the precipices overlooking one of the tarns in the recesses of helvellyn, and that the bird used to wheel and hover over his head as he fished in the silent tarn. now the spot is occupied by a pair of patriarchal ravens--the sole remaining relics of the original "red tarn club." among the mountains an instance is related of an eagle which having pounced on a shepherd's dog, carried it to a considerable height; but the weight and action of the animal effected a partial liberation, and he left part of his flesh in the eagle's beak. the dog was not killed by the fall; he recovered of his wound, but was so intimidated that he would never go that way again. subsequently the owner of the dog shot at and wounded one of the eagles. the bird, nearly exhausted, was found a week afterwards by a shepherd of seatoller; its lower mandible was split, and the tongue wedged between the interstices. the bird was captured and kept in confinement, but it became so violent that ultimately it had to be destroyed. on the eagles being frequently robbed of their young in greenup they removed to the opposite side of the crag. at this place they built for two years, but left it for raven crag, within the coom, where, after staying one year only, they returned to their ancient seat in eagle crag; here they built annually during their stay in borrowdale. on the loss of its mate the remaining eagle left the district, but returned the following spring with another. this pair built during fourteen years in borrowdale, but finally abandoned it for eskdale. at the last-mentioned place they were also disturbed, and the female eagle being afterwards shot the male flew off and returned no more. the white-tailed sea eagles bred upon the rocks of a towering limestone escarpment overlooking a recess of the sea, and fed upon gulls and terns. the vast peat mosses which stretched away for miles below them abounded with hares and grouse, and among these the birds made devastation. year after year they carried off their young from the same cliffs, and now return only at rare intervals when storm driven. the peregrines have the eagles' eyrie, and are only eagles in miniature. the sea-fowl form their food in summer, as do wild ducks in winter. at this latter season the osprey or "fish-hawk" comes to the bay and the still mountain tarns, adding wildness to the scenes which his congeners have left never to return. those who have recently advocated a close time for owls have, fortunately, been forestalled by legislation. the act of 1881 affords protection to all wild birds during the breeding season, and, although exemption is allowed in favour of owners and occupiers of land, owls, being included in the schedule, may not be destroyed even by them or with their authority. it was a wise step that granted this double protection, for of all birds, from the farmers' standpoint, owls are the most useful. these birds hunt silently and in the night, and are nothing short of lynx-eyed cats with wings. the benefit they confer upon agriculturists is most incalculable, which is susceptible of proof. it is well known that owls hunt by night, but it may be less a matter of common knowledge that, like other birds of prey, they return by the mouth the hard indigestible parts of their food in the form of elongated pellets. these are found in considerable quantities about the birds' haunts, and an examination of them reveals the fact that owls prey upon a number of predacious creatures the destruction of which is directly beneficial to man. of course, the evidence gained in this way is infallible, and to show to what extent owls assist in preserving the balance of nature, it may be mentioned that seven hundred pellets examined yielded the remains of sixteen bats, three rats, two hundred and thirty-seven mice, six hundred and ninety-three voles, one thousand five hundred and ninety shrews, and twenty-two birds. these truly remarkable results were obtained from the common barn-owl, and the remains of the twenty-two birds consisted of nineteen sparrows, one greenfinch, and two swifts. the tawny and long-eared owls of our woodlands are also mighty hunters, and an examination of their pellets showed equally interesting results. it must be remembered in this connection that britain is essentially an agricultural country, and that if its fauna is a diminutive one it is not less formidable. we have ten tiny field creatures constituting an army in themselves, which if not kept under would quickly devastate our fields. these ten species consist of four mice, three voles, and three shrews. individually, so tiny are these that any one species could comfortably curl itself up in the divided shell of the horse-chestnut. but farmers well know that if these things are small they are no means to be despised. now that the corn crops are cut and the hay housed, the field vole and meadow mouse are deprived of their summer shelter. of this the barn-owl is perfectly aware, and at evening he may be seen sweeping low over the meadows seeking whom he may devour. and with what results we already know. much unnatural history has been written of the owls, and unfortunately most people have their ideas from the poets. the barn-owl, when she has young, brings to her nest a mouse every twelve minutes, and, as she is actively employed both at evening and dawn, and both male and female hunt, forty mice a day is the lowest computation we can make. how soft is the plumage of the owl, and how noiseless her flight! watch her as she floats past the ivy tod, down by the ricks, and silently over the old wood. then away over the meadows, through the open door and out of the loop-hole in the barn, round the lichened tower, along the course of the brook. presently she returns to her four downy young, with a mouse in one claw and a vole in the other, soon to be ripped up, torn, and eaten by the greedy snapping imps. the young are produced from april to december, and not unfrequently both young and eggs are found in the same nest. if you would see the mid-day _siesta_ of the owls, climb up into some hay-mow. there in an angle of the beam you will see their owlships, snoring and blinking wide their great round eyes. their duet is the most unearthly, ridiculous, grave, like-nothing-else noise you ever heard. here they will stay all day, digesting the mice with which they have largely gorged themselves, until twilight, when they again issue forth on their madcap revellings. this clever mouser, then, this winged cat, has a strong claim to our protection. so let not idle superstition further its destruction. the keeper's indiscretions are fewer in fur than in feather. his larder abounds in long-bodied creatures of the weasel kind. here is the richly-coloured dark-brown fur of the pine-martin; that of the polecat, loose and light at the base but almost black at the extremity; and there are many skins of weasels, reddish brown above with the sides and under parts white. for each of these creatures he has quaint provincial names of his own. the pine-martin he calls the "sweet-mart," in contradistinction to the polecat, which is the "foumart," or "foulmart"--a name bestowed on the creature because it emits a secretion which has an abominable stench. also, we have the stoat or ermine, which even with us is white in winter, brown in summer; but the tip of the tail is always black. the beautiful martins take up their abode in the rockiest parts of the wood where the pines grows thickly. they are strictly arboreal in their habits; and, seen among the shaggy pine foliage, the rich yellow of their throats is sharply set off by the deep brown of the thick glossy fur. with us they do not make their nests and produce their young in the pine-trees, but among the loose craggy rocks. martins rarely show themselves till evening. they prey upon rabbits, hares, partridges, pheasants, and small birds; and when we say that, like the rest of the mustelidã¦, they kill for the love of killing, it is not hard to understand why the keeper's hand is against them. sometimes they do great harm in the coverts; and the old man shoots them, traps them, and does them to death with various subtle engines of his own machination. to-day the martin is rare; soon it will be extinct altogether. weasels do much less harm. they are the smallest of our carnivorous animals, and will probably long survive. they frequently abound where least suspected, in the cultivated as well as the wildest parts of the district. they take up their abode near farmhouses, in decayed outbuildings, hay-ricks, and disused quarries; and may often be seen near old walls or running along the top of them with a mouse or bird in their mouths. these things form the staple of their food; but there is no denying that a weasel will occasionally run down the strongest hare, and that rabbits, from their habit of rushing into their burrows become an easy prey. but this does not happen often, i believe. to rats the weasel is a deadly enemy; no united number of them will attack it, and the largest singly has no chance against it. like the polecat the weasel hunts by scent. it climbs trees easily and takes birds by stealth. the keeper has seen a brooding partridge taken in this manner, and on winter evenings the sparrows roosting in holes in a hay-rick. weasels also kill toads and frogs; and their mode of killing these, as well as of despatching birds, is by piercing the skull. the polecat, or fitchet, keeps much to the woods, and feeds mostly on rabbits and game. but in the northern fell districts it often takes up a temporary abode on the moors during the season that grouse are hatching. then it not only kills the sitting birds but sucks the eggs, and thus whole broods are destroyed. many "cheepers" of course fall victims. knowing well the ferocity of the polecat, i believe the damage done to grouse moors where this blood-thirsty creature takes up its abode can hardly be estimated. like others of its tribe, the polecat kills more prey than it needs. sometimes it makes an epicurean repast from the brain alone. fowl-houses suffer considerably from its visits; and it has been known to kill and afterwards leave untouched as many as sixteen large turkeys. in the nest of a fitchet which was observed to frequent the banks of a stream no fewer than eleven fine trout were found. the gamekeeper persistently dogs this creature both summer and winter. in the latter season every time it ventures abroad it registers its progress through the snow. it is then that the old man is most active in his destruction, and most successful. he tracks the vermin to some stone fence or disused quarry or barn, cuts off the enemy's retreat, and then unearths him. trapped he is at all times. the stoat or ermine is as destructive to covert game as the animals just mentioned. upon occasion it destroys great quantities of rats, and this is its only redeeming quality. partridge, grouse, and pheasants all fall a prey to the stoat, and hares when pursued by it seem to become thoroughly demoralised. water is no obstacle to the ermine, and it climbs trees in search of squirrels, birds, and eggs. a pair of stoats took up their abode in a well-stocked rabbit warren. the legitimate inmates were killed off by wholesale, and many were taken from the burrows with the skull empty. the stoat progresses by a series of short quick leaps, which enable it to cover the ground more quickly than could possibly be imagined for so small an animal. enough has been said to sketch the characters of these creatures, and to justify their presence in the larder. interesting in themselves as wild denizens of the woods, they would be fatal to game-preserving. vulpecide is no great crime in the north. foxes abound in the fastnesses of the fells, and the little wiry foxhounds that hunt the mountains in winter account for but few in a season; and so it devolves upon the shepherds and gamekeepers and farmers to deal with them. this they do irrespective of season; if allowed to live, the foxes would destroy abundance of lambs in spring. they are tracked through the snow in winter, shot in summer, and destroyed wholesale when they bring their young to the moors in autumn. it therefore happens that even the bright red fur of the fox may be seen on the keeper's gibbet. hedgehogs are taken in steel traps baited with a pheasant's or a hen's egg. at times squirrels are killed in hundreds, but they do not grace the larder, neither do the spiny hedgehogs. squirrels bark young trees, especially ash-stoles and holly. occasionally a creature more rare than the rest adorns the larder. the old keepers remember a white-tailed eagle and a great snowy owl. sometimes a peregrine is shot, and more rarely, in autumn, a hobby or a goshawk. a miscellaneous row on the vermin rails comprises moles, weasels, and cats. the mole is libelled by being placed there; he is a destroyer of many creatures which are injurious to land. domestic cats soon revert to a semi-wild state when once they take to the woods, and are terribly destructive in the coverts. they destroy pheasants, partridges, leverets, and rabbits. the life of these wild tabbies is wild indeed. every dormant instinct is aroused; each movement becomes characteristically feline; and when these creatures revert to life in the woods it is impossible to reclaim them. climatic influences work remarkable changes upon the fur, causing it to grow longer and thicker; and the cats take up their abode in stony crevasse or hollow tree. in summer, when kittens are produced, the destruction of game is almost incredible. under the dark slab by the river the otters breed; but it is impossible to dislodge them. iron-sinewed shaggy otterhounds have tried, but never with success. the fishermen complain of the quantity of fish which the otter destroys. trout are found dead on the rocks; salmon are there bitten in the shoulder but only partially eaten. chapter xii. homely tragedy. i. in our summer fishings, one of the spots to which we used to resort was a quaint cottage in the vale of duddon--the duddon that wordsworth has immortalised in his series of sonnets. the cottage stood hard by the stream, and in it lived a widow woman, the daughter of a hill "statesman." during trout-time the house was embowered in greenery. deliciously cool was its whitewashed porch and clean sanded floor, a great tree standing over all. in the grate of her parlour in summer, where mr. wordsworth often used to sit, she invariably had a thick sod of purple heather in full bloom. to the stream many anglers came, and drew from their holds the pink-spotted trout. the dipper and kingfisher darted by the door, and those who drank in the quiet and pastoral peace of duddon never forgot it. the woman of the cottage, by great industry and exertion, had reared and settled comfortably in life a large family. she was respected by all about her. out of her small means she gave away almost as much food and home-brewed ale as was sold by any inn of the country-side. for one in so limited a sphere in life hers was almost an ideal one; and yet her end was terribly tragic. she left home one wintry afternoon to visit a sick relation in eskdale. at this time "pedlars"--of whom the wanderer of "_the excursion_" is a type--were common in remote country districts; and one of these offered to convey her in his gig to her destination over the birk-moor road. at the end of this he was to take her up at a stated time. it happened that she was too late for the traveller, but walked onward, supposing that he was behind and would overtake her. on the sixth day after this, the clergyman's daughter from eskdale casually called at the poor woman's cottage. it then became known that she had not been seen at eskdale, and a band of dalesfolk at once set out to search the fells. the body of the poor creature was found only forty yards from the road, her hands and knees terribly lacerated and her dress torn. these showed that after losing the power of walking she had struggled on, no one knows how far, upon her hands and knees. she had taken out her spectacles, as was thought, to assist her in seeing her way through the blinding mists. these had prevailed for a week, and to them must be attributed the fact that her body lay so long undiscovered on the mountain road. some sweetmeats tied in a handkerchief, which she had carried for her grandchildren, were found near the spot where she died. none but those who have been caught in them can form any idea of how terrible are mountain snowstorms. blinding and bewildering, both men and animals quickly succumb to them. clouds and banks of snow rush hither and thither in opaque masses; the bitter hail and sleet seem to drive through you. a few moments after the storm breaks every wrap is soaked through; the cold is intense, and a sense of numbness soon takes possession of the entire body. twice has the writer narrowly escaped death on the northern mountains in winter, deliverance upon one occasion being made barely in time by a search-party of shepherds. easdale is one of the most picturesque glens among the cumbrian mountains--"a spot made by nature for herself." with its tarn, its ghyll-contained waterfall, and the fact of its being placed among the splintery peaks of the borrowdale series, it constitutes a wildly charming spot at every season. here upon the snow, many years ago, was played a cruel tragedy indeed. a poor hard-working peasant and his wife, named green, were returning from langdale late on a wintry evening to their home in easdale. a terrible storm overtook them on the way, and, becoming exhausted, both died in it. meanwhile six children were snow-bound in their cottage, where, without help, they remained several days. fully appreciating their situation, but as yet ignorant of the fate which had befallen their parents, a little lass of nine assumed command and exhibited unusual forethought and care in meeting the home wants of her brothers and sisters. after some days she made her escape from the cottage, and told the hill shepherds how her father and mother had failed to return. a search party was organised; and after some time the bodies were discovered upon the hills at a short distance from each other. ii. the wheatears love to haunt the old wall, and in summer are never far from it. in one of its niches they have their pale blue eggs. the wall runs by the side of the fells. the grass on its side is green as the water runs down them from the crags. the wall has a fauna and a flora all its own. in the interstices of the stones spleenwort and the parsley-fern grow; there are mosses and lichens too, and stone-crop. a few grasses wave airily on the scant mound at the top. a foxglove with its purple fingers grows solitary. two species of shelled snail take harbour in the wall--one of them the beautiful _helix nemoralis_. there are insects innumerable, bronze and gilded flies, and spiders that hang out their golden webs to the dews of morning. these are festooned from stone to stone, and are productions of the night. weasels love the old wall, mice hide beneath it, and from it in spring the hedgehog rolls, its spines covered with dead oak leaves. sometimes the fox, as it leaves its green "benk" in the crags, runs along its summit. harebells nod at its foot, as do green-smelling brackens. mountain blackbirds perch upon it, and stonechats and pipits. half-way down the wall, on its near side, is a sad green spot. beside it we have thrown up a loose, lone cairn. it happened in winter when the fells were white. the snows had fallen thickly for many days; all the deep holes were filled up, and the mountain road was no longer to be seen. the wall tops stood as white ridges on the otherwise smooth surface. only the crags hung in shaggy, snowy masses, black seams and scars picking out the dread ravines. nature was sombre and still. it seemed as though her pulse had ceased to beat. the softly winnowed snowflakes still fell, and not even the wing of a bird of prey wafted the cold, thin air. it had gone hard with the sheep. hundreds were buried in the snow, and would have to be dug out. they sought the site of the old wall, and fell into the deepest drifts. only the hardy goatlike herdwicks instinctively climbed to the bleak and exposed fell tops. in this was their safety. to relieve the sheep that had as yet escaped, hay was carried to the fells. each shepherd had a loose bundle upon his back. it was thus, with the three dogs, that we toiled up the gorge, by an undefined route, parallel to the buried fence. soon it commenced to snow heavily, and the sky suddenly darkened. the dogs that were in front stopped before some object. they whined, ran towards us, and gave out short, sharp barks. with a kind of instinctive dread we followed them. they led us on to a granite boulder; on its lee side lay something starkly outlined against the snow. _dead!_ we whispered to each other. there was no trace of pain--nothing but quiet peace. the icy fingers grasped a pencil, and on the snow lay a scrap of paper. it contained only two words--"_this day_"--nothing more. it was christmas. in silent benediction the snow-flakes fell upon him, and as these formed a pure white shroud, his face seemed touched with the light of ineffable love. we buried him next day in the little mountain cemetery. whence he came, or whither he went, none ever knew. a few belongings--paltry enough--are thrust in a hole in the old barn for _her_. how precious, too, god knows, if ever she should come that way. this cold, still, dead thing, is a sad association,--but it will remain. iii. a green mountain slope, with red outcroppings here and there, had originally suggested untold treasure in the shape of rich iron ore. this had produced, as the hill-side abundantly showed, the various stages of mining enthusiasm. but the ordinary processes of nature would, in this case, seem to have been reversed; and so it came about that the wildest dreams of the prospectors were never to be realised. the rich red rock which showed at the top degenerated in quality in exact ratio as it gained in depth. and this fact it was that cost the original holders so many thousands of pounds. never had speculation seemed less speculative. but, instead of being buried in the inmost recesses of the mountain, the absolutely pure ironstone cropped up among the brackens, picking out their tender green with its deep earthy stains. nuggets knocked from the "leads" were dense and heavy to the hand, and mutely asked but to be worked to be transmuted into gold. it needed but little persuasion for men to embark in this undertaking, and that little was furnished by the mining engineers. their reports were as glowing as the red ironstone itself. then active operations were commenced. every one concerned threw himself vigorously into the work, and a valley previously unknown became as active as an invaded ant-hill. stalwart miners came there with "kit" and tools, men skilled in their work, who had disembowelled the mountains of cumberland and cornwall. these men occupied the wooden "shanties" that had been hastily erected for them; and, as they took the sun among the birch and hazel bushes on sundays, dreamt over the dreams of the sanguine proprietors. it were well, however, to draw a veil over all subsequent proceedings. nature, for her part, has already done so. the torn and abraded hill-sides have lost their harsh outlines, and a veil of kindly mantling green has spread itself over all. true, as in other similar enterprises, there are still traces of the useless essay--the dull prosaic record of half-finished ditches, purposeless shafts, untenable pits, abandoned engines, and meaningless disruptions of the soil upon the mountain--and a railway. this last was one of the details of the original enterprise, and cost â£100,000. it is still in operation, runs for no one in particular, and but for few folk in general. its way lies along a beautiful valley hemmed in by the mountains where the line ends. there is no way out of the vale except by walking over the hills, and only a few straggling tourists ever invade it. we take the train at its junction with an insignificant loop-line, and accompany it to its destination. we are booked by an all-important official, who is a compound of many individuals. he issues tickets, is guard, porter, station master, and signalman in one. these offices apply not to one station alone, but to four. in addition he is general superintendent, and directs the lad who drives the engine. we have said that the route of the line is up a narrow gorge-like valley; and this has a decided incline over the dozen miles of its sinuous course. here everything is primitive, and there is no great necessity to conform to conventional rules. the carriages, even the "first-class" ones, are hardly constructed with a view to comfort; and, when you get tired of the jolting of these, the factotum alluded to has no objection to stopping the train so that you may get out and walk. even if you stop to gather wild flowers--and the valley here is a wild-flower paradise--you may soon, by a sharp trot, catch the train again, even if it be going at its lightning express speed, so to speak. daily the goatlike herdwicks stray on to the line from the neighbouring knolls; and occasionally you are asked to throw stones at the little mountain sheep, so that the train may speed on its way. mr. general superintendent will give you permission to shoot rabbits from the moving train. it was while thus engaged that the whole thing came to a sudden stop. upon looking out to learn why, we saw a couple of dalesfolk walking leisurely towards us, and wanting to know, "what o'clock it might be--by the day." at another point along the line we stopped to replenish the engine with water. this was done from a disused grocery box, into which the tricklings from the hill-side were directed by a bit of wood hollowed in the form of a spout. the engine-boy sat upon the box, whistling through the process, which occupied an unconscionable time. he was a lad with a pleasant face, who amused himself when the train was in progress by pelting the birds and sheep with bits of coal from the tender. before long, i take it, all trace of the white quartz valley railway will have vanished. its plant is decaying, and soon will fall away. swallows have built beneath the rafters of the miners' sheds, at evening bats fly in and out at the open doors, and a pair of screech-owls that have taken up their abode declare the place as desolate. there is only one person in the country-side who has yet any lingering faith in the railway, the mine, or the mountain. this is an old miner, himself like a nugget of iron ore. he has infinite faith in a deep compensating future, and bides his time. when mellowed by ale and the soothing fumes of a short black pipe, he assures you that he will stand by the mountain through fair weather or foul. and if you evince any interest in his oft-told tale and have gained his confidence, he will take down an old gunpowder canister and reveal to you the substance of his faith. "them there shares, as was give to me by lord l---hissel', is worth a matter o' â£2,000 o' solid gold if ever them mines should yield. that's the valley on 'em, as is writ in black and white inside. two hundred shares at â£10 apiece is â£2,000. i've reckoned it times and again. me lord gev' em to me wi' 'is own 'ands, and he says, says he, 'mould' some day, maybe, ye'll become a rich man." but mould never did become rich; and this is how it came about. for months we had been under the unbroken dominion of ice and snow. many of those who had attained to a garrulous old age lamented the cessation of what they called "old-fashioned" winters for the last time. the snow fell thickly, and as it came through a thin, biting air it was frozen ere it reached the ground. neither man nor beast nor bird could break through the hard, glistening crust. as many of the stone fences as were not completely buried, were scalloped and fluted in most fantastic fashion. everywhere was one wide, white expanse; and a silence that might be felt covered the land. the hill districts were terrible in their loneliness; and every frost seemed to deepen the desolation. but at the end of six silent weeks there came a great change. a soft, warm wind set in from the south, bringing heavy rain-clouds. first the snow of the lower lands became honeycombed, then was dissolved by the night rains. black seams and scars picked out the dread ravines of the hills; and the fell becks tore down the slopes bearing tons of loose _dã©bris_. the valleys became river-beds, and masses of brown water rushed off to the sea. in thirty-six hours the transformation was complete, and striking beyond description. the burst of life and the babel of sounds were almost bewildering. the air was filled with the flutter of wings and voices of birds. in short, by sea or by land, never was there a more sudden change. a new element was in the air, and the older farmers averred that there had been a "ground thaw"--an event as rare, according to them, as a lunar rainbow. one of the results of the transformation was that great masses of crag had fallen, and a mightier mass than all hung trembling in a black abyss. as soon as the sky had cleared old mould was abroad on the mountain, his bleared eyes greedily fixed on the loosened crag. his tottering mind saw in the wet, glowing ironstone the realisation of his life-dream. the ruined speculators, the engineers, the miners--all were wrong. _his_ faith in the mountain was fulfilled. as he looked, a cold perspiration broke over his body. he steadied himself as he sank on a boulder, and then in imagination took up two great handfuls of glistening gold, and let the bright coins run through his bony fingers. the parchment in the powder canister, ay, and more, more were his! a shepherd and his dog passed close by, but mould never saw them. he thought a while longer, then went down to his hut. he would blast the crag from the breast that held it, and if only the heart of the mountain confirmed what he suspected, then he was rich, rich indeed! as the short afternoon fell he started off to cry "_open sesame_." a barrel of gunpowder lay on his bare shoulder; and wrapped in his rough frieze coat was a delicate straw-stem fuse. _these_ would solve the mystery! they solved two mysteries,--a greater and a less. the powder and fuse were placed in position. a flint and steel supplied a spark, and mould's shambling legs carried him off over the rugged boulders. then he watched,--watched for a red glare to tear the sky, and a thundering sound to shake the mountain. but neither came. save for the hoarse croak of a raven and the bark of a fox, nothing broke the stillness. one hour, two, three. the fuse must have failed, or the powder have become damp; and as the moon and stars lit up the crags, mould made as though to examine the spot. he gained it. precisely what happened next is not known. suddenly it seemed as though the mountain had exploded. there was a terrible glare, something like an earthquake shook the ground, and thousands of tons of rock and _dã©bris_ rushed down into the white quartz valley. that was all. the great, green mountain had taken mould to her broader bosom, and the night wanderings of the old man had led him in the way of the delectable mountains whence there is no return. iv. after an hour's hard climbing we gain one of the topmost outliers, whence we command an extensive map-like view of the circumjacent mountains. a final struggle for the last ridge, and then along its crest. we are at an angle formed by the vales of grasmere, legberthwaite, and patterdale, when a magnificent effect is produced as the sun suddenly pierces the clouds. a golden mass of molten sea stretches eastward. bright sunny patches light up the landscape below; and a billowy sea of mountains rolls away, with every wave a name. purple pavilions of hills stretch far and beyond on every side. now we are among the clouds, and look down on all things mundane. we "rush" the last slope, and at last stand three thousand feet above sea level--upon the topmost jag of the mighty helvellyn! the grandeur of a mountain is always enhanced by a storm; and as by the wave of a wizard's wand the sun is suddenly shut out by black, inky clouds. a couple of ominous ravens rise slowly uttering a dismal croak, croak, croak; and a merlin rushes past on the wings of the storm. mists gather, roll up the mountain-side, and far-off mutterings are heard in the hills. as a cold plash strikes the face, we seek a cairn, drawing closer our wraps. suddenly the storm bursts. in a moment we are soaked with blinding mist and chilled to the marrow. the storm lashes itself to a fury, and for a moment the grandeur is terrible and fascinating. it spends itself, passes as quickly as it came, and a glorious transformation is at hand. quivering lines of light shoot from the heavens, the sun bursts in all its strength, and nature is a flood of dripping gold. the gauzy vapours disperse, and every grass-blade is draped and glowing with resplendent gems. a blue, foam-flushed sky displaces the sullen clouds, and the storm miracle is complete. then we emerge from the dripping cairn to look abroad. that far, silvery streak, lying shimmering and blue, is windermere. directly south esthwaite water, whilst coniston, with its pine-clad slopes, lies to the west. ulleswater is at our feet, and red tarn, black and silent, below. striding edge is the spot where young gough was killed. to its north-west is swirrel edge. that is catchedecam. betwixt the last-named and saddle-back a bit of the solway is seen; while the skyline beyond is formed by the scotch mountains. the ravines and precipices of the sides of helvellyn exemplify in a striking manner the possible power of those elements whose ordinary effects are trivial and unnoticed. a mountain storm in summer is terrible enough if long continued; but the same phenomenon in winter is grander and more terrible still. the crags of the english mountains claim a long list of victims; but for tragic interest the following is perhaps the saddest of all. the subject of it was a young man of great promise, who in early life had been educated for the church. just as he was ripe for college, his father, who was at the head of a great mercantile concern, died. this event made it imperative that the young scholar should immediately embark in trade--an undertaking as uncongenial as imperative. the fortunes of his family were threatened, and the only hope of his mother and sisters was that the son should successfully carry on what the father had commenced. a student of books rather than of men, he was ill fitted for the unequal fight, and after struggling for ten years was only liberated by ruin. his brother it is said, made him a bankrupt. "the din of populous cities had long stunned his brain, and his soul had sickened in the presence of the money-hunting eyes of selfish men, all madly pursuing their multifarious machinations in the great mart of commerce. the very sheeted masts of ships, bearing the flags of foreign countries, in all their pomp and beauty sailing homeward or outward bound, had become hateful to his spirit--for what were they but the floating enginery of mammon? truth, integrity, honour, were all recklessly sacrificed to gain by the friends he loved and had respected most--sacrificed without shame and without remorse--repentance being with them a repentance only over ill-laid schemes of villainy--plans for the ruination of widows and orphans--blasted in the bud of their iniquity." following upon the loss of worldly fortune gough's mother died, and had it not been for a legacy which came to him about this time he would have been absolutely penniless. a relative had died abroad--almost his only one, and the last of his name. upon his small means he determined to seek an asylum among the northern mountains, where he might study nature and daily stand face to face with her most majestic forms and moods. he left the city which had wrought his ruin at midnight, the last definite object which his eyes rested upon being his mother's grave. the graveyard which contained it lay hard by one of the great arteries of life, and the roar of its myriad sounds was absent neither night nor day. a myriad graves were matted and massed together--a dank, unlovely sight, and one which invested death only with its worst and darkest attributes. as late winter passed into spring, gough took up his abode with the family of a northern yeoman in a westmorland cottage. the majesty of the mountains on this first spring day deeply impressed the city-bred man, and his solitary life among the hills was begun with much heartfelt meditation. the mighty helvellyn stood out boldly, its crest sharply etched against the sky. even in this remote spot the wanderer wished to withdraw himself for a time wholly from the eyes of men; and as he gazed upon the passionless peak he thought that there he should be alone--there find solitude. as the short afternoon fell he started to make the rugged ascent. every shoulder of the mountain gained put him farther beyond human aid, and each look at the peaceful valley below was nearer his last. still he progressed. the keen air, the first deep inspiration of a purer joy--these lured him on. the face of the sky changed, but he saw it not. its little lot of stars came out over the mountain, and, oblivious of the fact that night was at hand, he hurried on. the crescent moon rose and floated over its reflection in red tarn; and now the wanderer has reached the topmost, silent peak. steeped in softest moonlight, he looked on the wondrous world below, and saw an english sight such as man has rarely seen. in the delirium of a new bliss the mountain "looked lovelier than dreamland in the reflected glimmer of the snow; and thus had midnight found him, in a place so utterly lonesome in its remoteness from all habitations, that even in summer no stranger sought it without the guidance of some shepherd." rising from the stone on which he sat, a flake of snow touched his face, then another, and another. he ran rapidly down the first slope, struck the path, and hurried on. the light was quickly fading. the moon was hidden, and the tarn, which but a moment before lay at his feet, had gone out. neither road nor path was now visible, and the poor pilgrim of nature, utterly bewildered, plunged blindly into the almost inextricable passes of the mountains. the snow fell thicker and thicker, and as the storm rose it was swept hither and thither in blinding banks and opaque masses until every familiar object was hidden. although almost overcome with the lashing and fury of the storm the traveller in wildest desperation staggered on, until an awful precipice for ever put a cruel end to his wanderings.... snow-lines are sketched along the fences of the fells, but this is all that remains. everything out of doors testifies to the coming of spring, and green grass-shoots are everywhere. the foaming fell "becks" sparkle in the sun, and the sheep are sprinkled over the crags. a breadth of blue is overhead, and the feeding flock is steadily turned towards the skyline. this is the first token of the short summer, and all the sheep on all the hills rejoice. it is at this season that the shepherds most keenly scan their flocks and note the ravages of winter. by the torrent side, by the leas of the boulders, along the rock ledges--everywhere is dotted a white fleece. it was upon such an occasion, the snow having melted, that a shepherd on his rounds came suddenly upon a dog which emerged from a brackenand boulder-strewn brae. the poor creature was reduced almost to a skeleton, and upon the man following, it whined and ran forward. it stopped over a weathered corpse--the body of young gough, beside which it had kept watch and ward for months. it would allow no one to come near, though it was noticed that its collar bore a name--the name of its master, and that which established his identity. in the absence of the dog on its food forays the hill foxes, ravens, and buzzards had done their carnage on the body. this was taken by a party of yeomen and shepherds and interred in the burial ground of the friends' meeting house at tirrel. both scott and wordsworth have fittingly commemorated the incident, though the lines are too well known to be quoted here. chapter xiii. workers in woodcraft. i. the gamekeeper's cottage stands at the end of the oak lane. an orchard surrounds his dwelling, the brown boughs now drooping with ripened fruit. under an overhanging sycamore is a kennel of silky-coated setters and a brace of spaniels. the former have beautifully-domed heads and large soft eyes. the spaniels with their pendulous ears are a black and a brown. pheasant pens are scattered about the orchard, each containing half-a-dozen birds. in a disused shed are traps for taking game, and nets and snares found in rabbit runs or taken from poachers. the keeper does not always take these engines when he finds them, but waits quietly until they are visited by the "moucher;" then he makes a double capture. few of the poachers, however, leave their traps after dark, and only the casual is caught in this way. at the other end of the orchard divisional boxes are ranged round an old barn-like building where pheasants' eggs are hatched. a shaggy terrier, with fresh mould upon its nose, peeps from beneath the shed doorway. drowsy bluebottles buzz about the vermin larder, and under the apple-trees are straw-thatched hives. contented pigeons coo and bask on the hot slates of the barn roof, and bird-sounds are everywhere. these blocks, upon which sit their falcons, act as a reminder of an old english sport fast passing away. these are merlins and peregrines, kept for a friend by the keeper, who is fond of hawking. the merlins can pull down partridges, while the peregrines are flown at larger game. no sport so exhilarating as falconry, none so fascinating. the interior of the keeper's cottage is as characteristic as its surroundings. here are guns of every description--from the old-fashioned fowling piece and matchlock to the ponderous duck-gun. above the chimney-piece hangs a modern breechloader with damascus barrels. the keeper admires the delicate mechanism of this, but deprecates the spirit of the age which produced it. such cunningly-devised engines will make old-fashioned sport, or what he calls "wild shooting," extinct. by this he means the traversing of rough ground in healthful anticipation of a miscellaneous and always uncertain bag. it is this very uncertainty which gives the chief zest to sport. against the walls are cases of stuffed birds, with a red squirrel or a white stoat to relieve the feathers. in one case a knot-hole is imitated from which peer three young weasels; and an old one is descending the hole with a dead bird in its mouth. all these are portrayed to the life by the keeper's own hand. looking at the contents of the cases, he deplores his want of ornithological knowledge in earlier years. among the stuffed specimens are a greenland falcon, a pair of hobbies, several rare owls, swallow-tailed kite, hoopoe, rose-coloured pastor, and others equally rare. the gamekeeper's life is essentially an outdoor one. he is far from populous towns, and needs but little assistance. poachers rarely come to his preserves in gangs, and a couple of village mouchers he can easily manage. his powerful frame has once been the seat of great strength, though now it needs but a glance to show that his eye is less keen and his hand less firm. still he is quick to detect, and with his hard-hitting muzzle-loader he rarely misses. given favourable conditions he is almost infallible with the gun, though he gives his game law. he cannot now cover his extended ground in a single day, and perhaps does less night watching than formerly. his beat covers a widely diversified district with almost every species of game. the pheasants wander about the woods and copses; the partridge are among the corn and stubble; and rabbits pop in and out everywhere. hares haunt the meadows and upland fields, and snipe go away from the marshes. woodcock come to the wet woods, and a host of sea-haunting creatures feed along the bay. there is a heronry in the wood, and pigeons build in the larches. of the habits of these creatures the keeper is full; and if he is garrulous he is always instructive. by observing, he has found that animals and birds have stated times and well-defined routes. exactly at the same hour, according to the sun, the partridges and pheasants resort to the same spots. hares follow the tracks day by day, and rooks fly morning and evening along the same valleys. nightly, herons stalk the pools and the otter traces the mountain burns to their source. at noon a sparrow-hawk speeds by the covert, and at evening a kestrel hangs over the rickyard. in the afternoon, regularly, weasels run along the old wall; and as these things the flowers in their times of opening and closing are not less constant. the keeper's domain encloses a park in which are red deer and fallow. sometimes he has to shoot a fawn for the "great house." this he singles out, hitting it if possible just behind the shoulder. in season he must provide a certain "head" of game. twice weekly he procures this, and takes it to the hall. for its proper hanging in the larder he is responsible. when the keeper wants game he knows to a yard where it may be found--where the birds will get up and in what direction they will go away. if a hare, he knows the gate or smoot through which it will pass, and out of this latter fact he makes capital. it is well known to poachers that when once a hare has been netted there is no chance of its being taken again in like manner. rather than go through a second time, even though a "lurcher" be but a yard behind, it will either "buck" the gate or take the fence. consequently the keeper has netted every hare on his ground. this greatly reduces the poacher's chances, and wire snares are now the only engines that can be successfully used. spring and summer are taken up with breeding and rearing pheasants, and this is an anxious time. the work is not difficult but arduous. and then so much of the keeper's work is estimated by the head of game he can turn out. this result is tangible, and one that can be seen by both his master and visitors. there is nothing to show for long and often fruitless night-watching but rheumatism; and so the keeper appreciates all the more readily the praise accorded him for the number of well-grown birds he can show at the covert side. after pheasant-shooting in october the serious winter work of the keeper begins. each week he has to kill from three to five hundred rabbits, which are sent to the markets of the large manufacturing towns. he can employ what engines against them he pleases, but the number must be produced. firing a hundred shots a day is now more jarring than it was once; it has made him slightly deaf, and he adopts other means of destruction. he works the warrens in winter, but long waiting for a glutted ferret in frost and snow is not pleasant. under favourable conditions, however, a great many rabbits may be taken in this way. iron spring traps are used in the rabbit tracks, but these are impracticable on a large scale; and the pheasants and partridges, which run much, are apt to be caught in them. moreover it is now illegal to set these traps in the open. the most certain and wholesale method of capture is by the "well-trap." this is a pit, placed immediately opposite to a hole in the fence through which the rabbits run from the woods to the field or pasture. through the "run" a wooden trough is inserted, and as the rabbits pass through the floor opens beneath their weight and they drop into the "well." immediately the pressure is removed the floor springs back to its original position; and thus a score or more rabbits may often be taken in a single night. in the construction of these traps rough and unbarked wood is used, and even then the rabbits will not take them for weeks. then they become familiar, the weather washes away all scent, and the "well-trap" is a wholesale engine of capture. the rabbits of course are taken alive. these the keeper stretches across his knee, dislocating the spine. english rabbits are degenerating in size, and the introduction of some of the continental varieties would be beneficial. with the rabbits in autumn great quantities of wood-pigeons are sent away, the birds at this time becoming exceedingly plump and fat. an almost incredible number of acorns may be found in the crop of a single bird when the former have fallen. these are a few of the keeper's duties. he himself has a russet, weather-beaten face, bounded by silvery hair. he might stand for a picture of a highly-idealised member of his class. so secluded is his cottage that he locks the door but once a year, and that on christmas eve. he can remember when there was larger game than now, when badgers and wild cats were not uncommon. one of his ancestors was an inveterate deer-stealer, as the parish books show. then the red-deer roamed almost wild on the fells. to-day he has but one regret--that he was not contemporary with the wolf, the wild boar, and the bear. of these in britain he has just read an account, together with the vast primitive forests through which they roamed. ii. the charcoal burners. the humid climate of the north-west of england is peculiarly favourable to the growth of coppice-wood; and scattered along the slopes of the valleys copses prevail, consisting for the most part of oak, ash, birch, and hazel. this growth beautifully clothes the hill-slopes, and in addition to taking away the bareness, brings to them much animal and bird life; and besides this, the young timber is fairly remunerative. the coppice woods are cut every fifteen years, and the ground set apart to it pays about equal to that devoted to grazing. this is owing to the fact that every part of the wood is well suited to some particular use, and finds a ready market. what these uses are will be presently seen. as to the beauty and well-woodedness which the copses give to the north-west valleys there can be no question; and that life abounds in them which was foreign to the bare fells is made equally clear by traversing them at almost any season of the year. shelter they give, too, which is always important in districts subject to mountain storms. metallic-lustred and brightly-coloured lichens light up the floor of the wood, the rabbits rustle through; innumerable birds are there, and dormice hang their ball-like nests among the hazel boughs. as the coppice grows the squirrel comes to the nuts, wood pigeons coo, and jays screech in the glades. even a few pheasants have wandered here, and an occasional woodcock breeds among the dead oak leaves. just as the kindly sheltering woods have brought birds which are foreign to the district, so they have brought human settlers, and standing above on the bare common we see rising from the trees columns of pale blue smoke. in the primitive cottages from whence these come reside the charcoal burners. men they are whose lives glide on almost without influence from the outside world--quiet workers of many virtues. they observe well times and seasons, are full of country proverbs, wise as to signs of wind and weather, and draw deductions from the nature around them. their occupation is such as keeps them in the woods for months at a spell, not even leaving them on sundays. and so it comes that the decay of the black bryony berries and the rustle of the dead oak leaves have lessons for them; and as the winds of autumn sough through the bare branches, they are conscious that a time will come when they too must pass away. piety in men so lived may seem strange, but when a man stands face to face with nature, by far the best elements of his nature are developed. he is brought, as it were, back to his primitive life, and is more a man than the dweller in towns. during the summer we have tramped through the coppice woods. these will be felled when autumn comes round, having grown their fifteen years. and to one unaccustomed to such rapid growth the progress made would be somewhat astonishing. the trees are spindle high. the ash-poles are straight and smooth, the young oaks radiant in rich chestnut, the hazels catkin-covered, and the frail birch--the lady of the woods--towers her silvery stem afar up. of course, when cut, each species of tree has some special virtue--some quality in which it most excels. the young oaks, for instance, are felled at the time of ascending sap in early summer, as then the bark is easily "peeled." this is extensively used in the process of tanning. the torn staves are used in making baskets and hoops. the "afflictive birch, cursed by unlettered idle youth," has other uses than that which the quotation would seem likely to imply. the variously sized boughs are used in making crates, and the wood is also extensively used by the cottagers as fire "eldin," which may be detected when in proximity to the cottages. the use, however, to which the majority of the wood is put is bobbin-turning--quite an extensive and important industry in the northern valleys. the enemies of the trees, and the only ones which stop their growth, are two. insects with their borings, and rabbits. the latter, in severe winters, eat the bark of the young trees to a surprising height from the ground, and by so doing impede their growth. the second industry to which the coppice woods give rise, and by far the most interesting, is the charcoal burning, almost peculiar to this part of the country. we shall detail it as practised in the extensive honeybee woods. at the felling of the copse the wood is roughly divided into two "sets." the thick upright poles, of whatever tree, are stacked for "bobbin wood," and the thinner parts await the charcoal burners. these are also the men that from autumn to spring are busily employed in cutting, stacking, and arranging the wood. the first months of spring are employed in peeling the oak for its bark, and from early summer into autumn the actual charcoal burning is done. the men who take part in the lonely trade live in rude huts in the woods, thatched with heather and bracken. heaps of dried ferns serve them for beds, and their wants are few. their huts are fixed first as to shelter and the presence of water, then with regard to proximity to their labours. from this ground they are never absent, the burning wood heaps requiring constant attention and aid from a quick eye as to change of wind and the coming of rain. the burning is conducted as follows: the faggots (from one to four feet in length and about one and a half inches thick) are built up round a vertical stake, which forms the centre of the mass, until the heap has attained considerable dimensions. it is round, and represents a low stack terminating in an apex at the top. when sufficient faggots have been piled up, the whole is covered with turf and wet sand, so as to exclude the air. the heap, now about thirty feet in diameter, is flattened by beating with spades, and made to present a smooth dome-like surface. the vertical stake is withdrawn from the centre, and lights are dropped down the passage left, to ignite the wood. the air has been carefully excluded so as to regulate the burning of the heap. from the centre the fire gradually spreads outwards until it reaches the edges. the burners always have in readiness large screens to regulate the supply of air, and these are planted on that side of the heap from which the wind blows. the screens consist of wooden hurdles intertwined with dead grass, dried fern, and bracken. of course success depends upon the slow and equal burning of the whole mass. a shifting wind sometimes ill regulates the supply of air and fires the heap. when this occurs nothing can stop it, and the charcoal is completely spoiled. this, however, from the great watchfulness of the men, is generally avoided. to return to the heap. the products of combustion escape by the channel occasioned by the withdrawal of the vertical stake. the process is continued from twenty to thirty hours, when smoke and fumes seem to come off every part alike. this is a sign to put out the fire, which is done by applying water. the faggots have now been converted into charcoal. the critical part of the operation, and the one that wants most experience, is to catch the heap when it is "enough"--that is when it is neither overdone nor underdone. after allowing half a day for cooling, the charcoal is taken out, put into sacks, and carted away. three or four men generally work together and have four heaps in hand at one time. at night, especially when there is much wind, the burners work by shifts. the charcoal when carted away is just half the weight of the wood from which it has been prepared. much of the charcoal prepared hereabouts is used in smelting at the backbarrow and other neighbouring ironworks. iron so smelted is of much higher commercial value than that obtained by the ordinary processes. charcoal burning, consequently, is likely to continue a lucrative employment for many years to come, especially as coppice woods--the raw material--thrive so abundantly in the district. to watch these men at their lonely employment in the woods is well worth a visit. they and their work are alike interesting, and the woods which provide their employment are fascinating at all seasons. a nearer acquaintance with the workers will reveal the fact that they know the "herbs and simples of the woods," and also much of the contents of an old "herbal" lying in the hut. in the virtues of plants they have great belief, and can tell of interesting traits in the life-history of wild flowers. we believe, too, that they exercise "free right and warren" of the woods where they reside, and of this no one seems to care to deprive them. they are pleasant, primitive fellows wonderfully intelligent as to out-door questions, and command the respect of every one with whom they come in contact. we might have said that their necessary victuals are supplied periodically from the outside world, but in domestic matters they do all things for themselves. iii. the forester. walking in the woods, we met the old man standing over the prostrate form of a fallen monster that had been uprooted by the wind. he was about to lop off the branches, and was trimming the bole with an axe. the tree had brought several others with it of younger growth, and he had just finished clearing to obtain a space wherein to work. black bryony berries were twined about the lower branches, as were the dead leaves of honeysuckle. these are among the natural enemies of the old man, as he considers them injurious to timber. his woods are wide, and constitute his little world. there is little in or of them which he does not know, even to the flowers and birds. for these he has quaint provincial names of his own. thus he speaks of the fallowchat, the nettle-creeper, and the reed-wren--meaning the wheatear, white-throat, and reed-warbler. the frail anemone he knows as the wind-flower, coltsfoot is one of his rustic remedies for coughs, and the early purple orchids are to him "crow's feet." his "little red mouse that rustles among the dead leaves and is coloured like a hare" is our wood-mouse; and sometimes he finds among the hazel branches the ball-like nests of the dormice. he knows that wherever fungi grows there is death, and the tree lighted up by the brightly-coloured bosses he marks with a red cross, which is as signing the warrant of its doom. he follows the yaffle, and wherever it pecks the trees he knows that decay has begun within. this applies to all the woodpeckers, who are infallible valuers of growing timber, and all trees which they attack are marked out for the axe. often on the outside the boles are apparently sound, and it is hard to believe that the heart-wood is decayed; but the winged wood-prophets never err. it matters not what living thing crosses our path, the old man names it, even to the insects. he tells how these are instrumental in producing the oak-galls, and points out the insidious attacks and borings of weevils. of all trees the elm has most enemies. he tears off a bit of bark from a still growing tree, and reveals a labyrinth of channels radiating on two sides from a central line. the _scolytus_ he simply calls "elm-borer," though from his conversation it is plain that he is a close observer, and knows the whole life-history of the insect. and thus, in addition to his special knowledge of woodcraft, he knows the time of the coming of the birds, of the retiring of the insect hosts, and the habitats of the flowers. the woodman lives in a stone hut, near the confines of what was once an extensive forest, through which trooped vast herds of deer, both red and fallow. his weather-beaten face, which in colour resembles a ripe russet apple, tells of long exposure to summer's sun and winter's cold. his hair is white, and his form as yet but slightly bowed. the only other occupant of the hut is a girl grandchild, who has long lived with him. neither have ever been more than a dozen miles from the spot, nor care to. nominally the old man's work is to look after the woods of one valley. this has been his life-work, and he has no longing for change. he knows nothing of what goes on without a narrow circle, and his bible and an occasional country newspaper constitute his sole literature. as becomes his craft he never tires of talking of trees. in his woods the giant oak is common, with its gnarled and twisted bole, its wildly reticulated branches, its lichens, and its host of insect visitors. he has himself detected the two varieties of the oak, and points out the difference. in one case the acorns are borne on stalks, in the other they are sessile. of these he speaks as the long and short-stalked kinds. he has no confidence in the popular theory that the wood of the one greatly excels that of the other. he has worked both, and has not discovered any substantial difference. in late autumn he gathers from beneath the oaks huge sacksful of acorns, of which he disposes to the farmers. next comes the majestic beech, with its smooth bole and olive-grey bark. the old man recalls its wondrous flood of green in spring, and its not less glorious gold in autumn. some modern orlando even haunts the forest hereabouts, and abuses the young trees with carving not rosalind but "emilie" on their barks. the sentiment which stops the growth of the young beeches appeals to no finer sense within the bosom of the old man. and so he roundly denounces the wandering lover who has carved thereon the name he adores, in no unmeasured terms. in summer a few purple beeches light up the wood, and the old man is surprised to learn that all trees of this variety sprang from a single tree which was found growing wild in the midst of one of the immense forests of thuringia. but more than all the interest that attaches to the trees are the uses to which their wood is put. the little church on the fellside opposite consists internally of oak from this very wood; and so, too, do half the beams and rafters in the parish. the hard, close-grained wood of the beech, too, is used for a great variety of purposes as well as fuel. interspersed throughout the wood are numbers of ash-trees, soon to be arrayed in feathery lightness, but now more reminding us of tennyson's naturalistic simile, "black as ashbuds in march." the toughness and elasticity of the wood of the ash are well known, and here is an opportunity for the display of the timber genius of our old friend. there is, he tells us, little else than this about the yard of the village wheelwright. cart shafts are made from it, as are the primitive agricultural implements used in the valley; of like wood is his own axe handle and spade shaft. in the country infinite almost are the uses of the ash. in the middle of the wood, and coming down to the stream sides, are a retinue of fringed elms, both campestris and montana. some of these have attained to an immense size, and are at one with the scenery. but in the open spots of the wood--in the glades where life most prevails--are the beautiful birches, with their striped, silvery bark. well does this tree merit its appellation of "lady of the woods." there is none so frail, so graceful, nor so generally beautiful. almost every part of the birch is used and for a great variety of purposes. in spring the delicate green of the larch hangs in trailing tassels, and contrasts well with the dark green foliage of the indigenous pine. the old forester has an "unter den linden" equal, at least in beauty, to any in europe, and in summer the trees are a veritable haunt of summer wings. the field maple and the sycamore are here, and interspersed in the open spaces a few white stemmed walnuts. these in autumn yield a rich harvest to the forester. the horse-chestnut is common, and then come a host of trees of minor growth. all the wild fruit trees are here, and hang out glories of snowy and pink blossoms in spring--the pear, the cherry, and the wild apple. sombre yews that set off the pale green of the woodlands are plentiful, and in them the cushats and the jays build. in addition to these there are the wild service tree, white beam, and mountain ash, the last called by the old man the rowan. planting and thinning and felling constitute the work of the woodman throughout the year. but there are a thousand little offshoots of woodcraft of which he has knowledge and which he indulges at times. like the charcoal burners, he holds free right and warren of the woods. he can make many primitive lures for taking wild creatures, and is an adept at "gins" and "springs" for destroying vermin. in winter he sets snares for woodcock and snipe. he is a great favourite with the resident boys at the neighbouring grammar school, and procures them mice and squirrels and birds' eggs. he makes wooden pegs and teeth for the farmers, and various little articles for the farm women. he sells bundles of faggots and sticks for supporting peas, and a dozen other perquisites, all products of the woodlands. the embrowned nuts of autumn he turns to profitable account. in the forest are numerous hazel copses, together forming many acres. in autumn the old man was surprised to receive a visit from a burly man in a gig. he told the woodman, in a dialect differing from his own, that he was a "badger;" and then and there made an astounding bid for the nuts. the old man closed with the handsome offer, and this sum now adds annually to his otherwise slight income. chapter xiv. sketches from nature. i. nature's weather prophets. nature's barometers are the only ones of which most country-folk have any knowledge. these they may consult at all times, and they know them by heart. almost all field-workers are "weather wise," and their conversation on this head has no town conventionalism about it. the farmer has been so beaten about by wind and weather that he himself is scarcely sensible to changing atmospheric conditions; but that does not prevent his observing its influence on the things about him. before rain his dogs grow sleepy and dull, the cat constantly licks herself; geese gaggle in the pond, fowls and pigeons go early to roost, and the farm horses grow restless. abroad, the ants are all hurry and scurry, rushing hither and thither; spiders crowd on the wall; toads emerge from their holes; and the garden paths are everywhere covered with slugs and snails. when the chaffinch says "weet, weet," it is an infallible sign of rain. as the rain draws nearer peacocks cry and frogs croak clamorously from the ditches. these are signs which almost every one has heard who lives in the country; though one of the surest ways of predicting weather changes is by observing the habits of snails. snails never drink, but imbibe moisture during rain and exude it afterwards. they are seldom seen abroad except before rain, when they commence climbing trees and getting upon leaves. the tree snail is so sensitive to weather that it will commence to climb two days before the rain comes. if the downpour is to be prolonged, the snail seeks the under part of a leaf; but if a short or light rain is coming on, it stays on the outside. there is another species which is yellow before and bluish after it. others indicate change by dents and protuberances resembling tubercles. these begin to show themselves ten days before rain, and when it comes the pores of the tubercles open and draw in the moisture. in others again deep indentations, beginning at the head between the horns and ending with the jointure of the tail, appear a few days before a storm. one of the simplest of nature's barometers is a spider's web. when there is a prospect of wind or rain, the spider shortens the filaments by which its web is sustained and leaves it in this state as long as the weather is variable. if it elongates its threads, it is a sign of fine calm weather, the duration of which may be judged by the length to which the threads are let out. if the spider remains inactive, it is a sign of rain; if it keeps at work during rain, the downpour will not last long, and will be followed by fine weather. observation has taught that the spider makes changes in its web every twenty-four hours, and that if such changes are made in the evening, just before sunset, the night will be clear and beautiful. sleeping is characteristic of certain plants; and though it was at one time thought that this might have reference to the habits of insects, it is now believed to be more dependent on the weather. the tiny scarlet pimpernel, the "old man's weather-glass," opens at seven and closes soon after two. the daisy unfolds its flower at sunrise and sleeps at sunset. dandelions close up at about five o'clock; at which time the white water-lily has been asleep an hour and the mouse-ear chickweed two hours. the yellow goat's-beard opens at four and closes just before twelve, and has for its english name "john-go-to-bed-at-noon." local circumstance influences the flowers in their opening and closing, though they are pretty constant from day to day. many flowers close their petals during rain--probably to prevent the honey and pollen from being rendered useless or washed away. birds are admirable weather prophets, and from their number and obtrusiveness have furnished many examples. in his "paradise of birds," mr. courthope makes one of them say- "besides, it is true to our wisdom is due the knowledge of sciences all; and chiefly those rare metaphysics of air men 'meteorology' call. and men, in their words, acknowledge the birds' erudition in weather and star; for they say 'twill be dry, the swallow is high,' or 'rain, for the chough is afar.'" mr. ruskin says that he was not aware of this last weather-sign; nor, he supposes, was the duke of hamilton's keeper, who shot the last pair of choughs on arran in 1863. he trusts that the climate has wept for them, and is certain that the coniston clouds grow heavier in these his last years. all the birds of the swallow kind fly high at the advent of or during fine weather, and low before a storm. these facts are accounted for by another. when the weather is calm the ephemer㦠upon which swallows feed fly high in air, but just over the earth or water if it be rough. the cry of the chaffinch has already been mentioned; in scotland the children say, "weet-weet [the cry], dreep-dreep" [the consequence]. in hampshire swans are believed to be hatched in thunderstorms; and it is said that those on the thames have an instinctive prescience of floods. before heavy rains they raise their nests. this is characteristic of many birds, which add piles of material to their nests to prevent swamping. when rooks fly high, and seem to imitate birds of prey by soaring, swooping, and falling, it is an almost certain sign of coming storms. staying in the vicinity of the rookery, returning at mid-day, or coming to roost in groups, are also said to be omens to the like effect. various proverbs would seem to indicate that the cry of the owl, heard in bad weather, foretells a change. the constant iteration of the green woodpecker's cry before a storm has given it the name of rain-bird, rain-pie, and rain-fowl. storm-cock is a provincial name shared by this bird and the missel-thrush, the latter often singing through gales of wind and rain. storm-bird is also applied to the fieldfare. the abhorrence in which the mariners hold the swallow-like storm-petrel is well known; its appearance is believed to denote wild weather. this little bird is the mother carey's chicken of sailors, and is also called storm-finch and water-witch. herons, says an old author, flying up and down in the evening, as if doubtful where to rest, "presage some evill approaching weather"--a legend as old as virgil, though probably devoid of foundation. concerning gulls in general, children who live by the sea say "seagull, seagull, sit on the sand; it's never good weather while you're on the land;" and fisherfolk know that when the seamews fly out early and far to seaward fair weather may be expected. to scotch shepherds the drumming of snipe indicates dry weather and frost at night; and gilbert white remarks that woodcocks have been observed to be remarkably listless against snowy foul weather; while, according to another author, their early arrival and continuance "foretells a liberal harvest." in wiltshire the coming of the dotterel betokens frost and snow, and there is a proverb that the booming of the bittern will be followed by rain or worse. in morayshire, when the wild geese go out to sea they say the weather will be fine; but if towards the hill, stormy. the saw-like note of the great titmouse is said to foretell rain; that of the blue-tit, cold. in the south of france so much store is set by the wisdom of the magpie, that if it builds its nest on the summit of a tree the country-folk expect a season of calm; but if lower down, winds and tempests are sure to follow. when a jackdaw is seen to stand on one of the vanes of the cathedral tower at wells, it is said that rain is sure to follow within twenty-four hours. wells must be a wet place! in germany, dwellers in the country lack faith in the skylark's song as announcing fine weather; but when the lark and the cuckoo sing together they know that summer has come. the robin, buzzard, lapwing, starling, and a number of other birds are said to foretell weather changes. we have, however, noticed that in nearly all the species named the various cries and calls are closely connected with the bird's food supply. ii. ferrets and ferreting. the ferret commonly used in this country is an animal of the weasel kind, belonging to a large genus and having its true home in the tropics. unlike its british congeners, it shows its southern nature in being unable to stand any great degree of cold, even an english winter being sufficient to kill it if not properly housed. this may also be seen in rather a remarkable manner, as probably no one ever saw a ferret enter a rabbit-hole without its peculiar "shiver." like the cat, it has a decided objection to wetting its fur, and especially does it show this upon being transferred from a warm pocket or bag to the damp soil of a burrow. zoologically the ferret is one of the most interesting animals of the group to which it belongs; and this from the fact that it is a true breeding albino, having the white fur and pink eyes peculiar to this variety. under domestication it breeds more frequently and is more prolific than in its wild state. it is somewhat smaller than the polecat, but readily breeds with that animal, and produces young intermediate in character between the parent species. it is owing to this fact that we have now two well-defined varieties--one of a brown colour, and known as the polecat ferret, the other the more common white variety. the first is said to be the more hardy and vicious; and it is to secure these qualities that keepers on large warrens cross their ferrets with the wild polecat. in this country ferrets are kept more for work than as pets, and are used for making rabbits bolt from their burrows. to do this scarcely any training is necessary, and three young ferrets which we used the other day worked as well as their more experienced parents. there are various reasons why white ferrets are to be preferred as opposed to the brown polecat variety. they are usually more docile and pleasant to handle. a brown ferret is apt to be nipped up by a sharp dog in mistake for a rat or rabbit, while a white one is always apparent, even when moving amongst the densest herbage. this specially applies to night time, and hence poachers invariably use white ferrets. gamekeepers who know their business prefer ferrets taken from poachers to any other. the poacher carefully selects his ferrets, and from the nature of his trade he cannot afford to work bad ones. some ferrets cause rabbits to bolt rapidly, while others are slow. sometimes a ferret will drive a rabbit to the end of a blind burrow, and after killing it will not return until it has gorged itself with blood; and more trouble is added if the ferret curls itself up for an after-dinner sleep. then of course it has either to be left or dug out; if the former, it is well to bar every exit and to return with a dead rabbit when hunger has succeeded the gorged sleep. ferreting is mostly practised in winter; and it is to guard against such occasions as these that working ferrets are generally muzzled. a cruel practice used to obtain of stitching together the lips of ferrets to prevent their worrying rabbits and then "laying up." but the most humane method of muzzling is with soft string; a muzzle constructed of which may be quite effective and at the same time not uncomfortable to wear. care must be taken not to hurt the ferret, as if the string annoys him he will do nothing but endeavour to get it off. occasionally ferrets are worked with a line attached; but this is an objectionable practice. there may be a root or stick in which the line may get entangled, when there will be digging, and no end of trouble in getting it out. from what has been already said, and from the uncertainty of ferreting, it will be understood why the poacher can only afford to use the best animals. of the many modes of taking the "coney," ferreting is the most common. of course this is the poacher's method; but it varies little from that of the gamekeeper or the legitimate "sportsman." when the rabbits can be induced to bolt freely very good sport can be had; but in this respect they are most capricious. they bolt best on a windy day and before noon; after that they are sluggish, and often refuse to come out at all. as the rabbit "darts across a narrow ride like a little brown shadow, quick must be the eye and ready the hand that can get the gun to the shoulder and discharge it in the brief second that elapses between the appearance of a tiny brown nose on one side the path and the vanishing of a little snow-white patch of down on the other." those that have ferreted much have probably seen strange revelations while indulging in the sport. a mound or brae sometimes seems to explode with rabbits, so wildly do they fly before their enemy. we have seen twenty rabbits driven from one set of holes. when the ferrets are running the burrows, stoats and weasels are occasionally driven out; and among other creatures unearthed we remember a brown owl, a stock-dove, and a shell-duck, all of which were breeding in the mounds. to many persons ferrets are objectionable pets; but if properly kept they are among the cleanest of animals. playful as kittens, they are harmless if properly handled, and much fondling tends to tame them. ferrets not only soon get used to handling, but like it. they ought always to be seized boldly and without hesitation, for if the hold has to be adjusted a bite may be the result. and a bite from a ferret, especially to a person in bad health, is sometimes a serious matter. if a ferret is inclined to be vicious attract its attention with a glove in front, bringing the other hand down with a rapid sweep, grasping it firmly by the neck and shoulders. food has much to do with temper, and confined under favourable conditions ferrets will be cleanly and sweet as in their natural habitat. they require to lie dry and have a roomy abode. pine shavings are better than straw to bed them, and pine sawdust ought to be sprinkled about. the resinous matter in these acts as an antiseptic, and as a deterrent to vermin. closely-confined ferrets become weak and tender, and are susceptible to cold. bread and milk ought to be the prevailing food, with a good meal of flesh weekly. these combined will keep them in good condition and perfect health. the common diseases to which ferrets are liable are owing to unsuitable food and damp or dirty housing. iii. our heronry. the herons have just returned to the heronry after an absence of many months. at the end of september the old and young birds flew off together, and dispersed themselves over the low-lying mosses which margin the estuary of the river. here they stayed during the winter, feeding but little in the bay, but making long flights either to the quiet tarns among the hills or to the neighbouring trout streams. like the poacher, the heron pursues its silent trade by night, and loves the moonlit ones best. now that the birds are breeding, their habit and daily routine are ordered quite otherwise than during the winter months. this year they returned to nest during the last week of march, and immediately sought out the trees in the most elevated part of the wood. by the middle of april but few nests remained unfinished, while the majority contained eggs. the trees selected for the huge burdens of sticks are oak, ash, elm, and silver firs; and the nests themselves are flat platforms with just the slightest depression for the pale green eggs. close by the home of the herons is a rookery; and although it has not always been so, the two species now dwell together in perfect amity. nests of the herons and of their sable companions are not unfrequently found in the same tree. any threatened invasion of the two colonies of brooding birds produces a very different result on their respective denizens. the rooks get off their nests and circle, crying and cawing, until the disturber has vanished; the herons fly silently and straight away. during a stormy spring like the present[6] many of the eggs are blown from the nest and destroyed--a fate which often befalls the young herons themselves in autumn. now that the birds are breeding it is easy to see by the aid of a binocular that they sit upon their nests with their legs under them, and not (as was once supposed) either pushed through the sticks or thrust behind them. in its domestic relations the heron is both amicable and honest. if a nest is blown down the birds go to work in the precincts of the rookery, but never touch the rooks' sticks. the heron's nest is a rude, wide-spreading platform constructed of beech-twigs, and not lined with wool as generally stated, but with the fine shoots of the larch. the appearance is that of a ringdove's nest on a large scale, and so open in texture that the sitting bird or eggs may be seen through the foundation. the heron breeds both early and late, and has often three or four broods in a season. at this time they are rarely seen fishing in the bay, and seem to prefer round fish upon which to feed their young, probably on account of the narrowness of gape and swallow. to obtain the requisite food the herons move off at evening to the quiet tarns and streams which abound in trout and eels. as the young birds come to maturity they are driven from the nest, and in a few days a new clutch of eggs is laid. the incubation of these is performed by both parents, one sitting during the day the other at night. as soon as young herons are able to look about them they have a habit of standing erect in the nest, and, not being very stable, are not unfrequently blown to the ground. if no harm befalls them, they are here fed by the old birds, though they never attempt to regain their lofty nests. everywhere beneath the heronry there is an ancient and fish-like smell; and this by the warm days of summer becomes almost unbearable. [6] 1890. when nesting operations are over, they leave their summer haunt among the tall trees and make down to the bay and low-lying marshes. at this season the birds are gregarious, and their daily movements afford material for pleasant study. if the fishing ground in the channel is fruitful, sport goes on harmoniously; but if otherwise, chase is given to the successful fishers by the lesser black-backed gulls; these birds invariably cause the herons to drop their game, catching it as it falls. see, on a calm sunny day in september, the stacy-marks-like group waiting patiently in the channel for the flow. some are erect, with heads settled gracefully over their backs; others are exposing their breasts and outspread wings to the autumnal sun; while some few, like geese, may be seen settled on their legs with necks elegantly arched. it is not less interesting to watch an individual fisher than a group when the retiring tide has left the channel. it wades cautiously with lowered head and out-stretched neck, each step being taken by a foot being drawn out of the water and as quietly replaced in advance. by gentle movements the heron is often enabled to strike and secure a flook at once. if a fish is missed, a sharp look-out is kept for its line of escape, and then a stealthy step is made in that direction. should the distance be beyond reach of the bird's vision, a few flaps of the wings are tried in the eagerness of the pursuit. sometimes a heron may be observed, when wading, to stand still suddenly, when no doubt its pectinated toe prevents the escape of a flat-fish or other victim.[7] a characteristic of flight may also be mentioned. when a heron rises from the ground the legs hang down, but as soon as it has acquired a settled flight they are extended backwards. these and the retracted head and neck adjust the equipoise of the body. the slow languid flaps of the wings would seem to indicate the heron as a slow-flying bird; but this impression is quite erroneous. if timed by a watch, it will be found that no fewer than two hundred and fifty separate wing movements are made per minute, counting the upward and downward strokes. the literary legacy as to the heron's varying altitude of flight foreboding fair weather or foul would seem to have no foundation in fact; at least, years of observation have yielded no indication of this. the altitude of flight is regulated according to the distance of the bird's fishing ground. if the place is near, the flight is slow and sluggish at only a few yards above the surface; if lower down the bay the flight is higher; while if to a distant spot, more vigorous and rapid wing-movements indicate the intention. [7] dr. t. gough. when fishing in a trout stream the heron stands looking more like a lump of drift-stuff caught in the bushes than an animate object. gaunt, consumptive, and sentinel-like, the bird watches with breast depressed and poised upon one leg. woe to the tiny trout or samlet that comes within reach of its formidable pike, for it is at once impaled and gulped down. this impalement is given with great force, and a wounded heron has been known to drive its bill right through a stout stick. nothing from fry to mature fish comes amiss to the heron, and the young consume great quantities. sometimes they gaff an individual which is difficult to dispose of. it is related that a heron was seen one evening going off to a piece of water to feed; the spot was visited next morning, when it was discovered that the bird had struck its beak through the head of an eel, and the eel thus held had coiled itself so tightly round the neck of the heron as to stop the bird's respiration, and both were found dead. an authoritative statement has been made to the effect that the heron's services in destroying pike, coarse fish, rats, and water-beetles may be set off against its depredations in trout streams; but from this we must dissent. iv. plovers and plovers' eggs. in april and may thousands of plovers' eggs are annually sent to the london markets from all parts of the country. the _gourmets'_ appreciation of this delicacy causes an ever-increasing demand, which, however rapid its growth, will always be met. for the green plover is one of the commonest of british birds, and is greatly on the increase. it flocks during the winter, and according to the severity or openness of the weather indulges in short local migrations from the plashy meadows and uplands to the sea-coast. upon the approach of spring the flocks break up and resort to their breeding-grounds. these are usually at some elevation, and in the north the bird builds at an altitude of one thousand five hundred feet. probably one of the reasons of the plover's great abundance is the readiness with which it adapts itself to local circumstance, and the clever manner in which it conforms to the environment in which it finds itself. for although a great many birds may be found breeding at a considerable elevation, numbers nest in the sea marshes, among the plough and upland fields, and along the marram-covered flats. the lapwing is an early breeder, and eggs may often be found by the middle of march. it is these first captures which fetch such fancy prices in the market, and as much as fifteen shillings has been paid for a single egg. so anxious are the poulterers to obtain these, that one of them recently informed mr. howard saunders that if he were assured of having the first ten eggs, he would not hesitate at giving five pounds for them. of course, as the season advances the price rapidly decreases, and the normal price per dozen when the supply becomes general is about five shillings. as an instance of the difficulty which an untrained eye has in detecting the eggs of the green plover when in the nest, it may be mentioned that a person unaccustomed to birds'-nesting was sent up a furrow in which were six nests, each containing eggs, and these were to be collected. by the time that the end of the furrow was reached the collector had put his foot into one nest and had failed to find the other five. this is not always the case, however, and persons who study the habits of the plover experience but little difficulty in finding the nests. in fact, shepherds and others often walk straight up to them. they watch the movements of the parent bird, and know from the conformation of the ground to a yard where the nest will be. when you come upon a breeding haunt of green plovers, it will be noticed that many of the birds fly straight and silently away. when this is so it will be certain that the bird is the female and that it is sitting upon eggs. the bird does not rise immediately from the nest, but runs for a distance of some yards before it takes wing. if it allows a near approach, and rises low, the probability is that incubation is far advanced, and the eggs, of course, will not be worth taking. there are two ways, however, of determining this. three or four eggs are the usual complement, and if there be fewer than three, or they are not warm to the hand, the bird has not begun to sit. partly incubated eggs when placed in water float with their large end uppermost; if fresh they sink on their sides. the conduct of the male is very different from that of his mate. if a person approach the nest, he flies crying and calling overhead, and tries to lure the intruder from the vicinity. his peculiarly rounded wings beat the air, causing a loud humming sound which in france has given to the lapwing its name of _vanneau_, a fan. one characteristic of birds of the plover kind is that they lay from three to four eggs; and this holds good with the lapwing. these are so well known as not to need description; but there is one peculiarity which may be remarked. the eggs are beautifully pyriform in shape, and when the female leaves the nest deliberately it will be found that the smaller ends of the eggs are together, thereby taking up but little room in the nest. when the young are hatched they run about immediately, often with the shell upon their backs. although they must remain upon the ground for two or three weeks, they are admirably protected by the assimilative colouring of their down, which renders them most difficult to detect. it would be interesting to know just when lapwings' eggs became a marketable commodity. pennant as early as 1776 quotes them at three shillings a dozen; and thirty years later daniel states that their price was four shillings. there would appear to be but little organisation in connection with the collecting of plovers' eggs, and this is probably why the price is kept up. the majority of the eggs are gathered by shepherds, keepers, and labourers, who are assisted by women and children; but the latter find comparatively few nests. not unfrequently the early clutches are covered with snow, and more than one set of nests have been known to have perished in this way. but the species is a hardy one, and the birds persevere until they are successful in rearing one nest of young. hence there is no ground for the apprehension expressed in some quarters lest so useful a bird (as this is stated to be to agriculturists) should be destroyed by taking a few of the first layings. that the peewit evinces considerable attachment to its nest and eggs the following example will show. on an evening about the middle of may a gentleman found a lapwing's nest containing four eggs. three of these were completely covered with a cake of dry dung, which had accidentally been kicked over the nest by the cattle and which the birds were unable to remove. the eggs were chilled, but the gentleman took them home, placed them in an oven over-night, and at six next morning replaced them in the nest. the old birds were hovering about, and the hen went immediately to the nest. three of the eggs hatched the following morning, the remaining one having been accidentally cracked. it must not be supposed that all the so-called plovers' eggs exposed for sale have really been laid by that species. the eggs of rare wading birds have frequently been selected from among them, and those of the snipe are not at all uncommon. in cooking, it is discovered that numbers of eggs are far advanced in incubation, when, of course, they are useless; and it is not always easy to apply tests to determine this while purchasing. at table the eggs are usually served hard boiled. sometimes they are shelled and served up with bã©chamel sauce; though their more frequent use is as decoration for salad, the beautiful colour of the "white" admirably setting off the dish. not only are plovers' eggs delicacies, but some of the birds themselves are highly appreciated at table. of all the species known to naturalists, however, two only are recognised by _gourmets_. these are the green and gold: the first the common kind, which produces the plovers' eggs; the second a handsome bird, somewhat rare, and larger than the former. it has beautiful golden markings, a soft liquid eye, and breeds upon the tops of the highest mountains. the golden plover fetches a much higher price than the green, and living the two are easily distinguishable. when cooked the difference in size is not appreciable, though the former may always be known by the absence of the hind-toe. lapwings were formerly "mewed" for the purpose of feeding, and fatted upon liver. a thousand birds, supposed to be of this species, were served at a feast on the enthronisation of archbishop nevill. in ireland the birds are netted in autumn in very considerable numbers; though, strangely enough, the eggs are neither appreciated nor collected as they are here. a new phase of the trade in lapwings' eggs is that of preserving them for use during the winter months. v. brown in summer, white in winter. of the protective colouring exhibited by several birds and quadrupeds in countries that remain during a greater part of the year under snow, britain furnishes several interesting examples. amongst these are the ptarmigan, variable or alpine hare, ermine, greenland falcon, snowy owl, lapland bunting, with other less marked instances. the very existence of each of these creatures depends upon the closeness with which it conforms to its environment; and just as it does this effectively so it is robust as a species and flourishes. the inherent variability in some cases is great, and definite changes can be brought about in comparatively short periods. in other species, however, modification is slow, and only obtained by the long process of natural selection. as an instance of the first, we have the change from dark brown to purely white of the stoat or ermine; of the second, the indigenous red grouse of the british isles is an example. this bird is found nowhere else in a wild state. with us there is no reason why it should assume the white winter plumage like its congeners, and yet there can be no question that our bird is the local representative of the white willow-grouse, which ranges over the whole of northern europe. there are absolutely no structural differences between the two. here is a species, then, which has lost, through disuse, the power of turning white in winter with the absence of the necessity for doing so. let us see how the adoption of protective colouring holds as applied to these species--all of which are brown in summer, white in winter. the iceland falcon and the ptarmigan have pretty much the same habitat, the one preying upon the other. the ptarmigan's plumage during the breeding season is dark brown, even approaching to black; but in autumn, during the transition stage, it is grey, this being the general tint of the mosses and lichens among which it lives. suppose, however, that the summer bird never changed its plumage, what chance of survival would it stand against its enemies when the ground was covered with snow? remaining, as it would, a black speck on the otherwise white surface, it would in a few years become extinct. the ptarmigan, then, furnishes an example of the assumption of three different states of plumage, each assimilating to the physical conditions by which it is surrounded. of course the same rule applies to the falcon, which is also white. precisely the same set of facts operate in the case of the large snowy owl in the fir countries which it inhabits. here its food consists of lemmings, alpine hares, and birds, particularly the willow-grouse and ptarmigan. the balance of nature would be slightly against it, however, in the capture of animals which have assumed protective colouring, and hence we are told that "it has been known to watch the grouse-shooters a whole day for the purpose of sharing the spoil. on such occasions it perches on a high tree, and when a bird is shot skims down and carries it off before the sportsman can get near it." yet again the same reasoning applies to the beautiful silver fox, which structurally in nowise differs from its red-furred cousin of more southern counties. hares, according to the altitude of their range, show almost every degree of variableness between red and white. our common hare is widely distributed, and to such an extent do varietal forms differ that several distinct species (so called) have been evolved out of one. the extreme forms do seem widely separated, until we connect them with the many intermediate links. it then becomes evident that these differences are, after all, such as may be accounted for by conditions of climate and geographical range. the northern form has thick fur, which inclines to white in winter; the central variety has fur of only moderate thickness, becoming grey in winter; and the southern, thin fur of a deep rufous tinge. the calling of these varieties "species" is simply scientific hair-splitting; though this hardly applies to the true variable or mountain hare. this alpine form is distributed over the countries within the arctic circle, though with us its southern haunt is determined by scotland and ireland. again in this species we have three forms, each mainly characteristic of certain latitudes. the first inhabits warm low-lying countries, and does not change colour in winter; of this the irish hare is a type. the second, the variety common to northern europe, which is grey in summer and purely white in winter; while the third is the arctic form--white right through the year. the six types are probably all varieties of one species, which, for protection, conform to their own environment; and so successfully do they do this, that the progeny of two pair of mountain hares which in 1854 were turned down in the faroes might long ago have been counted by thousands. the scotch variety of this species, which does not change the colour of its fur in winter, is there called the blue hare. another interesting example of creatures which are brown in summer and white in winter is the ermine. this is still a fairly common british fur animal, and the change may therefore be watched without going far afield. in the fur countries of high latitudes the change is universal; while here, except in unusually severe winters, it is only partial. in the lake district, where we have observed a considerable number of these animals, a purely white one is exceedingly rare, though pied specimens are not at all uncommon. the nearest general approach to whiteness was during the prolonged severity of the winter of 1880-81. the last colour about to vanish is usually a brown stripe, prolonged posteriorly down the back; though when the weather is of extreme severity the whole transition can be brought about within a fortnight. it is not that the summer fur is cast and a new one substituted for it, but that each individual hair changes colour. cold artificially applied will in time bring about the same results as a naturally severe temperature. there arrive every year in this country, from the north, flocks of pretty little birds called snow-buntings. they come from within the arctic circle, and are so variable in their plumage that naturalists almost despaired of ever getting a characteristic description. indeed, so much a puzzle did these little strangers offer, that for long they were described by the older naturalists as three different birds. of course, we now know that the mountain, tawny, and snow bunting are one; and this because they have been obtained in almost every possible stage of transition. they breed upon the summits of the highest hills with the ptarmigan; and like that bird regulate their plumage according to the prevailing aspect of their haunts. in this they succeed admirably, and flourish accordingly. vi. adaptation to haunt. the process of natural selection, tending to the survival of the fittest, would almost invariably seem to use colour as its main working factor. the exemplification of this law is, perhaps, nowhere better seen than in the colouring of animals and birds. in the keen struggle for existence, the creature which conforms most nearly to its environment is the one most likely to survive, and therefore perpetuate its characteristics. for upon the fact that the peculiarities of the parents are reproduced in their offspring depends the whole theory of evolution. this may at first suggest that the generality of animals and birds closely conform to the type of the parent stock, and that therefore there is little chance of variation. but while this is so, it is equally true that when any "sport" occurs this is tenaciously retained providing it possesses any advantages over its neighbours in the struggle for existence. in this way a new type may be set up, differing so far from the original as in time to rank as a species. the great power of variability in animals and plants is probably not yet fully comprehended. we know, however, from darwin's experiments how many distinct varieties in the case of pigeons have been produced from the wild blue rock, each showing profound modification, not in colour alone, but also in bone structure. then there are those which show the development of hoods and frills, and others, again, which have within them the homing instinct to an almost incredible degree. all this, of course, has been brought about by man, mostly by selection, and it serves to show how pliable nature is. what has been done to pigeons applies to domestic animals. given a few years, any monstrosity can be produced, however extravagant; our shorthorns and blood horses have been produced out of the very sorriest material, and now stand as the idealised types of their kind. and what man does artificially, nature is doing daily, but by slow and sure methods of her own. none but those who have dipped beneath the surface can conceive of the struggle which is going on for existence. nature's competition is of the keenest kind; the strongest survive, the weakest go to the wall. even an object so low in the scale of animal creation as a chrysalis assumes a red coat when it is attached to a bright brick wall, and a grey one when it affixes itself to limestone. this inherent power it has in itself, and those individuals which can most cleverly practise deceit in hiding from birds and other enemies survive and reproduce their kind. with regard to instances of variability which come under our immediate notice, the red grouse of our moorlands as already mentioned is a striking example. there can now be no doubt that this is the "willow grouse" of the scandinavian peninsula. our indigenous bird found itself in an insular position, and has changed from white to speckled red so as to conform to the colour of the heather; it has also modified the colour of its eggs to suit the changed conditions of its existence. had it remained white, it would soon have been wiped out of existence by the peregrine and other of the large falcons. there can be no question that bird and animal or insect dons the colour and form best calculated to protect it. whether this change is conscious to the creature that practises it is beside the main question, and hardly enters into the issue. the process is invariably slow, but if any "accidental sport" occurs which is likely to be of use, it is tenaciously retained, and progress is made at a bound. many of our british birds exhibit capital instances of protective colouring, and it is a somewhat striking fact that birds of sombre plumage build open nests, while the brilliantly coloured birds either have covered nests or build in holes in trees. returning to sexual colour, the dull summer female plumage which characterises so many ground-feeding birds is all the more remarkable as they are the mates of males for the most part distinguished by unusual brilliancy of plumage. the few exceptions to this rule are of the most interesting nature, and go eminently to prove it. in these exceptions it happens that the female birds are more brightly plumaged than the males. but the remarkable trait comes out that in nearly the whole of these cases the male sits upon the eggs. now this fact more than any other would seem to indicate that the protection afforded by obscure colouring is directly intended to secure the bird's safety during the long and most critical period of its life. this law of protective colouring, it will be seen, most influences those species which build on the ground, and one or two examples may be adduced from our own avi-fauna, as in the case of the rare dotterel, which breeds on the fells. in winter the colouring of the sexes in this species is almost identical; but when the breeding season comes round, the female dons a well-defined and comparatively conspicuous plumage, while it is found that the dull-coloured male alone sits upon the eggs. mr. wallace has pointed that the bee-eaters, mot-mots, and toucans--among the most brilliant of tropical or semi-tropical birds--all build in holes in trees. in each of these cases there is hardly any difference in the plumage of the sexes, and where this is so the above rule is almost invariable. again, our native kingfisher affords an illustration. woodpeckers, many of which are brightly coloured above, build in the boles of trees, and our own titmice, with their exquisite tints, construct domed nests. visitors to the zoological gardens in regent's park will have noticed that the orange-plumaged orioles have pensile nests, which is a characteristic of the order to which they belong, most of the members of which are conspicuous. bird enemies come from above rather than below, and it will be noticed that the modifications referred to all have reference to the upper plumage. protective colouring, having for its object the preservation of the species which adopt it, will be found to enter more or less into the economy of every animal and bird and insect in a state of nature; and therefore it will be seen that there is a general harmony between the colours of an animal and those of its habitation, of which fact almost every living natural object furnishes evidence. there comes periodically to this country a bird of the starling kind, known as the rose-coloured pastor. it has the back, breast, and sides of an exquisite pale pink; and it is perhaps this bright plumage which prevents it from establishing a residence here. in its continental haunts the bird is observed to affect trees or shrubs bearing rose-coloured flowers, such as the blossoms of the pink azalea, among which the birds more easily escape notice. this is an instance of what is known as adaptive or protective coloration, which we need not go abroad to observe. the struggle for existence among plants and animals is a hard one, and every point gained in the direction tends to survival. the modification in the forms and colours of insects, and the successful shifts thereby made to elude their enemies, provide the striking facts of the case. birds modify and rearrange the colours of their plumage, adapt the coloration of their eggs, and the structure and material of their nests, all to the same end. we know that the more highly organised flowers have changed form and colour to satisfy their insect visitors, while the insects themselves have modified their organs so as to enable them the better to visit certain flowers. in sumatra mr. wallace found a large butterfly, its upper surface of a rich purple and with a broad bar of deep orange crossing each wing. the species is found in dry woods and thickets, and when on the wing is very conspicuous. among the bush and dry leaves the naturalist was never able to capture a specimen; for, however carefully he crept to the spot where the insect had settled, he could never discover it until it suddenly started out again. but upon one occasion he was fortunate enough to note the exact spot where the butterfly settled, and, although it was lost sight of for some time, he at length discovered it close before his eyes. in its position of repose it exactly resembled a dead leaf attached to a twig. so in our own country we may observe that the purple emperor butterfly affects certain of the brightly coloured wild geraniums, upon which, in repose it is almost impossible to detect it. the brown-spotted fritillaries of our birch woods also offer examples of this class, it being difficult to detect them against the fungus-pitted leaves of every shade of brown and dun and yellow. vii. how the world is fertilised. in approaching the subject of the geographical distribution of animals and plants, one is struck with the marvellous methods which nature adopts for the dispersal of her types. if the seeds of forest trees were merely shed to the ground immediately beneath, they would be in an environment precisely the least likely to further the reproduction of their kind. instead of this, many of the seeds of forest trees are furnished with wings, an adaptation which allows them to be easily wafted by the wind, and thus fits them for wide dispersal. it is only by possessing some such advantage as this that certain species could survive at all. it is true that acorns and other kindred fruits do not possess this advantage, but then they are largely fed upon by birds, and birds, as will presently be shown, are an admirable means of dispersal. the crop of a wood-pigeon, which burst when the bird fell to the ground when shot, was found to contain sixty-seven acorns, besides a number of beech mast and leaves of clover. in this connection imagine the possible rate of multiplication which would follow the accidental dissemination of a single head of red poppy. if left undisturbed it would, under ordinarily favourable circumstances, ripen forty thousand seeds, each capable of producing a successor. it has been stated by a competent authority that one red poppy could produce plants enough in less than seven years to occupy every inch of the thirty and odd million acres of the united kingdom. ocean currents have not unfrequently been the means of connecting the floras of different continents, and seeds and fruit are sometimes picked up on the western coasts of britain which have been wafted across the whole atlantic ocean. it is also known that certain birds of long and sustained powers of flight cross the atlantic unaided, and what this may possibly mean will presently be shown. even land animals are known to cross straits between island and island upon rafts--drift-wood or bits of floating bark. a quaint instance of transportation of fish spawn is given by an old writer. izaak walton believed that pike were bred from pickerel-weed; though he seems to have had some suspicion of this piece of unnatural history, and qualifies his statement by saying that if it is not so "they are brought into some ponds some such other ways as is past man's finding out." but one of his contemporaries attacks this heterodoxy, and "propounds a rational conjecture of the heron-shaw." he thinks it quite likely that while fishing the heron might "lap some spawn about her legs", in regard to adhering to the segs and bull-rushes near the shallows, as myself and others without curiosity, have observed. and this slimy substance adhering to her legs, and she mounting the air for another station, in all probability mounts with her. when note, the next pond she haply arrives at, possibly she may leave the spawn behind her, an observation now known to be strictly accurate. herons are not the only birds which are aids to dispersal. although the feet of birds are generally clean, darwin in one case removed sixty-one grains, and in another twenty-two grains, of dry argillaceous earth from the foot of a partridge, and in the earth there was a pebble as large as the seed of a vetch. the same naturalist had sent to him by a friend the leg of a woodcock, with a little cake of dry earth attached to the shank, and weighing only nine grains; this contained seeds of the toad-rush, which not only germinated but flowered. but perhaps the most interesting case of all was that of a red-legged partridge forwarded by professor newton. this had been wounded, and was unable to fly; and a ball of hard earth adhered to it, weighing six and a half ounces. the earth had been kept for three years, but when broken and watered, and placed under a bell-glass, no fewer than eighty-two plants sprang from it. american passenger pigeons are frequently captured in the state of new york with their crops still filled with the undigested grains of rice that, according to mr. howard saunders, must have been taken in the distant fields of georgia and south carolina, apparently proving that the birds had passed over the intervening space within a few hours. it is known that at certain seasons thousands of these beautiful pigeons are killed, not only by man, but by predatory animals and birds; and their long migratory journeys as a possible means of dispersal becomes at once evident. as bearing on this particular subject, darwin has proved that the hard seeds of fruit pass uninjured through even the digestive organs of a turkey. in the course of two months he picked up in his garden twelve kinds of seeds out of the excrement of small birds which seemed perfect, and some of them germinated. the crops of birds do not secrete gastric juice, and consequently do not in the least injure germination. darwin forced many kinds of seeds into the stomachs of dead fish, and then gave them to fishing eagles, storks, and pelicans in the zoological gardens. the birds, after long intervals, either ejected the seeds in pellets or passed them; after which several kinds still retained the power of germination. in the tropics countless swarms of locusts sometimes suddenly make their appearance, and as suddenly vanish. they cover every leaf-bearing thing, and occasionally denude whole districts of their greenery. so great are their powers of flight that they have been seen at sea nearly four hundred miles from nearest land. in natal the farmers, rightly or wrongly, believe that the locusts introduce injurious seeds upon their grass lands, and the following would seem to show that their belief is well founded. a mr. weale, who was in their way of thinking, collected a packet of dried pellets and sent them to england. when closely examined under the microscope they revealed a number of tiny seeds from which plants of seven kinds of grasses were ultimately raised. in comparatively few years a small island in mid ocean had quite an important addition to its flora, merely from the fact that the grave of an officer was dug with a spade that had been used in england. the seeds from which these sprang were embedded in the dry earth adhering to the spade. floating driftwood is quite an important means of dispersal, as can easily be understood; and the natives of some of the coral islands in the pacific procure stones for their tools solely from the roots of drifted trees, the stones being a valuable royal tax. in this connection darwin made the following interesting experiments. he found that when irregularly-shaped stones were embedded in the roots of trees, small parcels of earth were frequently enclosed in their interstices or behind them, so perfectly that not a particle could be washed away during the longest transport. out of one small portion of earth thus completely enclosed by the roots of an oak about fifty years old three dicotyledonous plants germinated. it is well known that in many cases a few days' immersion in sea-water is sufficient to kill seeds, but a number taken out of the crop of a pigeon which had floated on the water for thirty days nearly all germinated. other aids to dispersal already referred to are wading birds, which frequent the muddy edges of ponds, and, if suddenly flushed, would be the most likely to have muddy feet. "birds of this order wander more than those of any other, and they are occasionally found on the most remote and barren islands of the open ocean; they would not be likely to alight on the surface of the sea, so that any dirt on their feet would not be washed off; and when gaining the land they would be sure to fly to their natural fresh-water haunts. i do not believe," says darwin, "that botanists are aware how charged the mud of ponds is with seeds; i have tried several little experiments, but will here only give the most striking case. i took in february three tablespoonfuls of mud from three different points, beneath water, on the edge of a little pond; this mud when dried weighed only six and three-quarter ounces. i kept it covered up in my studio for six months, pulling up and counting each plant as it grew. the plants were of many kinds, and were altogether five hundred and thirty-seven in number; and yet the viscid mud was all contained in a breakfast cup. considering these facts, i think it would be an inexplicable circumstance if water birds did not transport plants to unstocked ponds and streams, situate at very distant points. the same agency may have come into play with the eggs of some of the smaller fresh-water animals." the manner in which the ubiquitous brown rat obtrudes itself everywhere is only paralleled by the like qualities in the british sparrow. our weeds have migrated to the colonies, and certain kinds have almost overrun them. in new zealand the common dock is now widely disseminated, the original seeds being sold by a lively british tar as those of the tobacco plant. the end. printed by nichols and sons, 25, parliament street westminster. "a pleasant little book for anglers and lovers of nature."--saturday review. british sporting fishes. by john watson. crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. from the globe. "the papers it contains treat of salmon, trout, grayling, pike, perch, and most fresh-water fish. there are pleasant chapters on silvers streams and good practical essays on the depopulation and restocking of trout streams, water and fish poachers, ephemerã¦, and above all a useful article on fish stews." from the speaker. "naturalists as well as anglers will find mr. watson's remarks about 'british sporting fishes' quite worthy of their attention. the book is written by a man who has mastered the wily tactics of salmon, pike, trout, perch, carp, and bream, and knows how to bait a tempting hook for each and all of them. the 'small fry' of lake and river are not forgotten by mr. watson, and two of the most interesting chapters in a lively volume are devoted to roach, minnow, stickleback and other little fish." from the saturday review. "a pleasant little book for anglers and lovers of nature is mr. john watson's 'british sporting fishes.' all fresh-water fish that afford any sort of sport are sporting fish according to the author, who finds room in his delightful sketches of the life-histories and habitats of fish for the smallest of small fry, the roach, the minnow, the stickleback, and so forth. mr. watson's sketches follow a downward scale, from salmon and trout to the small fry of the pool and the brook, and all are characterized by remarkable delicacy of observation." from the morning post. "'sketches of british sporting fishes,' by john watson, afford pleasant reading interspersed with information, the result of practical experience and close observation. nor does the author confine his remarks entirely to fish, but touches on such connected subjects as fish poaching, some of the tricks of which he describes. the chapter on grayling is written in the same easy and unpretentious style as the rest of the book." the poacher, by captain marryat. ________________________________________________________________________ captain frederick marryat was born july 10 1792, and died august 8 1848. he retired from the british navy in 1828 in order to devote himself to writing. in the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which are among the very best of english literature, and some of which are still in print. marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in his stories. he says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, he never knew what he was going to write. he certainly was a literary genius. "the poacher" was published in 1841, the eighteenth book to flow from marryat's pen. this e-text was transcribed in 1998 by nick hodson, and was reformatted in 2003, and again in 2005. ________________________________________________________________________ the poacher, by captain frederick marryat. chapter one. in which there is more ale than argument. it was on a blusterous windy night in the early part of november, 1812, that three men were on the high road near to the little village of grassford, in the south of devonshire. the moon was nearly at the full, but the wild scud, and occasionally the more opaque clouds, passed over in such rapid succession, that it was rarely, and but for a moment or two, that the landscape was thrown into light and shadow; and the wind, which was keen and piercing, bent and waved the leafless branches of the trees which were ranged along the hedgerows, between which the road had been formed. the three individuals to whom we have referred appeared all of them to have been indulging too freely in the ale which was sold at the public-house about half a mile from the village, and from which they had just departed. two of them, however, comparatively speaking, sober, were assisting home, by their _joint_ efforts, the third, who, supported between them, could with difficulty use his legs. thus did they continue on; the two swayed first on the one side of the road, and then on the other, by the weight of the third, whom they almost carried between them. at last they arrived at a bridge built over one of those impetuous streams so common in the county, when, as if by mutual understanding, for it was without speaking, the two more sober deposited the body of the third against the parapet of the bridge, and then for some time were silently occupied in recovering their breath. one of the two who remained leaning on the parapet by the side of their almost lifeless companion was a man of about forty years of age, tall and slender, dressed in a worn-out black coat, and a pair of trousers much too short for him, the original colour of which it would have been difficult to have surmised; a sort of clerical hat, equally the worse for wear, was on his head. although his habiliments were mean, still there was something about his appearance which told of better days, and of having moved in a different sphere in society; and such had been the case. some years before he had been the head of a grammar-school, with a comfortable income; but a habit of drinking had been his ruin, and he was now the preceptor of the village of grassford, and gained his livelihood by instructing the children of the cottagers for the small modicum of twopence a head per week. this unfortunate propensity to liquor remained with him and he no sooner received his weekly stipend than he hastened to drown his cares, and the recollection of his former position, at the ale-house which they had just quitted. the second personage whom we shall introduce was not of a corresponding height with the other: he was broad, square-chested, and short-dressed in knee-breeches, leggings, and laced boots--his coat being of a thick fustian, and cut short like a shooting-jacket: his profession was that of a pedlar. "it's odd to me," said the pedlar, at last breaking silence, as he looked down upon the drunken man who lay at his feet, "why ale should take a man off his legs; they say that liquor gets into the head, not the feet." "well," replied the schoolmaster, who was much more inebriated than the pedlar, "there's argument even in that and, you see, the perpendicular deviation must arise from the head being too heavy, that's clear; and then, you see, the feet, from the centre of gravity being destroyed, become too light; and if you put that and that together, why, a man can't stand. you understand my demonstration?" "it was heavy wet, that ale, and so i suppose it's all right," replied the pedlar; "but still ale a'n't poured into the head or into the feet of a man, but into the internals, which are right in the middle of a man; so, how do you make out your case, mr furness?" "why, byres, you talk of the residuum." "never said a word about it; and, as i stand here, never even heard the word before." "perhaps not: the residuum is, you see, byres, what is left." "if that's residgium, i didn't mean to say a word about it; there was none left, for you drained the pot." "good, byres; you have never been to college, that's clear. now, observe, when a man pours down into his stomach a certain quantity of liquor, the spirituous or lighter part ascends to his head, and that makes his head heavy. do you understand?" "no; what's light can't make things heavy." "can't it?--you know nothing about the matter. have you not a proof before you?" replied the schoolmaster, reeling, and catching hold of the parapet for support; "look at that unfortunate man, who has yielded to excess." "very true; i see that he's drunk, but i want to know how it is that he got drunk?" "by drinking." "that i knew before." "then why ask any more questions? had we not better proceed, and take him home to his expectant and unhappy wife? 'tis a sad, sad thing, that a man should `put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains.'" "half a pint will do that with rushbrook," replied the pedlar; "they say that he was wounded on his head, and that half his brains are gone already, and that's why he has a pension." "yes, seventeen pounds a year; paid quarterly, without deduction, and only to walk four miles to get it," replied furness; "yet how misplaced is the liberality on the part of the government. does he work? no; he does nothing but drink and lie in bed all day, while i must be up early and remain late, teaching the young idea at twopence per week. friend byres, `mercy is not itself which oft looks so.' now, it is my opinion that it would be a kindness to this poor wretch if we were to toss him, as he now is, over the bridge into the rushing stream; it would end all his troubles." "and save us the trouble of getting him home," replied byres, who determined to humour his more inebriated companion. "well, mr furness, i've no objection. why should he live? is he not a sinecurist--one of the locusts who fatten on the sweat and blood of the people, as the sunday paper says? don't you remember my reading it this morning?" "very true, master byres." "what d'ye say, then?--shall we over with him?" "we must think a little," replied the schoolmaster, who put his hand up to his chin, and remained silent for a minute or two. "no," resumed he, at last; "on second thoughts i cannot do it. he halves his beer with me. no pension--no beer; that's a self-evident proposition and conclusion. it were ingratitude on my part, and i cannot consent to your proposal," continued the schoolmaster; "nay, more, i will defend him against your murderous intentions to the very last." "why, master furness, you must be somewhat the worse for liquor yourself: it was your proposal to throw him over the bridge, not mine." "take care what you say," replied the schoolmaster; "would you accuse me of murder, or intent to murder?" "no, not by no means--only you proposed heaving him over the bridge: i will say that." "friend byres, it's my opinion you'll say anything but your prayers; but in your present state i overlook it. let us go on, or i shall have two men to carry home instead of one. come, now, take one of his arms, while i take the other, and raise him up. it is but a quarter of a mile to the cottage." byres, who, as we observed, was by far the more sober of the two, did not think it worth his while to reply to the pedagogue. after a few staggers on the part of the latter, their comrade was raised up and led away between them. the drunken man appeared to be so far aware of what was going on that he moved his legs mechanically, and in a short time they arrived at the cottage-door, which the pedagogue struck with his fist so as to make it rattle on its hinges. the door was opened by a tall, handsome woman, holding a candle in her hand. "i thought so," said she, shaking her head. "the old story: now he will be ill all night, and not get up till noon." "what a weary life it is with a drunken husband. bring him and thank you kindly for your trouble." "it has been hard work and hot work," observed the schoolmaster, sitting down in a chair, after they had placed their comrade on the bed. "indeed, and it must be," replied the wife. "will you have a drop of small beer, mr furness?" "yes, if you please, and so will mr byres, too. what a pity it is your good man will not keep to small beer." "yes, indeed," replied the wife, who went into the back premises, and soon returned with a quart mug of beer. the schoolmaster emptied half the mug, and then handed it to the pedlar. "and my little friend joey, fast asleep, i'll warrant!" "yes, poor child, and so should i have been by this time; the clock has gone twelve." "well, mrs rushbrook, i wish you a good night. come, mr byres, mrs rushbrook must want to be in bed." "good night, mr furness, and good night, sir, and many thanks." the schoolmaster and pedlar quitted the cottage. mrs rushbrook, after having watched them for a minute, carefully closed the door. "they're gone now," said she, as she turned to her husband. what would have created much astonishment could anybody else have witnessed it, as soon as his wife had spoken, rushbrook immediately sprang upon his feet, a fine-looking man, six feet in height, very erect in his bearing,--and proved to be perfectly sober. "jane, my dear," said he, "there never was such a night: but i must be quick, and lose no time. is my gun ready?" "everything's ready; joey is lying down on his bed, but all ready dressed, and he awakes in a minute." "call him, then, for there is no time to lose. that drunken fool, furness, proposed throwing me over the bridge. it was lucky for them that they did not try it, or i should have been obliged to settle them both, that they might tell no tales. where's mum?" "in the wash-house. i'll bring him and joey directly." the wife left the room, while rushbrook took down his gun and ammunition, and prepared himself for his expedition. in a minute or two a shepherd's dog, which had been released from the wash-house, made his appearance, and quietly lay down close to his master's feet; it was soon followed by mrs rushbrook, accompanied by joey, a thin, meagre-looking boy, of about twelve years old, very small for his age, but apparently as active as a cat, and with energy corresponding. no one would have thought he had been roused from his sleep; there was no yawning or weariness of motion--on the contrary, his large eye was as bright as an eagle's, as he quietly, although quickly, provided himself with a sack, which he threw over his shoulders, and a coil of line, which he held in his hand, waiting until his father was ready to start. the wife put out the lights, softly opened the cottage-door, looked well round, and then returned to her husband, who, giving a low whistle, as a summons to joey and the dog, walked out of the door. not a word was spoken; the door was softly shut to; and the trio crept stealthily away. chapter two. in which the hero of the tale is formally introduced. before we proceed with our narrative, perhaps it will be better to explain what may appear very strange to the reader. joseph rushbrook, who has just left the cottage with his son and his dog, was born in the village in which he was then residing. during his younger days, some forty years previous to his present introduction to the reader, the law was not so severe, or the measures taken against poachers so strong as they were at the period of which we write. in his youth he had been very fond of carrying a gun--as his father had been before him--but he never was discovered; and after having poached for many years, and gained a perfect knowledge of the country for miles round, he was persuaded, in a fit of semi-intoxication, at a neighbouring fair, to enlist in a marching regiment. he had not been more than three months at the depot when he was ordered out to india, where he remained eleven years before he was recalled. he had scarcely been six months in england, when the exigency of the war demanded the services of the regiment in the mediterranean, where he remained for twelve years, and having received a severe wound in the head, he was then pensioned off and discharged. he resolved to return to his native village, and settle down quietly, hoping by moderate labour and his pension, to gain a comfortable living. on his return he was hardly known; many had emigrated to a foreign clime; many had been transported for offences against the laws, particularly for the offence of poaching: and as most of his former allies had been so employed, he found himself almost a stranger where he expected to meet with friends. the property also about the village had changed hands. people recollected squire so-and-so, and the baronet, but now their lands were held by wealthy manufacturers or retired merchants. all was new to joe rushbrook, and he felt himself anywhere but at home. jane ashley, a very beautiful young woman, who was in service at the hall, the mansion appertaining to the adjacent property, and the daughter of one of his earliest friends, who had been transported for poaching, was almost the only one who could talk to him after his absence of twenty-four years; not that she knew the people at the time, for she was then an infant, but she had grown up with them after joe had left, and could narrate anecdotes of them, and what had been their eventual destinies. jane having been the daughter of a man who had been transported for poaching, was to joe a sort of recommendation, and it ended in his taking her for his wife. they had not been long settled in their cottage before joe's former propensities returned; in fact, he could not be idle, he had carried a musket too long, and had lived such a life of excitement in the service of his country, that he found it impossible to exist without shooting at something. all his former love of poaching came strong upon him, and his wife, so far from checking him, encouraged him in his feelings. the consequence was, that two years after his marriage, joe rushbrook was the most determined poacher in the county. although often suspected, he had never been detected; one great cause of this was his appearing to be such a drunkard, a plan hit upon by his wife, who had observed that drunken men were not suspected of being poachers. this scheme had therefore been hit upon, and very successfully; for proving before a magistrate that a man was carried home dead drunk and speechless at midnight, was quite as good an _alibi_ as could be brought forward. joe rushbrook had, therefore, the credit of being a worthless drunken fellow, who lived upon his pension and what his wife could earn; but no one had an idea that he was not only earning his livelihood, but laying by money from his successful night labours. not that joe did not like a drop occasionally--on the contrary, he would sometimes drink freely; but, generally speaking, the wounds in his head were complained of; and he would, if the wind was fresh and set in the right quarter, contrive to be carried home on the night in which he had most work to do. such was the case, as we have represented in the first chapter. little joey, who, as the reader may anticipate, will be our future hero, was born the first year after marriage, and was their only child. he was a quiet, thoughtful, reflective boy for his years, and had imbibed his father's love of walking out on a dark night to an extraordinary degree: it was strange to see how much prudence there was, mingled with the love of adventure, in this lad. true it is, his father had trained him early, first to examine the snares and conceal the game, which a little shrimp like joey could do, without being suspected to be otherwise employed than in picking blackberries. before he was seven years old, joey could set a springe as well as his father, and was well versed in all the mystery and art of unlawful taking of game. indeed, he was very valuable to his father, and could do what his father could not have ventured upon without exciting suspicion. it was, perhaps, from his constant vigils, that the little boy was so small in size; at all events, his diminutive size was the cause of there being no suspicion attached to him. joey went very regularly to the day-school of mr furness; and although often up the best part of the night, he was one of the best and most diligent of the scholars. no one could have supposed that the little fair-haired, quiet-looking boy, who was so busy with his books or his writing, could have been out half the night on a perilous excursion, for such it was at the time we are speaking of. it need hardly be observed that joey had learned one important lesson, which was to be _silent_; not even _mum_, the dog, who could not speak, was more secret or more faithful. it is astonishing how much the nature and disposition of a child may be altered by early tuition. let a child be always with its nurse, even under the guidance of a mother, regularly brought up as children usually are, and it will continue to be a child, and even childish, after childhood is gone. but take the same child, put it by degrees in situations of peril, requiring thought and observation beyond its years, accustom it to nightly vigils, and to watching, and to hold its tongue, and it is astonishing how the mind of that child, however much its body may suffer, will develop itself so as to meet the demand upon it. thus it is with lads that are sent early to sea, and thus it was with little joey. he was a man in some points, although a child in others. he would play with his companions, laugh as loudly as the others, but still he would never breathe a hint of what was his father's employment. he went to church every sunday, as did his father and mother; for they considered that poaching was no crime, although punished as such by the laws; and he, of course, considered it no crime, as he only did what his father and mother wished. let it not be thought, therefore, that the morals of our little hero were affected by his father's profession, for such was not the case. having entered into this necessary explanation, we will now proceed. no band of north american indians could have observed a better trail than that kept by our little party. rushbrook walked first, followed by our hero and the dog mum. not a word was spoken; they continued their route over grass-lands and ploughed fields, keeping in the shade of the hedgerows: if rushbrook stopped for a while to reconnoitre, so did joey, and so did mum at their relative distances, until the march was resumed. for three miles and a half did they thus continue, until they arrived at a thick cover. the wind whistled through the branches of the bare trees, chiefly oak and ash; the cold, damp fog was now stationary, and shrouded them as they proceeded cautiously by the beaten track in the cover, until they had passed through it, and arrived on the other side, where the cottage of a gamekeeper was situated. a feeble light was burning, and shone through the diamond-paned windows. rushbrook walked out clear of the cover, and held up his hand to ascertain precisely the direction of the wind. having satisfied himself; he retreated into the cover, in a direction so as to be exactly to leeward of the keeper's house, that the noise of the report of his gun might not be heard. having cleared the hedge, he lowered his gun, so as to bring the barrel within two or three inches of the ground, and walked slowly and cautiously through the brushwood, followed, as before, by joey and mum. after about a quarter of a mile's walk, a rattling of metal was heard, and they stopped short; it was the barrel of the fowling-piece which had brushed one of the wires attached to a spring-gun, set for the benefit of poachers. rushbrook lifted up his left hand, as a sign to joey not to move; and following the wire, by continually rattling his barrel against it, he eventually arrived at the gun itself; opened the pan, threw out all the priming, leaving it with the pan open, so that it could not go off; in case they fell in with another of the wires. rushbrook then proceeded to business, for he well knew that the gun would be set where the pheasants were most accustomed to roost; he put a small charge of powder in his fowling-piece, that, being so near, he might not shatter the birds, and because the noise of the report would be much less; walking under an oak-tree he soon discovered the round black masses which the bodies of the roosting pheasants presented between him and the sky, and raising his piece, he fired; a heavy bound on the earth near his feet followed the discharge; joey then slipped forward and put the pheasant into his bag; another and another shot, and every shot brought an increase to joey's load. seventeen were already in it when mum gave a low growl. this was the signal for people being near. rushbrook snapped his finger; the dog came forward to his side, and stood motionless, with ears and tail erect. in a minute's time was heard the rustling of branches as the party forced their way through the underwood. rushbrook stood still, waiting the signal from mum, for the dog had been taught, if the parties advancing had another dog with them, always to raise his fore-feet up to rushbrook's knees, but not otherwise; mum made no such sign, and then rushbrook lay down in the brushwood, his motions being closely followed by his son and his dog. voices in whispers were now heard, and the forms of two men with guns were to be seen not four yards from where they were lying. "somewhere about here, i'll swear," said one. "yes, i think so; but it may be further on--the wind has brought down the sound." "very true, let's follow them, and they may fall back upon the spring-gun." the parties then advanced into the cover, and were soon out of sight; after a time rushbrook held his ear to the wind, and, satisfied that all was safe, moved homewards, and arrived without further adventure, having relieved joey of the heavy sack as soon as they were in the open fields. at three o'clock in the morning, he tapped at the back door of the cottage. jane opened it, and the spoils of the night having been put away in a secret place, they were all soon in bed and fast asleep. chapter three. train a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it. it is an old saying, that "if there were no receivers there would be no thieves," and it would have been of very little use for rushbrook to take the game if he had not had the means of disposing of it. in this point, byres, the pedlar, was a valuable accessory. byres was a radical knave, who did not admire hard work. at first he took up the profession of bricklayer's labourer, one that is of a nature only affording occasional work and moderate wages. he did this that he might apply to the parish for relief; and do nothing for the major portion of the year. but even a few months' work would not suit him, and subsequently he gained his sustenance by carrying on his head a large basket of crockery, and disposing of his wares among the cottagers. at last he took out a pedlar's license--perhaps one of the most dangerous permits ever allowed by a government, and which has been the cause of much of the ill-will and discontent fomented among the lower classes. latterly, the cheapness of printing and easiness of circulation have rendered the profession of less consequence: twenty years ago the village ale-houses were not provided with newspapers; it was an expense never thought of; the men went to drink their beer and talk over the news of the vicinity, and if there was a disturbance in any other portion of the united kingdom, the fact was only gained by rumour, and that vaguely and long after it had taken place. but when the pedlar byres made his appearance, which he at last did, weekly or oftener, as it might happen, there was a great change; he was the party who supplied information, and, in consequence, he was always welcome, and looked upon as an oracle; the best seat near the fire was reserved for him, and having deposited his pack upon the table or in a corner, he would then produce the _propeller_, or some other publication full of treason and blasphemy, and read it aloud for the benefit of the labourers assembled. a few months were more than sufficient to produce the most serious effects: men who had worked cheerfully through the day, and retired to bed satisfied with their lot, and thankful that work was to be obtained, now remained at the public-house, canvassing the conduct of government, and, leaving their resort, satisfied in their own minds that they were ill-used, harshly treated, and in bitter bondage. if they met their superiors, those very parties to whom they were indebted for employment, there was no respect shown to them as formerly or, if so, it was sullen and forced acknowledgement. the church was gradually deserted--the appearance of the pastor was no longer a signal for every hat to be lifted from the head; on the contrary, boys of sixteen or seventeen years of age would lean against the church, or the walls of the churchyard, with their hands in both pockets, and a sort of leer upon their faces, as though they defied the pastor on his appearance--and there would they remain outside during the service, meeting, unquailed and without blushing, his eyes, cast upon them as he came out again. such was the state of things in the village of grassford in one year after the pedlar had added it to his continual rounds--and byres was a great favourite, for he procured for the women what they commissioned him to obtain, supplied the girls with ribbons and gewgaws, and trusted to a considerable extent. his reappearance was always anxiously looked for; he lived scot-free at the public-house, for he brought so much custom, and was the occasion of the drinking of so much ale, that the landlord considered his coming as a godsend. his box of ware was well supplied in the sunnier months, for the fine weather was the time for the wearing of gay ribbons; but in the winter he travelled more to receive orders, or to carry away the game supplied to him by the poachers, with whom he was in league. had his box been examined during the shooting season, it would have been found loaded with pheasants, not with trinkets and ribbons. it need hardly be observed after this that byres was the party who took off the hands of rushbrook all the game which he procured, and which he had notice to call for before daylight, generally the _second_ morning after it had been obtained; for rushbrook was too cautious to trust byres with his secret, that of never going out of a night without having previously pretended intoxication, and having suffered himself to be led or carried home. our readers will acknowledge that little joey was placed in a very dangerous position; it is true that he was not aware that he was doing wrong in assisting his father; nevertheless, being a reflective boy, it did sometimes occur to him that it was odd that what was right should be done so secretly; and he attempted to make out how it was that the birds that flew about everywhere, and appeared to belong to every one, might not be shot in the open day. he knew that the laws forbade it; but he inquired of himself why such laws should be. joey had heard but one side of the question, and was therefore puzzled. it was fortunate for him that the pastor of the parish, although he did not reside in it, did at least once a week call in at mr f's school, and examine the boys. mr furness, who was always sober during the school hours, was very proud of these visits, and used to point out little joey as his most promising scholar. this induced the pastor to take more immediate notice of our hero, and the commendation which he received, and the advice that was bestowed upon him, was probably the great cause why joey did attend assiduously to his lessons, which his otherwise vagrant life would have disinclined him to do; and also kept a character for honesty and good principle, which he really deserved. indeed, his father and mother, setting aside poaching, and the secrecy resorted to in consequence, were by no means bad examples in the ordinary course of life; they did to their neighbours as they would be done by, were fair and honest in their dealings, and invariably inculcated probity and a regard to truth on their son. this may appear anomalous to many of our readers, but there are many strange anomalies in this world. it may therefore be stated in a very few words, that although our little hero had every chance of eventually following the road to ruin, yet, up to the present time, he had not entered it. such was the life led by little joey for three years subsequent to our introduction of him to the reader; every day he became more useful to his father; latterly he had not attended school but in the forenoon, for, as we have before observed, joey could, from his diminutive size and unsuspicious appearance, do much that his father would not have ventured to attempt. he was as well versed in the art of snaring as his father, and sauntering like a child about the fields and hedge-rows, would examine his nooses, take out the game, and hide it till he could bring it home. sometimes he would go out at night attended only by mum, and the dog would invariably give him mute notice, by simply standing with his ears and tail erect, when the keepers had discovered the snares, and were lying in wait for the poacher, to lay hold of him when he came to ascertain his success. even in such a case, joey very often would not retreat, but, crawling on his stomach, would arrive at the snare, and take out the animal without the keepers perceiving him; for their eyes were invariably directed to the horizon, watching the appearance of some stout figure of a man, while joey crawled along, bearing away the prize unseen. at other times, joey would reap a rich harvest in the broad day, by means of his favourite game-cock. having put on the animal his steel spurs, he would plunge into the thickest of the cover, and, selecting some small spot of cleared ground for the combat, he would throw down his gallant bird, and conceal himself in the brushwood; the game-cock would immediately crow, and his challenge was immediately answered by the pugnacious male pheasant, who flew down to meet him: the combat was short, for the pheasant was soon pierced by the sharp steel of his adversary; and as one antagonist fell dead, again would the game-cock crow, and his challenge be accepted by another. in an hour or two the small arena was a field of blood joey would creep forward, put his victorious cock into his bag together with many dead adversaries, and watch an opportunity for a safe retreat. such was the employment of our hero; and although suspicion had often been attached to his father, none had an idea that there had been a violation of the laws on the part of the son, when an event took place which changed our hero's destiny. chapter four. in which the author has endeavoured, with all his power, to suit the present taste of the public. we have said that byres was the receiver of the game obtained by rushbrook. it so happened, that in these accounts byres had not adhered to his duty towards his neighbour; in fact, he attempted to over-reach, but without success, and from that time byres became rushbrook's determined, but secret, enemy. some months had passed since their disagreement, and there was a mutual mistrust (as both men were equally revengeful in their tempers), when they happened to meet late on a saturday night at the ale-house, which was their usual resort. furness the schoolmaster was there; he and many others had already drunk too much; all were boisterous and noisy. a few of the wives of those drinking were waiting patiently and sorrowfully outside, their arms folded in their aprons as a defence against the cold, watching for their husbands to come out, that they might coax them home before the major part of the week's earnings had been spent in liquor. byres had the paper in his hand--he had taken it from the schoolmaster, who was too far gone to read it, and was declaiming loudly against all governments, monarchy, and laws when a stranger entered the tap-room where they were all assembled. rushbrook was at the time sitting down, intending quietly to take a pint and walk home, as he had too much respect for the sabbath to follow his profession of poacher on the morning of that day: he did not intend, therefore, to resort to his usual custom of pretending to be intoxicated; but when the stranger came in, to his great surprise he observed a glance of recognition between him and byres, after which they appeared as if they were perfect strangers. rushbrook watched them carefully, but so as not to let them perceive he was so doing, when a beckon from the stranger to byres was again made. byres continued to read the paper and to harangue, but at the same time took an opportunity of making a signal in reply. there was something in the stranger's appearance which told rushbrook that he was employed as a keeper, or something in that way, for we often single out our enemies by instinct. that there was mischief in the wind rushbrook felt sure, and his heart misgave him the more so, as occasionally the eyes of both were turned towards him. after a little reflection, rushbrook determined to feign intoxication, as he had so often done before: he called for another pint, for some time talked very loud, and at last laid his head on the table; after a time he lifted it up again, drank more, and then fell back on the bench. by degrees the company thinned, until there was no one left but the schoolmaster, the pedlar, and the stranger. the schoolmaster, as usual, offered to assist the pedlar in helping rushbrook to his cottage; but byres replied that he was busy, and that he need not wait for rushbrook; the friend he had with him would assist him in taking home the drunken man. the schoolmaster reeled home, leaving the two together. they sat down on the bench, not far from rushbrook, who appeared to them to be in the last stage of inebriety. their conversation was easily overheard. the pedlar stated that he had watched several nights, but never could find when rushbrook left his cottage, but he had traced the boy more than once; that r had promised to have game ready for him on tuesday, and would go out on monday night for it. in short, rushbrook discovered that byres was about to betray him to the man, whom, in the course of their conversation, he found out to be a game-keeper newly hired by the lord of the manor. after a while they broke up, byres having promised to join the keeper in his expedition, and to assist in securing his former ally. having made these arrangements, they then took hold of rushbrook by the arms, and, shaking him to rouse him as much as they could, they led him home to the cottage, and left him in charge of his wife. as soon as the door was closed, rushbrook's long-repressed anger could no longer be restrained: he started on his feet, and striking his fist on the table so as to terrify his wife, swore that the pedlar should pay dear for his peaching. upon his wife's demanding an explanation, rushbrook, in a few hurried sentences, explained the whole. jane, however she might agree with him in his indignation, like all women, shuddered at the thought of shedding blood. she persuaded her husband to go to bed. he consented; but he slept not: he had but one feeling, which was vengeance towards the traitor. when revenge enters into the breast of a man who has lived peaceably at home, fiercely as he may be impelled by the passion, he stops short at the idea of shedding blood. but when a man who had, like rushbrook, served so long in the army, witnessed such scenes of carnage, and so often passed his bayonet through his adversary's body, is roused up by this fatal passion, the death of a fellow-creature becomes a matter of indifference, provided he can gratify his feelings. thus it was with rushbrook, who, before he rose on the morning of that sabbath in which, had he gone to church, he could have so often requested his trespasses might be forgiven, as he "forgave them who trespassed against him," had made up his mind that nothing short of the pedlar's death would satisfy him. at breakfast he appeared to listen to his wife's entreaties, and promised to do the pedlar no harm; and told her that, instead of going out on the monday night, as he had promised, he should go out on that very night, and by that means evade the snare laid for him. jane persuaded him not to go out at all; but this rushbrook would not consent to. he told her that he was determined to show them that he was not to be driven off his beat, and would make byres believe on tuesday night that he had been out on the monday night. rushbrook's object was to have a meeting with byres, if possible, alone, to tax him with his treachery, and then to take summary vengeance. aware that byres slept at the ale-house, he went down there a little before dark, and told him that he intended going out on that night; that it would be better if, instead of coming on tuesday, he were to meet him at the corner of one of the covers, which he described, at an hour agreed upon, when he would make over to him the game which he might have procured. byres, who saw in this an excellent method of trapping rushbrook, consented to it, intending to inform the keeper, so that he should meet rushbrook. the time of meeting was arranged for two o'clock in the morning. rushbrook was certain that byres would leave the ale-house an hour or two before the time proposed, which would be more than sufficient for his giving information to the keeper. he therefore remained quietly at home till twelve o'clock, when he loaded his gun, and went out without joey or the dog. his wife perceiving this, was convinced that he had not gone out with the intention to poach, but was pursuing his scheme of revenge. she watched him after he left the cottage, and observed that he had gone down in the direction of the ale-house; and she was afraid that there would be mischief between him and byres, and she wakened joey, desiring him to follow and watch his father, and do all he could to prevent it. her communication was made in such a hurried manner, that it was difficult for joey to know what he was to do, except to watch his father's motions, and see what took place. this joey perfectly understood; and he was off in an instant, followed, as usual, by mum, and taking with him his sack. our hero crept softly down the pathway, in the direction of the ale-house. the night was dark, for the moon did not rise till two or three hours before the morning broke, and it was bitterly cold: but to darkness and cold joey had been accustomed, and although not seen himself; there was no object could move without being scanned by his clear vision. he gained a hedge close to the ale-house. mum wanted to go on, by which joey knew that his father must be lurking somewhere near to him: he pressed the dog down with his hand, crouched himself; and watched. in a few minutes a dark figure was perceived by joey to emerge from the ale-house, and walk hastily over a turnip-field behind the premises: it had gained about half over, when another form, which joey recognised as his father's, stealthily followed after the first. joey waited a little time, and was then, with mum, on the steps of both; for a mile and a half each party kept at their relative distances, until they came near a furze bottom, which was about six hundred yards from the cover; then the steps of rushbrook were quickened, and those of joey in proportion; the consequence was, that the three parties rapidly neared each other. byres for it was he who had quitted the ale-house--walked along leisurely, having no suspicion that he was followed. rushbrook was now within fifteen yards of the pedlar, and joey at even less distance from his father, when he heard the lock of his father's gun click as he cocked it. "father," said joey, not over loud, "don't--" "who's there?" cried the pedlar, turning round. the only reply was the flash and report of the gun; and the pedlar dropped among the furze. "oh father--father!--what have you done?" exclaimed joey, coming up to him. "you here, joey!" said rushbrook. "why are you here?" "mother sent me," replied joey. "to be evidence against me," replied his father, in wrath. "oh no!--to stop you. what have you done, father?" "what i almost wish i had not done now," replied he, mournfully; "but it is done, and--" "and what, father?" "i am a murderer, i suppose," replied rushbrook. "he would have peached, joey--have had me transported, to work in chains for the rest of my days, merely for taking a few pheasants. let us go home;" but rushbrook did not move, although he proposed so doing. he leant upon his gun, with his eyes fixed in the direction where byres had fallen. joey stood by him--for nearly ten minutes not a word was spoken. at last rushbrook said-"joey, my boy, i've killed many a man in my time, and i have thought nothing of it; i slept as sound as ever the next night. but then, you see, i was a soldier, and it was my trade, and i could look on the man i had killed without feeling sorrow or shame; but i can't look upon this man, joey. he was my enemy; but--i've murdered him--i feel it now. go up to him, boy--you are not afraid to meet him--and see if he be dead." joey, although generally speaking fear was a stranger to him, did, however, feel afraid; his hands had often been dyed with the blood of a hare or of a bird, but he had not yet seen death in his fellow-creatures. he advanced slowly and tremulously through the dark towards the furze-bush in which the body laid; mum followed, raising first one paw and pausing, then the other, and as they came to the body, the dog raised his head and gave such a mournful howl, that it induced our hero to start back again. after a time joey recovered himself; and again advanced to the body. he leant over it, he could distinguish but the form; he listened, and not the slightest breathing was to be heard; he whispered the pedlar's name, but there was no reply; he put his hand upon his breast, and removed it reeking with warm blood. "father, he must be dead, quite dead," whispered joey, who returned trembling. "what shall we do?" "we must go home," replied rushbrook; "this is a bad night's work;" and, without exchanging another word until their arrival, rushbrook and joey proceeded back to the cottage, followed by mum. chapter five. the sins of the father are visited upon the child. jane had remained in a state of great anxiety during her husband's absence, watching and listening to every sound; every five minutes raising the latch of the door, and looking out, hoping to see him return. as the time went on, her alarm increased; she laid her head down on the table and wept; she could find no consolation, no alleviation of her anxiety; she dropped down on her knees and prayed. she was still appealing to the most high, when a blow on the door announced her husband's return. there was a sulken gloom over his countenance as he entered: he threw his gun carelessly on one side, so that it fell, and rattled against the paved floor; and this one act was to her ominous of evil. he sat down without speaking; falling back in the chair, and lifting his eyes up to the rafters above, he appeared to be in deep thought, and unconscious of her presence. "what has happened?" inquired his wife, trembling as she laid her hand on his shoulder. "don't speak to me now," was the reply. "joey," said the frightened woman in a whisper, "what has he done?" joey answered not, but raised his hand, red with the blood which was now dried upon it. jane uttered a faint cry, dropped on her knees, and covered her face, while joey walked into the back kitchen, and busied himself in removing the traces of the dark deed. a quarter of an hour had elapsed--joey had returned, and taken his seat upon his low stool, and not a word had been exchanged. there certainly is a foretaste of the future punishment which awaits crime; for how dreadful were the feelings of those who were now sitting down in the cottage! rushbrook was evidently stupefied from excess of feeling; first, the strong excitement which had urged him to the deed; and now from the reaction the prostration of mental power which had succeeded it. jane dreaded the present and the future--whichever way she turned her eyes the gibbet was before her--the clanking of chains in her ears; in her vision of the future, scorn, misery, and remorse--she felt only for her husband. joey, poor boy, he felt for both. even the dog showed, as he looked up into joey's face, that he was aware that a foul deed had been done. the silence which it appeared none would venture to break, was at last dissolved by the clock of the village church solemnly striking two. they all started up--it was a warning--it reminded them of the bell tolling for the dead--of time and of eternity; but time present quickly effaced for the moment other ideas; yes, it was time to act; in four hours more it would be daylight, and the blood of the murdered man would appeal to his fellow-men for vengeance. the sun would light them to the deed of darkness--the body would be brought home--the magistrates would assemble--and who would be the party suspected? "merciful heaven!" exclaimed jane, "what can be done?" "there is no proof;" muttered rushbrook. "yes, there is," observed joey, "i left my bag there, when i stooped down to--" "silence!" cried rushbrook. "yes," continued he, bitterly, to his wife, "this is your doing; you must send the boy after me, and now there will be evidence against me; i shall owe my death to you." "oh, say not so! say not so!" replied jane, falling down on her knees, and weeping bitterly as she buried her face in his lap; "but there is yet time," cried she, starting up; "joey can go and fetch the bag. you will, joey: won't you, dear? you are not afraid--you are innocent." "better leave it where it is, mother," replied joey, calmly. rushbrook looked up at his son with surprise; jane caught him by the arm; she felt convinced the boy had some reason for what he said-probably some plan that would ward off suspicion--yet how could that be, it was evidence against them, and after looking earnestly at the boy's face, she dropped his arm. "why so, joey?" said she, with apparent calmness. "because," replied joey, "i have been thinking about it all this time; i am innocent, and therefore i do not mind if they suppose me guilty. the bag is known to be mine--the gun i must throw into a ditch two fields off. you must give me some money, if you have any; if not, i must go without it; but there is no time to be lost. i must be off and away from here in ten minutes; to-morrow ask every one if they have seen or heard of me, because i have left the house some time during the night. i shall have a good start before that; besides, they may not find the pedlar for a day or two, perhaps; at all events, not till some time after i am gone; and then, you see, mother, the bag which is found by him, and the gun in the ditch, will make them think it is me who killed him; but they will not be able to make out whether i killed him by accident, and ran away from fear, or whether i did it on purpose. so now, mother, that's my plan, for it will save father." "and i shall never see you again, my child!" replied his mother. "that's as may be. you may go away from here after a time, mother, when the thing has blown over. come, mother, there is no time to lose." "rushbrook, what say you--what think you?" said jane to her husband. "why, jane, at all events, the boy must have left us, for, you see, i told byres, and i've no doubt but he told the keeper, if he met him, that i should bring joey with me. i did it to deceive him; and, as sure as i sit here, they will have that boy up as evidence against his father." "to be sure they will," cried joey; "and what could i do? i dare not--i don't think i could tell a lie; and yet i would not peach upon father, neither. what can i do--but be out of the way?" "that's the truth--away with you, then, my boy, and take a father's blessing with you--a guilty father's, it is true; god forgive me. jane give him all the money you have; lose not a moment: quick, woman, quick." and rushbrook appeared to be in agony. jane hastened to the cupboard, opened a small box, and poured the contents into the hands of joey. "farewell, my boy," said rushbrook; "your father thanks you." "heaven preserve you, my child!" cried jane, embracing him, as the tears rained down her cheeks. "you will write--no! you must not--mercy!-mercy!--i shall never see him again!"--and the mother fainted on the floor. the tears rose in our hero's eyes as he beheld the condition of his poor mother. once more he grasped his father's hand; and then, catching up the gun, he went out at the back door, and driving back the dog, who would have followed him, made over the fields as fast as his legs would carry him. chapter six. "the world before him, where to choose." we have no doubt but many of our readers have occasionally, when on a journey, come to where the road divides into two, forking out in different directions, and the road being new to them, have not known which of the two branches they ought to take. this happens, as it often does in a novel, to be our case just now. shall we follow little joey, or his father and mother?--that is the question. we believe that when a road does thus divide, the wider of the two branches is generally selected, as being supposed to be the continuation of the high road. we shall ourselves act upon that principle; and, as the hero of the tale is of more consequence than characters accessory, we shall follow up the fortunes of little joey. as soon as our hero had deposited the gun so that it might be easily discovered by any one passing by, he darted into the high road, and went off with all the speed that he was capable of, and it was not yet light when he found himself at least ten miles from his native village. as the day dawned, he quitted the high road, and took to the fields, keeping a parallel course, so as to still increase the distance; it was not until he had made fifteen miles, that, finding himself exhausted, he sat down to recover himself. from the time that he had left the cottage until the present, joey had had but one overwhelming idea in his head, which was, to escape from pursuit, and by his absence to save his father from suspicion; but now that he had effected that purpose, and was in a state of quiescence, other thoughts rushed upon his mind. first, the scenes of the last few hours presented themselves in rapid array before him--he thought of the dead man, and he looked at his hand to ascertain if the bloody marks had been effaced; and then he thought of his poor mother's state when he quitted the cottage, and the remembrance made him weep bitterly: his own position came next upon him,--a boy, twelve years of age, adrift upon the world--how was he to live--what was he to do? this reminded him that his mother had given him money; he put his hand into his pocket, and pulled it out to ascertain what he possessed. he had 1 pound, 16 shillings; to him a large sum, and it was all in silver. as he had become more composed, he began to reflect upon what he had better do; where should he go to?--london. it was a long way, he knew, but the farther he was away from home, the better. besides, he had heard much of london, and that every one got employment there. joey resolved that he would go to london; he knew that he had taken the right road so far, and having made up his mind, he rose up, and proceeded. he knew that, if possible, he must not allow himself to be seen on the road for a day or two, and he was puzzled how he was to get food, which he already felt would be very acceptable; and then, what account was he to give of himself if questioned? such were the cogitations of our little hero as he wended his way till he came to a river, which was too deep and rapid for him to attempt to ford--he was obliged to return to the high road to cross the bridge. he looked around him before he climbed over the low stone wall, and perceiving nobody, he jumped on the footpath, and proceeded to the bridge, where he suddenly faced an old woman with a basket of brown cakes something like ginger-bread. taken by surprise, and hardly knowing what to say, he inquired if a cart had passed that way. "yes, child, but it must be a good mile ahead of you," said the old woman, "and you must walk fast to overtake it." "i have had no breakfast yet, and i am hungry; do you sell your cakes?" "yes, child, what else do i make them for? three a penny, and cheap too." joey felt in his pocket until he had selected a sixpence, and pulling it out, desired the old woman to give him cakes for it, and, taking the pile in his hand, he set off as fast as he could. as soon as he was out of sight, he again made his way into the fields, and breakfasted upon half his store. he then continued his journey until nearly one o'clock, when, tired out with his exertions, as soon as he had finished the remainder of his cakes, he laid down under a rick of corn, and fell fast asleep, having made twenty miles since he started. in his hurry to escape pursuit, and the many thoughts which occupied his brain, joey had made no observation on the weather; if he had, he probably would have looked after some more secure shelter than the lee-side of a haystack. he slept soundly, and he had not been asleep more than an hour, when the wind changed, and the snow fell fast; nevertheless, joey slept on, and probably never would have awakened more, had it not been that a shepherd and his dog were returning home in the evening, and happened to pass close to the haystack. by this time joey had been covered with a layer of snow, half an inch deep, and had it not been for the dog, who went up to where he laid, and commenced pawing the snow off of him, he would have been passed by undiscovered by the shepherd, who, after some trouble, succeeded in rousing our hero from his torpor, and half dragging, half lifting him, contrived to lead him across one or two fields, until they arrived at a blacksmith's shop, in a small village, before joey could have been said to have recovered his scattered senses. two hours' more sleep and there would have been no further history to give of our little hero. he was dragged to the forge, the fire of which glowed under the force of the bellows, and by degrees, as the warmth reached him, he was restored to self-possession. to the inquiries made as to who he was, and from where he came, he now answered as he had before arranged in his mind. his father and mother were a long way before him; he was going to london, but having been tired, he had fallen asleep under the haystack, and he was afraid that if he went not on to london directly, he never might find his father and mother again. "oh, then," replied the shepherd, "they have gone on before, have they? well, you'll catch them, no doubt." the blacksmith's wife, who had been a party to what was going on, now brought up a little warm ale, which quite re-established joey; and at the same time a waggon drove up to the door, and stopped at the blacksmith's shop. "i must have a shoe tacked on the old mare, my friend," said the driver. "you won't be long?" "not five minutes," replied the smith. "you're going to london?" "yes, sure." "here's a poor boy that has been left behind by his father and mother somehow--you wouldn't mind giving him a lift?" "well, i don't know; i suppose i must be paid for it in the world to come." "and good pay too, if you earn it," observed the blacksmith. "well, it won't make much difference to my eight horses, i expect," said the driver, looking at joey; "so come along, youngster: you may perch yourself on top of the straw, above the goods." "first come in with me, child," said the wife of the blacksmith; "you must have some good victuals to take with you--so, while you shoe the horse, john, i'll see to the boy." the woman put before joey a dish in which were the remains of more than one small joint, and our hero commenced his attack without delay. "have you any money, child?" inquired the woman. joey, who thought she might expect payment, replied, "yes ma'am, i've got a shilling;" and he pulled one out of his pocket and laid it out on the table. "bless the child! what do you take me for, to think that i would touch your money? you are a long way from london yet, although you have got such a chance to get there. do you know where to go when you get there?" "yes, ma'am," replied joey; "i shall get work in the stables, i believe." "well, i dare say that you will; but in the meantime you had better save your shilling--so we'll find something to put this meat and bread up for your journey. are you quite warm now?" "yes, thank'ee, ma'am." joey, who had ceased eating, had another warm at the fire, and in a few minutes, having bade adieu, and giving his thanks to the humane people, he was buried in the straw below the tilt of the waggon, with his provisions deposited beside him, and the waggon went on his slow and steady pace, to the tune of its own jingling bells. joey, who had quite recovered from his chill, nestled among the straw, congratulating himself that he should now arrive safely in london, without more questioning. and such was the case: in three days and three nights, without any further adventure, he found himself, although he was not aware of it, in oxford-street, somewhat about eight or nine o'clock in the evening. "do you know your way now, boy?" said the carman. "i can ask it," replied joey, "as soon as i can go to the light and read the address. good-bye, and thank you," continued he, glad at last to be clear of any more evasive replies. the carman shook him by the hand as they passed the boar and castle, and bade him farewell, and our hero found himself alone in the vast metropolis. what was he to do? he hardly knew--but one thought struck him, which was, that he must find a bed for the night. he wandered up and down oxford street for some time, but every one walked so quick that he was afraid to speak to them: at last a little girl, of seven or eight years of age, passed by him, and looked him earnestly in the face. "can you tell me where i can get a bed for the night?" said joey. "have you any brads?" was the reply. "what are those?" said joey. "any money, to be sure; why, you're green--quite." "yes, i have a shilling." "that will do--come along, and you shall sleep with me." joey followed her very innocently, and very glad that he had been so fortunate. she led him to a street out of tottenham-court-road, in which there were no lamps--the houses, however, were large, and many stories high. "take my hand," said the girl, "and mind how you tread." guided by his new companion, joey arrived at a door that was wide open: they entered, and, assisted by the girl, he went up a dark staircase, to the second storey. she opened a room-door, when joey found himself in company with about twenty other children, of about the same age, of both sexes. here were several beds on the floor of the room, which was spacious. in the centre were huddled together on the floor, round a tallow candle, eight or ten of the inmates, two of them playing with a filthy pack of cards, while the others looked over them: others were lying down or asleep on the several beds. "this is my bed," said the girl; "if you are tired you can turn in at once. i shan't go to bed yet." joey was tired, and he went to bed; it was not very clean, but he had been used to worse lodgings lately. it need hardly be observed that joey had got into very bad company, the whole of the inmates of the room consisting of juvenile thieves and pickpockets, who in the course of time obtain promotion in their profession, until they are ultimately sent off to botany bay. attempts have been made to check these nurseries of vice: but pseudo-philanthropists have resisted such barbarous innovation: and upon the mosaic principle, that you must not seethe the kid in the mother's milk, they are protected and allowed to arrive at full maturity, and beyond the chance of being reclaimed, until they are ripe for the penalties of the law. joey slept soundly, and when he awoke next morning found that his little friend was not with him. he dressed himself; and then made another discovery, which was, that every farthing of his money had been abstracted from his pockets. of this unpleasant fact he ventured to complain to one or two boys, who were lying on other beds with their clothes on; they laughed at him, called him a greenhorn, and made use of other language, which at once let joey know the nature of the company with whom he had been passing the night. after some altercation, three or four of them bundled him out of the room, and joey found himself in the street without a farthing, and very much inclined to eat a good breakfast. there is no portion of the world, small as it is in comparison with the whole, in which there is more to be found to eat and to drink, more comfortable lodgings, or accommodation and convenience of every kind, than in the metropolis of england, provided you have the means to obtain it; but notwithstanding this abundance, there is no place, probably, where you will find it more difficult to obtain a portion of it, if you happen to have an empty pocket. joey went into a shop here and there to ask for employment--he was turned away everywhere. he spent the first day in this manner, and at night, tired and hungry, he laid down on the stone steps of a portico, and fell asleep. the next morning he awoke shivering with the cold, faint with hunger. he asked at the areas for something to eat, but no one would give him anything. at a pump he obtained a drink of water-that was all he could obtain, for it cost nothing. another day passed without food, and the poor boy again sheltered himself for the night at a rich man's door in berkeley-square. chapter seven. if you want employment go to london. the exhausted lad awoke again, and pursued his useless task of appeals for food and employment. it was a bright day, and there was some little warmth to be collected by basking in the rays of the sun, when our hero wended his way through saint james's park, faint, hungry, and disconsolate. there were several people seated on the benches; and joey, weak as he was, did not venture to go near them, but crawled along. at last, after wandering up and down, looking for pity in everybody's face as they passed, and receiving none, he felt that he could not stand much longer, and emboldened by desperation, he approached a bench that was occupied by one person. at first he only rested on the arm of the bench, but, as the person sitting down appeared not to observe him, he timidly took a seat at the farther end. the personage who occupied the other part of the bench was a man dressed in a morning suit _a la militaire_ and black stock. he had clean gloves and a small cane in his hand, with which he was describing circles on the gravel before him, evidently in deep thought. in height he was full six feet, and his proportions combined strength with symmetry. his features were remarkably handsome, his dark hair had a natural curl, and his whiskers and mustachios (for he wore those military appendages) were evidently the objects of much attention and solicitude. we may as well here observe, that although so favoured by nature, still there would have been considered something wanting in him by those who had been accustomed to move in the first circles, to make him the refined gentleman. his movements and carriage were not inelegant, but there was a certain _retinue_ wanting. he bowed well, but still it was not exactly the bow of a gentleman. the nursery-maids as they passed by said, "dear me, what a handsome gentleman!" but had the remark been made by a higher class, it would have been qualified into "what a handsome man!" his age was apparently about five-and-thirty--it might have been something more. after a short time he left off his mechanical amusements, and turning round, perceived little joey at the farther end. whether from the mere inclination to talk, or that he thought it presuming in our hero to seat himself upon the same bench, he said to him-"i hope you are comfortable, my little man; but perhaps you've forgot your message." "i have no message, sir, for i know no one: and i am not comfortable, for i am starving," replied joey, in a tremulous voice. "are you in earnest now, when you say that, boy; or is it that you're humbugging me?" joey shook his head. "i have eaten nothing since the day before yesterday morning, and i feel faint and sick," replied he at last. his new companion looked earnestly in our hero's face, and was satisfied that what he said was true. "as i hope to be saved," exclaimed he, "it's my opinion that a little bread and butter would not be a bad thing for you. here," continued he, putting his hand into his coat-pocket, "take these coppers, and go and get some thing into your little vitals." "thank you, sir, thank you, kindly. but i don't know where to go: i only came up to london two days ago." "then follow me as fast as your little pins can carry you," said the other. they had not far to go, for a man was standing close to spring-garden-gate with hot tea and bread and butter, and in a few moments joey's hunger was considerably appeased. "do you feel better now, my little cock?" "yes, sir, thank you." "that's right, and now we will go back to the bench, and then you shall tell me all about yourself; just to pass away the time. now," said he, as he took his seat, "in the first place, who is your father, if you have any; and if you haven't any, what was he?" "father and mother are both alive, but they are a long way off. father was a soldier, and he has a pension now." "a soldier! do you know in what regiment?" "yes, it was the 53rd, i think." "by the powers, my own regiment! and what is your name, then, and his?" "rushbrook," replied joey. "my pivot man, by all that's holy. now haven't you nicely dropped on your feet?" "i don't know, sir," replied our hero. "but i do; your father was the best fellow i had in my company--the best forager, and always took care of his officer, as a good man should do. if there was a turkey, or a goose, or a duck, or a fowl, or a pig within ten miles of us, he would have it: he was the boy for poaching. and now tell me (and mind you tell the truth when you meet with a friend) what made you leave your father and mother?" "i was afraid of being taken up--" and here joey stopped, for he hardly knew what to say; trust his new acquaintance with his father's secret he dare not, neither did he like to tell what was directly false; as the reader will perceive by his reply, he partly told the truth. "afraid of being taken up! why, what could they take up a spalpeen like you for?" "poaching," replied joey; "father poached too: they had proof against me, so i came away with father's consent." "poaching! well, i'm not surprised at that, for if ever it was in the blood, it is in yours--that's truth. and what do you mean to do now?" "anything i can to earn my bread." "what can you do--besides poaching, of course? can you read and write?" "oh, yes." "would you like to be a servant--clean boots, brush clothes, stand behind a cab, run messages, carry notes, and hold your tongue?" "i could do all that, i think--i am twelve years old." "the devil you are! well then, for your father's sake, i'll see what i can do for you, till you can do better. i'll fit you out as a tiger, and what's more, unless i am devilish hard up, i won't sell you. so come along. what's your name?" "joey." "sure that was your father's name before you, i now recollect and should any one take the trouble to ask you what may be the name of your master, you may reply, with a safe conscience, that it's captain o'donahue. now come along. not close after me--you may as well keep open file just now, till i've made you look a little more decent." chapter eight. a dissertation upon pedigree. our readers will not perhaps be displeased if we introduce captain o'donahue more particularly to their notice: we shall therefore devote this chapter to giving some account of his birth, parentage, and subsequent career. if the father of captain o'donahue was to be believed, the race of the o'donahues were kings in ireland long before the o'connors were ever heard of. how far this may be correct we cannot pretend to offer an opinion, further than that no man can be supposed to know so much of a family's history as the descendant himself. the documents were never laid before us, and we have only the positive assertion of the squireen o'donahue, who asserted not only that they were kings in ireland before the o'connors, whose pretensions to ancestry he treated with contempt, but further, that they were renowned for their strength, and were famous for using the longest bows in battle that were ever known or heard of. here we have circumstantial evidence, although not proof. if strong, they might have been kings in ireland, for there "might has been right" for many centuries; and certainly their acquirements were handed down to posterity, as no one was more famous for drawing the long bow than the squireen o'donahue. upon these points, however, we must leave our readers to form their own opinions. perhaps some one more acquainted with the archives of the country may be able to set us right if we are wrong, or to corroborate our testimony if we are right. in his preface to "anne of geierstein," sir walter scott observes, that "errors, however trivial, ought, in his opinion, never to be pointed out to the author without meeting with a candid and respectful acknowledgement." following the example of so great a man, we can only say, that if any gentleman can prove or disprove the assertion of the squireen o'donahue, to wit, that the o'donahues were kings of ireland long before the o'connors were heard of; we shall be most happy to acknowledge the favour, and insert his remarks in the next edition. we should be further obliged to the same party, or indeed, any other, it they would favour us with an idea of what was implied by a king of ireland in those days; that is to say, whether he held a court, taxed his subjects, collected revenue, kept up a standing army, sent ambassadors to foreign countries, and did all which kings do nowadays? or whether his shillelagh was his sceptre, and his domain some furze-crowned hills and a bog, the intricacies of which were known only to himself? whether he was arrayed in jewelled robes, with a crown of gold weighing on his temples? or whether he went bare-legged and bare-armed, with his bare locks flowing in luxurious wildness to the breeze? we request an answer to this in full simplicity. we observe that even in ireland now, a fellow six feet high, and stout in proportion, is called a "prince of a fellow," although he has not wherewithal to buy a paper of tobacco to supply his dhudeen: and, arguing from this fact, we are inclined to think that a few more inches in stature, and commensurate muscular increase of power, would in former times have raised the "heir-apparent" to the dignity of the irish throne. but these abstruse speculations have led us from our history, which we must now resume. whatever may once have been the importance of the house of o'donahue, one thing is certain, that there are many ups and downs in this world; every family in it has its wheel of fortune, which revolves faster or slower as the fates decree, and the descendant of kings before the o'connor's time was now descended into a species of viceroy, squireen o'donahue being the steward of certain wild estates in the county of galway, belonging to a family who for many years had shown a decided aversion to the natural beauties of the country, and had thought proper to migrate to where, if people were not so much attached to them, they were at all events more civilised. these estates were extensive, but not lucrative. they abounded in rocks, brushwood, and woodcocks during the season; and although the squireen o'donahue did his best, if not for his employer, at least for himself; it was with some difficulty that he contrived to support, with anything like respectability (which in that part of the country means "dacent clothes to wear"), a very numerous family, lineally descended from the most ancient of all the kings of ireland. before the squireen had obtained his employment, he had sunk his rank and travelled much--as a courier--thereby gaining much knowledge of the world. if, therefore, he had no wealth to leave his children, at all events he could impart to them that knowledge which is said to be better than worldly possessions. having three sons and eight daughters, all of them growing up healthy and strong, with commensurate appetites, he soon found that it was necessary to get rid of them as fast as he could. his eldest, who, strange to say, for an o'donahue, was a quiet lad, he had as a favour lent to his brother, who kept a small tobacconist and grocer's shop in dublin, and his brother was so fond of him, that eventually o'carroll o'donahue was bound to him as an apprentice. it certainly was a degradation for the descendant of such ancient kings to be weighing out pennyworths of sugar, and supplying halfpenny papers of tobacco to the old apple and fish women; but still there we must leave the heir-apparent while we turn to the second son, mr patrick o'donahue, whose history we are now relating, having already made the reader acquainted with him by an introduction in saint james's park. chapter nine. in which the advice of a father deserves peculiar attention. it may be supposed that, as steward of the estates, squireen o'donahue had some influence over the numerous tenants on the property, and this influence he took care to make the most of. his assistance in a political contest was rewarded by the offer of an ensigncy for one of his sons, in a regiment then raising in ireland, and this offer was too good to be refused. so, one fine day, squireen o'donahue came home from dublin, well bespattered with mud, and found his son patrick also well bespattered with mud, having just returned home from a very successful expedition against the woodcocks. "patrick, my jewel," said the squireen, taking a seat and wiping his face, for he was rather warm with his ride, "you're a made man." "and well made too, father, if the girls are anything of judges," replied patrick. "you put me out," replied the squireen; "you've more to be vain of than your figure." "and what may that be that you're discoursing about father?" "nothing more nor less, nor better nor worse, but you're an ensign in his majesty's new regiment--the number has escaped my memory." "i'd rather be a colonel, father," replied patrick, musing. "the colonel's to come, you spalpeen," said the squireen. "and the fortune to make, i expect," replied patrick. "you've just hit it but haven't you the whole world before you to pick and choose?" "well," replied patrick, after a pause; "i've no objection." "no objection! why don't you jump out of your skin with delight? at all events, you might jump high enough to break in the caling." "there's no ceiling to break," replied patrick, looking up at the rafters. "that's true enough; but still you might go out of your seven senses in a rational sort of a way." "i really can't see for why, father dear. you tell me i'm to leave my poor old mother, who doats upon me; my sisters, who are fond of me; my friends here," patting the dogs, "who follow me; the hills, that i love; and the woodcocks, which i shoot; to go to be shot at myself, and buried like a dead dog, without being skinned, on the field of battle." "i tell you to go forth into the world as an officer, and make your fortune; to come back a general, and be the greatest man of your family. and don't be too unhappy about not being skinned. before you are older or wiser, dead or alive, you'll be skinned, i'll answer for it." "well, father, i'll go; but i expect there'll be a good deal of ground to march over before i'm a general." "and you've a good pair of legs." "so i'm told every day of my life. i'll make the best use of them when i start; but it's the starting i don't like, and that's the real truth." the reader may be surprised at the indifference shown by patrick at the intelligence communicated by his father; but the fact was, mr patrick o'donahue was very deep in love. this cooled his national ardour; and it must be confessed that there was every excuse, for a more lovely creature than judith mccrae never existed. to part with her was the only difficulty, and all his family feelings were but a cloak to the real cause of his unwillingness. "nevertheless, you must start to-morrow, my boy," said his father. "what must be, must," replied patrick, "so there's an end of the matter. i'll just go out for a bit of a walk, just to stretch my legs." "they require a deal of stretching, pat, considering you've been twenty miles, at least, this morning, over the mountains," replied the squireen. but patrick was out of hearing; he had leapt over a stone wall which separated his father's potato ground from cornelius mccrae's, and had hastened to judith, whom he found very busy getting the dinner ready. "judith, my dear," said patrick, "my heart's quite broke with the bad news i have to tell you. sure i'm going to leave you to-morrow morning." "now, patrick, you're joking, surely." "devil a joke in it. i'm an ensign in a regiment." "then i'll die, patrick." "more like that i will, judith; what with grief and a bullet to help it, perhaps." "now, what d'ye mean to do, patrick?" "mean to go, sure; because i can't help myself; and to come back again, if ever i've the luck of it. my heart's leaping out of my mouth entirely." "and mine's dead," replied judith, in tears. "it's no use crying, mavourneen. i'll be back to dance at my own wedding, if so be i can." "there'll be neither wedding for you, patrick, nor wake either, for you'll lie on the cold ground, and be ploughed in like muck." "that's but cold comfort from you, judith, but we'll hope for a better ending; but i must go back now, and you'll meet me this evening beyond the shealing." "won't it be for the last time, patrick," replied judith, with her apron up to her eyes. "if i've any voice in the matter, i say no. please the pigs, i'll come back a colonel." "then you'll be no match for judith mccrae," replied the sobbing girl. "shoot easy, my judith, that's touching my honour; if i'm a general it will be all the same." "oh, patrick! patrick!" patrick folded judith in his arms, took one kiss, and then hastened out of the house, saying--"remember the shealing, judith, dear, there we'll talk the matter over easy and comfortable." patrick returned to his house, where he found his mother and sisters in tears. they had received orders to prepare his wardrobe, which, by the bye, did not give them much trouble from its extent; they only had to mend every individual article. his father was sitting down by the hearth, and when he saw patrick he said to him,--"now just come here, my boy, and take a stool, while you listen to me and learn a little worldly wisdom, for i may not have much time to talk to you when we are at dublin." patrick took a seat, and was all attention. "you'll just observe, pat, that it's a very fine thing to be an officer in the king's army; nobody dares to treat you ill, although you may ill-treat others, which is no small advantage in this world." "there's truth in that," replied patrick. "you see, when you get into an enemy's country, you may help yourself; and, if you look sharp, there's very pretty pickings--all in a quiet way, you understand." "that, indeed." "you observe, pat, that, as one of his officers, the king expects you to appear and live like a gentleman, only he forgets to give you the means of so doing; you must, therefore, take all you can get from his majesty, and other people must make up the difference." "that's a matter o' course," said patrick. "you'll soon see your way clear, and find out what you may be permitted to do, and what you may not; for the king expects you to keep up the character of a gentleman as well as the appearance." "o' course." "mayhap you may be obliged to run in debt a little--a gentleman may do that; mayhap you may not be able to pay--that's a gentleman's case very often: if so, never go so far as twenty pounds; first, because the law don't reach; and secondly, because twenty pound is quite enough to make a man suffer for the good of his country." "there's sense in that, father." "and, patrick, recollect that people judge by appearances in this world, especially when they've nothing else to go by. if you talk small, your credit will be small; but if you talk large, it will be just in proportion." "i perceive, father." "it's not much property we possess in this said county of galway, that's certain; but you must talk of this property as if i was the squire, and not the steward; and when you talk of the quantity of woodcocks you have bagged, you must say on _our_ property." "i understand, father." "and you must curse your stars at being a younger brother; it will be an excuse for your having no money, but will make them believe it's in the family, at all events." "i perceive," replied patrick. "there's one thing more, pat; it's an irish regiment, so you must get out of it as soon as possible by exchange." "for why?" "this for why. you will be among those born too near home, and who may doubt all you say, because your story may interfere with their own. get into an english regiment by all means, and there you'll be beyond the reach of contradiction, which ain't pleasant." "true enough, father." "treasure up all i have told you--it's worldly wisdom, and you have your fortune to make; so now recollect, never hold back at a forlorn hope; volunteer for everything; volunteer to be blown from a cannon's mouth, so that they will give you promotion for that same; volunteer to go all over the world, into the other world, and right through that again into the one that comes after that, if there is any, and then one thing will be certain, either that you'll be colonel or general, or else--" "else what, father?" "that you won't require to be made either, seeing that you'll be past all making; but luck's all, and lucky it is, by the bye, that i have a little of the squire's rent in hand to fit you out with, or how we should have managed, the saints only know. as it is, i must sink it on the next year's account; but that's more easy to do than to fit you out with no money. i must beg the tenants off, make the potato crop fail entirely, and report twenty, by name at least, dead of starvation. serve him right for spending his money out of old ireland. it's only out of real patriotism that i cheat him--just to spend the money in the country. and now, patrick, i've done; now you may go and square your accounts with judith, for i know now where the cat jumps; but i'll leave old time alone for doing his work." such was the advice of the squireen to his son; and, as worldly wisdom, it was not so bad; and, certainly, when a lad is cast adrift in the world, the two best things you can bestow on him are a little worldly wisdom and a little money, for without the former, the latter and he will soon part company. the next day they set off for dublin, patrick's head being in a confused jumble of primitive good feeling, judith mccrae, his father's advice, and visions of future greatness. he was fitted out, introduced to the officers, and then his father left him his blessing and his own way to make in the world. in a fortnight the regiment was complete, and they were shipped to liverpool, and from liverpool to maidstone, where, being all newly raised men, they were to remain for a time to be disciplined. before the year had expired, patrick had followed his father's advice, and exchanged, receiving a difference, with an ensign of a regiment going on foreign service. he was sent to the west indies: but the seasons were healthy, and he returned home an ensign. he volunteered abroad again after five years, and gained his lieutenant's commission, from a death vacancy, without purchase. after a fifteen years' hard service, the desired captain's commission came at last, and o'donahue, having been so unsuccessful in his military career, retired upon half-pay, determined, if possible, to offer his handsome person in exchange for competence. but, during the fifteen years which had passed away, a great change had come over the ingenuous and unsophisticated patrick o'donahue; he had mixed so long with a selfish and heartless world, that his primitive feelings had gradually worn away. judith had, indeed, never been forgotten; but she was now at rest, for, by mistake, patrick had been returned dead of the yellow fever, and at the intelligence she had drooped like a severed snowdrop, and died. the only tie strong enough to induce him to return to ireland was therefore broken, his father's worldly advice had not been forgotten, and o'donahue considered the world as his oyster. expensive in his habits and ideas, longing for competence, while he vegetated on half-pay, he was now looking out for a matrimonial speculation. his generosity and his courage remained with him--two virtues not to be driven out of an irishman--but his other good qualities lay in abeyance; and yet his better feelings were by no means extinguished; they were dormant, but by favourable circumstances were again to be brought into action. the world and his necessities made him what he was; for many were the times, for years afterwards, that he would in his reveries surmise how happy he might have been in his own wild country, where half-pay would have been competence, had his judith been spared to him, and he could have laid his head upon her bosom. chapter ten. in which major mcshane narrates some curious matrimonial speculations. our hero was soon fitted out with the livery of a groom, and installed as the confidential servant of captain o'donahue, who had lodgings on the third floor in a fashionable street. he soon became expert and useful, and, as the captain breakfasted at home, and always ordered sufficient for joey to make another cold meal of during the day, he was at little or no expense to his master. one morning, when captain o'donahue was sitting in his dressing-gown at breakfast, joey opened the door, and announced major mcshane. "is it yourself, o'donahue?" said the major, extending his hand; "and, now, what d'ye think has brought me here this fine morning? it's to do a thing that's rather unusual with me,--neither more nor less than to pay you the 20 pounds which you lent me a matter of three years ago, and which, i dare say, you never expected to see anything but the ghost of." "why, mcshane, if the truth must be told, it will be something of a resurrection when it appears before me," replied o'donahue; "i considered it dead and buried; and, like those who are dead and buried, it has been long forgotten." "nevertheless, here it is in four notes--one, two, three, four: four times five are twenty; there's arithmetic for you, and your money to boot, and many thanks in the bargain, by way of interest. and now, o'donahue, where have you been, what have you been doing, what are you doing, and what do you intend to do? that's what i call a comprehensive inquiry, and a very close one too." "i have been in london a month, i have done nothing, i am doing nothing, and i don't know what i intend to do. you may take that for a comprehensive answer." "i'll tell you all about myself without your asking. i have been in london for nearly two years, one of which i spent in courting, and the other in matrimony." "why, you don't mean to say that you are married, mcshane; if so, as you've been married a year, you can tell me, am i to give you joy?" "why, yes, i believe you may; there's nothing so stupid, o'donahue, as domestic happiness, that's a fact; but, altogether, i have been so large a portion of my life doubtful where i was to get a dinner, that i think that on the whole i have made a very good choice." "and may i inquire who is the party to whom major mcshane has condescended to sacrifice his handsome person?" "is it handsome you mane? as the ugly lady said to the looking-glass, i beg no reflections--you wish to know who she is; well, then, you must be content to listen to all my adventures from the time we parted, for she is at the end of them, and i can't read backwards." "i am at your service, so begin as you please." "let me see, o'donahue, where was it that we parted?" "if i recollect, it was at the landing made at ---, where you were reported killed." "very true, but that, i gave my honour, was all a lie; it was fat sergeant murphy that was killed, instead of me. he was a terrible fellow, that sergeant murphy; he got himself killed on purpose, because he never could have passed his accounts; well, he fought like a devil, so peace be with him. i was knocked down, as you know, with a bullet in my thigh, and as i could not stand, i sat upon the carcass of sergeant murphy, bound up my leg, and meditated on sublunary affairs. i thought what a great rogue he was, that sergeant murphy, and how he'd gone out of the world without absolution; and then i thought it very likely that he might have some money about him, and how much better it would be that i should have it to comfort me in prison than any rascally frenchman, so i put my hand in his pocket and borrowed his purse, which was, taking the difference of size, as well lined as himself. well, as you had all retreated and left me to be taken prisoner, i waited very patiently till they should come and carry me to the hospital, or wherever else they pleased. they were not long coming for me: one fellow would have passed his bayonet through me, but i had my pistol cocked, so he thought it advisable to take me prisoner. i was taken into the town, not to the hospital or the prison, but quartered at the house of an old lady of high rank and plenty of money. well, the surgeon came and very politely told me that he must cut off my leg, and i very politely told him to go to the devil; and the old lady came in and took my part, when she saw what a handsome leg it was, and sent for another doctor at her own expense, who promised to set me on my pins in less than a month. well, the old lady fell in love with me; and although she was not quite the vision of youthful fancy, as the saying is, for she had only one tooth in her head, and that stuck out half an inch beyond her upper lip, still she had other charms for a poor devil like me; so i made up my mind to marry her, for she made cruel love to me as i laid in bed, and before i was fairly out of bed the thing was settled, and a week afterwards the day was fixed; but her relatives got wind of it, for, like an old fool, she could not help blabbing, and so one day there came a file of soldiers, with a corporal at their head, informing me that i was now quite well, and therefore, if it was all the same to me, i must go to prison. this was anything but agreeable, and contrary to rule. as an officer, i was entitled to my parole; and so i wrote to the commanding officer, who sent for me, and then he told me i had my choice, to give up the old lady, whose friends were powerful, and would not permit her to make a fool of herself (a personal remark, by the bye, which it was unhandsome to make to a gentleman in my circumstances), or to be refused parole, and remain in prison, and that he would give me an hour to decide; then he made me a very low bow, and left me. i was twisting the affair over in my mind, one moment thinking of her purse and carriage and doubloons, and another of that awful long tooth of hers, when one of her relatives came in and said he had a proposal to make, which was, that i should be released and sent to gibraltar, without any conditions, with a handsome sum of money to pay my expenses, if i would promise to give up the old lady now and for ever. that suited my book; i took the money, took my leave, and a small vessel took me to gibraltar; so after all, you see, o'donahue, the thing did not turn out so bad. i lost only an old woman with a long tooth, and i gained my liberty." "no; you got out of that affair with credit." "and with money, which is quite as good; so when i returned and proved myself alive, i was reinstated, and had all my arrears paid up. what with sergeant murphy's purse, and the foreign subsidy, and my arrears, i was quite flush; so i resolved to be circumspect, and make hay while the sun shone: notwithstanding which, i was as nearly trapped by a cunning devil of a widow. two days more, and i should have made a pretty kettle of fish of it." "what, at your age, mcshane?" "ah, bother! but she was a knowing one--a widow on a first floor, good-looking, buxom, a fine armful, and about thirty--met her at a party--pointed out to me as without encumbrance, and well off--made up to her, escorted her home--begged permission to call, was graciously received--talked of her departed husband, thought me like him-everything so comfortable--plenty of plate--good furniture--followed her up--received notes by a little boy in sky-blue and silver sugar-loaf buttons--sent me all her messages--one day in the week to her banker's to cash a check. would you believe the cunning of the creature? she used to draw out 25 pounds every week, sending me for the money, and, as i found out afterwards, paid it in again in fifties every fortnight, and she only had 50 pounds in all. wasn't i regularly humbugged? made proposals--was accepted--all settled, and left off talking about her departed. one day, and only two days before the wedding, found the street-door open, and heard a noise between her and her landlady of the top of the stairs, so i waited at the bottom. the landlady was insisting upon her rent, and having all her plate back again--my charming widow entreating for a little delay, as she was to be married-landlady came downstairs, red as a turkey-cock, so i very politely begged her to walk into the parlour, and i put a few questions, when i discovered that my intended was a widow with a pension of 80 pounds a-year, and had six children, sent out of the way until she could find another protector, which i resolved, at all events, should not be major mcshane; so i walked out of the door, and have never seen her since." "by the head of saint patrick, but that was an escape!" "yes, indeed, the she-devil with six children, and 80 pounds a year; it's a wicked world this, o'donahue. well, i kept clear of such cunning articles, and only looked after youth and innocence in the city. at last i discovered the only daughter of a german sugar-baker in the minories, a young thing about seventeen, but very little for her age. she went to a dancing-school, and i contrived, by bribing the maid, to carry on the affair most successfully, and she agreed to run away with me: everything was ready, the postchaise was at the corner of the street, she came with her bundle in her hand. i thrust it into the chaise, and was just tossing her in after it, when she cried out that she had forgotten something, and must go back for it; and away she went, slipping through my fingers. well, i waited most impatiently for her appearance, and at last saw her coming; and what d'ye think she'd gone back for? by the powers, for _her doll_, which she held in her hand! and just as she came to the chaise, who should come round the corner but her father, who had walked from mincing lane. he caught my mincing miss by the arm, with her doll and her bundle, and bundled her home, leaving me and the postchaise, looking like two fools. i never could see her again, or her confounded doll either." "you have been out of luck, mcshane." "i'm not sure of that, as the affair has ended. now comes another adventure, in which i turned the tables, anyhow. i fell in with a very pretty girl, the daughter of a lawyer in chancery lane, who was said to have, and (i paid a shilling at doctors' commons, and read the will) it was true enough, an independent fortune from her grandmother. she was always laughing full of mischief and practical jokes. she pretended to be pleased, the hussey, with my addresses, and at last she consented, as i thought, to run away with me. i imagined that i had clinched the business at last, when one dark night i handed her into a chaise, wrapped up in a cloak, and crying. however, i got her in, and away we went as if the devil was behind us. i coaxed her and soothed her, and promised to make her happy; but she still kept her handkerchief up to her eyes, and would not permit me a chaste salute--even pushed me away when i would put my arm round her waist; all which i ascribed to the extra shame and modesty which a woman feels when she is doing wrong. at last, when about fifteen miles from town, there was a burst of laughter, and `i think we have gone far enough, major mcshane.' by all the saints in the calendar, it was her scamp of a brother that had taken her place. `my young gentleman,' said i, `i think you have not only gone far enough, but, as i shall prove to you, perhaps a little too far,' for i was in no fool of a passion. so i set to, beat him to a mummy, broke his nose, blackened both his eyes, and knocked half his teeth down his throat; and when he was half dead, i opened the chaise door as it whirled along, and kicked him out to take his chance of the wheels, or any other wheels which the wheel of fortune might turn up for him. so he went home and told his sister what a capital joke it was, i've no doubt. i'll be bound the young gentleman has never run away with an irishman since that: however, i never heard any more about him, or his lovely sister." "now, then, for the wind up, mcshane." "courting's very expensive, especially when you order postchaises for nothing at all, and i was very nearly at the end of my rhino; so i said to myself, `mcshane, you must retrench.' and i did so; instead of dining at the coffee-house, i determined to go to an eating-house, and walked into one in holborn, where i sat down to a plate of good beef and potatoes, and a large lump of plum-pudding, paid 1 shilling and 6 pence, and never was better pleased in my life; so i went there again, and became a regular customer; and the girls who waited laughed with me, and the lady who kept the house was very gracious. now, the lady was good-looking, but she was rather too fat; there was an amiable look about her, even when she was carving beef; and by degrees we became intimate, and i found her a very worthy creature, and as simple-minded as a child, although she could look sharp after her customers. it was, and is now, a most thriving establishment--nearly two hundred people dine there every day. i don't know how it was, but i suppose i first fell in love with her beef; and then with her fair self; and finding myself well received at all times, i one day, as she was carving a beefsteak-pie which might have tempted a king for its fragrance, put the question to her, as to how she would like to marry again. she blushed, and fixed her eyes down upon the hole she had made in the pie, and then i observed that if there was a hole in my side as big as there was in the pie before her, she would see her image in my heart. this pretty simile did the business for me, and in a month we were married; and i never shall want a dinner as long as i live, either for myself or friend. i will put you on the free list, o'donahue, if you can condescend to a cook's shop: and i can assure you that i think i have done a very wise thing, for i don't want to present any wife at court, and i have a very comfortable home." "you have done a wise thing, in my opinion, mcshane--you have a wife who makes money, instead of one who spends it." "and, moreover, i have found my bargain better that i anticipated, which is seldom the case in this world of treachery and deceit. she has plenty of money, and is putting by more every year." "which you have the control of, at your disposition, do you mean to say?" "why, yes, i may say that now; but, o'donahue, that is owing to my circumspection and delicacy. at first starting, i determined that she should not think that it was only her money that i wanted; so, after we were married, i continued to find myself, which, paying nothing for board and lodging and washing, i could easily do upon my half-pay; and i have done so ever since, until just now." "i had not been married a week before i saw that she expected i would make inquiries into the state of her finances, but i would not. at last, finding that i would not enter into the business, she did, and told me that she had 17,000 pounds consols laid by, and that the business was worth 1,000 pounds per annum (you may fish at cheltenham a long while, o'donahue, before you get such a haul as that). so i told her i was very glad she was well off, and then i pretended to go fast asleep, as i never interfered with her, and never asked for money. at last she didn't like it, and offered it to me; but i told her i had enough, and did not want it; since which she has been quite annoyed at my not spending money; and when i told her this morning that there was a brother officer of mine arrived in town, to whom i had owed some money for a long while, she insisted upon my taking money to pay it, put a pile of bank-notes in my had, and was quite mortified when she found i only wanted 20 pounds. now you see, o'donahue, i have done this from principle. she earns the money, and therefore she shall have the control of it as long as we are good friends; and upon my honour, i really think i love her better than i ever thought i could love any woman in the world for she has the temper, the kindness, and the charity of an angel, although not precisely the figure; but one can't have everything in this world; and so now you have the whole of my story, and what do you think of it?" "you must present me to your wife, mcshane." "that i will with pleasure. she's like her rounds of beef--it's cut and come again; but her heart is a beauty, and so is her beefsteak-pie--when you taste it." chapter eleven. in which an interchange and confidence take place. "and now, o'donahue," said mcshane, "if you are not yet tired of my company, i should like to hear what you have been doing since we parted: be quite as explicit, but not quite so long-winded, as myself; for i fear that i tired you." "i will be quite as explicit, my good fellow; but i have no such marvellous adventures to relate, and not such a fortunate wind up. i have been to bath, to cheltenham, to harrogate, to brighton, and everywhere else where people meet, and people are met with, who would not meet or be met with elsewhere. i have seen many nice girls; but the nice girls were, like myself, almost penniless; and i have seen many ill-favoured, who had money: the first i could only afford to look at-the latter i have had some dealings with. i have been refused by one or two, and i might have married seven or eight; but, somehow or other, when it came near the point, the vision of a certain angel, now in heaven, has risen before me, and i have not had the heart or the heartlessness to proceed. indeed, i may safely say that i have seen but one person since we parted who ever made the least impression on me, or whom i could fancy in any degree to replace her whom i have lost, and she, i fear, is lost also; so we may as well say no more about it. i have determined to marry for money, as you well know; but it appears to me as if there was something which invariably prevents the step being taken; and, upon my honour, fortune seems so inclined to balk me in my wishes, that i begin to snap my fingers at her, and am becoming quite indifferent. i suffer now under the evil of poverty; but it is impossible to say what other evils may be in store if i were to change my condition, as the ladies say. come what will, in one thing i am determined--that if i marry a girl for money, i will treat her well, and not let her find it out; and as that may add to the difficulty of a man's position when he is not in love with his wife, why, all i can say is, captain o'donahue doesn't go cheap--that's decided." "you're right, my jewel; there's not such a broth of a boy to be picked up every day in the week. widows might bid for you, for without flattery, i think you a moral of a man, and an honour to old ireland. but o'donahue, begging your pardon, if it's not a secret, who may have been this lady who appears to have bothered your brains not a little, since she could you forget somebody else?" "i met her at the lakes of cumberland, and being acquainted with some of the party, was invited to join them. i was ten days in her company at windermere, ambleside, derwentwater, and other places. she was a foreigner, and titled." "murder and irish! you don't say so?" "yes; and moreover, as i was informed by those who were with her, has large property in poland. she was, in fact, everything that i could desire--handsome, witty, speaking english and several other languages, and about two or three and twenty years old." "and her name, if it's no offence to ask it?" "princess czartorinski." "and a princess in the bargain? and did you really pretend to make love to a princess?" "am not i an irishman, mcshane? and is a princess anything but a woman, after all? by the powers! i'd make love to, and run away with, the pope himself; if he were made of the same materials as pope joan is said to have been." "then, upon my faith, o'donahue, i believe you--so now go on." "i not only made love to her, but in making love to her, i got most terribly singed myself; and i felt, before i quitted her, that if i had ten thousand a-year, and she was as poor as my dear judith was, that she should have taken her place--that's the truth. i thought that i never could love again, and that my heart was as flinty as a pawnbroker's; but i found out my mistake when it was too late." "and did she return you the compliment?" "that i was not indifferent to her, i may without vanity believe. i had a five minutes alone with her just before we parted, and i took that opportunity of saying how much pain it was to part with her, and for once i told the truth, for i was almost choking when i said it. i'm convinced that there was sincerity in my face, and that she saw that it was there; so she replied, `if what you say is true, we shall meet at saint petersburg next winter; good-bye, i shall expect you.'" "well, that was as much as to say, come, at all events." "it was; i stammered out my determination so to do, if possible; but i felt at the time that my finances rendered it impossible--so there was an end of that affair. by my hopes of salvation, i'd not only go to saint petersburg, but round the whole world, and to the north pole afterwards, if i had the means only to see her once more." "you're in a bad way, o'donahue; your heart's gone and your money too. upon my soul, i pity you; but it's always the case in this world. when i was a boy, the best and ripest fruit was always on the top of the wall, and out of my reach. shall i call to-morrow, and then, if you please, i'll introduce you to mrs mcshane?" "i will be happy to see you and your good wife, mcshane; health and happiness to you. stop, while i ring for my little factotum to let you out." "by the bye, a sharp boy that, o'donahue, with an eye as bright as a hawk. where did you pick him up?" "in saint james's park." "well, that's an odd place to hire a servant in." "do you recollect rushbrook in my company?" "to be sure i do--your best soldier, and a famous caterer he was at all times." "it is his son." "and, now i think of it, he's very like him, only somewhat better-looking." o'donahue then acquainted mcshane with the circumstances attending his meeting with joey, and they separated. the next day, about the same time, mcshane came to see his friend, and found o'donahue dressed, and ready to go out with him. "now, o'donahue, you mustn't be in such a hurry to see mrs mcshane, for i have something to tell you which will make her look more pretty in your eyes than she otherwise might have done upon first introduction. take your chair again, and don't be putting on your gloves yet, while you listen to a little conversation which took place between us last night, just before we dropped into the arms of murfy. i'll pass over all the questions she asked about you, and all the compliments i paid you behind your back: because, if i didn't, it would make you blush, irishman as you are; but this she did say,--that it was great kindness on your part to lend me that money, and that she loved you for it; upon which i replied, i was sorry you were not easy in your mind, and so very unhappy: upon which she, in course, like every woman, asked me why; and then i told her merely that it was a love-affair, and a long story, as if i wished to go to sleep. this made her more curious, so, to oblige her, i stayed awake, and told her just what you told me, and how the winter was coming on and you not able to keep your appointment. and what d'ye think the good soul said? `now,' says she, `mcshane, if you love me, and have any gratitude to your friend for his former kindness, you will to-morrow take him money enough, and more than enough, to do as he wishes, and if he gains his wife he can repay you; if not, the money is not an object.' `that's very kind of you, dearest,' said i; `but then will you consent to another thing? for this may prove a difficult affair, and he may want me with him; and would you have any objection to that, dearest?' for you see, o'donahue, i took it into my head that i might be of the greatest use to you: and, moreover, i should like the trip, just by way of a little change. `couldn't he do without you?' replied she, gravely. `i'm afraid not; and although i thought i was in barracks for life, and never to leave you again, yet still for his sake, poor fellow, who has been such a generous fellow to me--' `an' how long would you be away?' said she. `why, it might be two months at the most,' replied i; `but who can tell it to a day?' `well,' said she, `i don't like that part of the concern at all; but still, if it is necessary, as you say, things shouldn't be done by halves,' and then she sighed, poor soul. `then i won't go,' says i. `yes,' says she, after a pause; `i think it's your duty, and therefore you must.' `i'll do just what you wish, my soul,' replied i; `but let's talk more about it to-morrow.' this morning she brought up the subject, and said that she had made up her mind, and that it should be as we had said last night; and she went to the drawer and took out three hundred pounds in gold and notes, and said that if it was not enough, we had only to write for more. now ain't she a jewel, o'donahue? and here's the money." "mcshane, she is a jewel, not because she has given me money, but because her heart's in the right place, and always will be. but i really do not like taking you away with me." "perhaps you don't think i'd be of any use?" "yes; i do not doubt but that you will be, although at present i do not know how." "but i do, for i've thought upon it, and i shall take it very unkind if you don't let me go with you. i want a little divarsion; for you see, o'donahue, one must settle down to domestic happiness by degrees." "be it so, then; all i fear is, i shall occasion pain to your excellent wife." "she has plenty to do, and that drives care away; besides, only consider the pleasure you'll occasion to her when i come back." "i forgot that. now, if you please, i'll call and pay my respects, and also return my grateful thanks." "then, come along." captain o'donahue found mrs mcshane very busily employed supplying her customers. she was, as mcshane had said, a very good-looking woman, although somewhat corpulent: and there was an amiability, frankness, and kindness of disposition so expressed in her countenance, that it was impossible not to feel interested with her. they dined together. o'donahue completely established himself in her good graces, and it was agreed that on that day week the gentlemen should embark for hamburg, and proceed on to petersburg, joey to go with them as their little valet. chapter twelve. an expedition, as of yore, across the waters for a wife. the first step taken by o'donahue was to obtain a passport for himself and suit; and here there was a controversy, mcshane having made up his mind that he would sink the officer, and travel as o'donahue's servant, in which capacity he declared that he would not only be more useful, but also swell his friend's dignity. after a long combat on the part of o'donahue, this was consented to, and the passport was filled up accordingly. "but, by saint patrick! i ought to get some letters of introduction," said o'donahue; "and how is that to be managed--at all events to the english ambassador? let me see--i'll go to the horse guards." o'donahue went accordingly, and, as was always the case there, was admitted immediately to an audience with the commander of the forces. o'donahue put his case forward, stating that he was about to proceed on a secret mission to russia, and requested his royal highness to give him a few letters of introduction. his royal highness very properly observed, that if sent on a secret mission, he would, of course, obtain all the necessary introductions from the proper quarters, and then inquired of o'donahue what his rank was, where he had served, etcetera. to the latter questions o'donahue gave a very satisfactory reply, and convinced the duke that he was an officer of merit. then came the question as to his secret mission, which his royal highness had never heard of. "may it please your royal highness, there's a little mistake about this same secret mission; it's not on account of government that i'm going, but on my own secret service;" and o'donahue, finding himself fairly in for it, confessed that he was after a lady of high rank, and that if he did not obtain letters of introduction, he should not probably find the means of entering the society in which she was to be found, and that as an officer who had served faithfully, he trusted that he should not be refused. his royal highness laughed at his disclosure, and, as there was no objection to giving o'donahue a letter or two, with his usual good-nature he ordered them to be written, and having given them to him, wished him every success. o'donahue bowed to the ground, and quitted the horse guards, delighted with the success of his impudent attempt. being thus provided, the party set off in a vessel bound to hamburg, where they arrived without any accident, although very sea-sick; from hamburg they proceeded to lubeck, and re-embarked at travemunde in a brig, which was bound for riga; the wind was fair, and their passage was short. on their arrival they put up at an hotel, and finding themselves in a country where english was not understood, o'donahue proceeded to the house of the english consul, informing him that he was going on a secret mission to petersburg, and showing, as evidences of his respectability and the truth of his assertions, the letters given him by his royal highness. these were quite sufficient for the consul, who immediately offered his services. not being able to procure at riga a courier who could speak french or english, the consul took a great deal of trouble to assist them in their long journey to petersburg. he made out a list of the posts, the number of versts, and the money that was to be paid; he changed some of o'donahue's gold into russian paper-money, and gave all the necessary instructions. the great difficulty was to find any carriage to carry them to the capital, but at last they found an old cabriolet on four wheels which might answer, and, bidding adieu to the consul, they obtained horses, and set off. "now, mcshane, you must take care of the money, and pay the driver," said o'donahue, pulling out several pieces of thick paper, some coloured red, some blue, and others of a dirty white. "is this money?" said mcshane, with astonishment. "yes, that's roubles." "roubles, are they? i wonder what they'd call them in ireland; they look like soup-tickets." "never mind. and now, mcshane, there are two words which the consul has told me to make use of: one is _scoro_, and when you say that, it means `_go fast_,' and you hold up a small bit of money at the same time." "_scoro_! well, that's a word i sha'n't forget." "but, then, there's another, which is _scorae_." "and what may be the english of that?" "why, that means `_go faster_,' and with that you hold up a larger piece of money." "why, then, it's no use remembering _scoro_ at all, for _scorae_ will do much better; so we need not burden ourselves with the first at all. suppose we try the effect of that last word upon our bear-skin friend who is driving!" mcshane held up a rouble, and called out to the driver--"_scorae_!" the fellow turned his head, smiled, and lashed his horses until they were at the full speed, and then looked back at them for approval. "by the powers, that's no fool of a word! it will take us all the way to saint petersburg as fast as we wish." "we do not sleep on the road, but travel night and day," said o'donahue, "for there is no place worth sleeping at." "and the 'ating, o'donahue?" "we must get that by signs, for we have no other means." on that point they soon found they had no difficulty; and thus they proceeded, without speaking a word of the language, day and night, until they arrived at the capital. at the entrance their passports were demanded, and the officer at the guard-house came out and told them that a cossack would accompany them. a cossack, with a spear as long as a fir-tree, and a beard not quite so long, then took them in charge, and trotted before the carriage, the driver following him at a slow pace. "an't we prisoners?" inquired mcshane. "i don't know, but it looks very like it," replied o'donahue. this, however, was not the case. the carriage drove to a splendid street called the neffsky perspective, and as soon as it stopped at the entrance of an hotel, the cossack, after speaking to the landlord, who came out, took his departure. a journey of four hundred miles, day and night, is no joke: our travellers fell fast asleep in their spacious apartment, and it was not till the next day that they found themselves clean and comfortable, joey being dressed in a rich livery, as a sort of page, and mcshane doing duty as valet when others were present, and when sitting alone with o'donahue, taking his fair share of the bottle. two days after their arrival, the landlord procured for o'donahue a courier who could speak both english and french as well as russian, and almost every other language. it was resolved by o'donahue and mcshane, in council, to dress him up in a splendid uniform; and a carriage having been hired for the month, o'donahue felt that he was in a position to present his credentials to the english ambassador and the other parties for whom he had received letters of introduction. chapter thirteen. in which there is some information relative to the city of st. petersburg. for 300 roubles a month, o'donahue had procured a drosky, very handsomely fitted up; the shaft horse was a splendid trotter, and the other, a beautiful-shaped animal, capered about curving his neck, until his nose almost touched his knee, and prancing, so as to be the admiration of the passers-by. his coachman, whose name was athenasis, had the largest beard in saint petersburg; joey was the smallest tiger; dimitri, one of the tallest and handsomest yagers. altogether, captain o'donahue had laid out his money well; and on a fine, sunny day he set off to present his letters to the english ambassador and other parties. although the letters were very short, it was quite sufficient that they were written by so distinguished and so universally beloved a person as his royal highness. the ambassador, lord saint h, immediately desired o'donahue to consider his house open to him, requesting the pleasure of his company to dinner on the following day, and offered to present him to the emperor at the first levee. o'donahue took his leave, delighted with his success, and then drove to the hotel of the princess woronzoff, count nesselrode, and prince gallitzin, where he found himself equally well received. after his visits were all paid, o'donahue sported his handsome equipage on the english and russian quays, and up and down the neffsky perspective for an hour or two, and then returned to the hotel. "i am very sorry," said o'donahue, after he had narrated to mcshane all that had taken place, "that i permitted you to put yourself down on the passport as valet in the foolish way you have. you would have enjoyed yourself as much as i probably shall, and have been in your proper position in society." "then i'm not sorry at all, o'donahue, and i'll tell you why. i should have enjoyed myself, i do not doubt--but i should have enjoyed myself too much; and, after dining with ambassadors, and princes, and counts, and all that thing--should i ever have gone back comfortable and contented to mrs mcshane, and the cook's shop? no, no--i'm not exactly reconciled, as it is; and if i were to be drinking champagne, and 'ating french kickshaws with the russian nobility for three or four months, dancing perhaps with princesses, and whispering in the ears of duchesses, wouldn't my nose turn up with contempt at the beefsteak pie, and poor mrs mcshane, with all her kind smiles, look twice as corpulent as ever? no, no, i'm better here, and i'm a wise man, although i say it myself." "well, perhaps you are, mcshane; but still i do not like that i should be spending your money in this way without your having your share of it at least." "my share of it--now, o'donahue, suppose i had come over here on my own account, where should i have been? i could not have mustered up the amiable impudence you did, to persuade the commander-in-chief to give me letters to the ambassador: nor could i have got up such a turn-out, nor have fitted the turn-out so well as you do. i should have been as stupid as an owl, just doing what i have done the whole of the blessed morning for want of your company--looking after one of the floating bridges across the river, and spitting into the stream, just to add my mite to the baltic sea." "i'm sorry you were not better amused." "i was amused; for i was thinking of the good-humoured face of mrs mcshane, which was much better than being in high company, and forgetting her entirely. let me alone for amusing myself after my own fashion, o'donahue, and that's all i wish. i suppose you have heard nothing in your travels about your powlish princess?" "of course not; it will require some tact to bring in her name--i must do it as if by mere accident." "shall i ask the courier if she is an acquaintance of his?" "an acquaintance, mcshane?" "i don't mean on visiting terms; but if he knows anything about the family, or where they live?" "no, mcshane, i think you had better not; we do not know much of him at present. i shall dine at the ambassador's tomorrow, and there will be a large party." during the day invitations for evening parties were brought in from the prince gallitzin and princess woronzoff. "the plot thickens fast, as the saying is," observed mcshane; "you'll be certain to meet your fair lady at some of these places." "that is what i trust to do," replied o'donahue; "if not, as soon as i'm intimate, i shall make inquiries about her; but we must first see how the land lies." o'donahue dined at the ambassador's, and went to the other parties, but did not meet with the object of his search. being a good musician, he was much in request in so musical a society as that of saint petersburg. the emperor was still at his country palace, and o'donahue had been more than a fortnight at the capital without there being an opportunity for the ambassador to present him at court. dimitri, the person whom o'donahue engaged as courier, was a very clever, intelligent fellow; and as he found that o'donahue had all the liberality of an irishman, and was in every respect a most indulgent master, he soon had his interest at heart. perhaps the more peculiar intimacy between o'donahue and mcshane, as a valet, assisted dimitri in forming a good opinion of the former, as the hauteur and distance generally preserved by the english towards their domestics are very displeasing to the continental servants, who, if permitted to be familiar, will not only serve you more faithfully, but be satisfied with more moderate wages. dimitri spoke english and french pretty well, german and russian of course perfectly. he was a russian by birth, had been brought up at the foundling hospital, at moscow, and therefore was not a serf. he soon became intimate with mcshane: and as soon as the latter discovered that there was no intention on the part of dimitri to be dishonest, he was satisfied, and treated him with cordiality. "tell your master this," said dimitri, "never to give his opinion on political matters before any one while in petersburg, or he will be reported to the government, and will be looked upon with suspicion. all the servants and couriers here, indeed every third person you meet, is an agent of police." "then it's not at all unlikely that you are one yourself," replied mcshane. "i am so," replied dimitri, coolly, "and all the better for your master. i shall be ordered to make my report in a few days, and i shall not fail to do so." "and what will they ask you?" said mcshane. "they will ask me first who and what your master is? whether i have discovered from you, if he is of family and importance in his own country? whether he has expressed any political opinions? and whether i have discovered the real business which brought him here?" "and what will you reply to all this?" answered mcshane. "why, i hardly know. i wish i knew what he wishes me to say, for he is a gentleman whom i am very fond of, and that's the truth; perhaps you can tell me?" "why, yes, i know a good deal about him, that's certain. as for his family, there's not a better in ireland or england, for he's royal if he had his right." "what!" exclaimed dimitri. "as sure as i'm sitting in this old arm-chair, didn't he bring letters from the brother of the present king? does that go for nothing in this country of yours? or do you value men by the length of their beards?" "men are valued here not by their titles, but by their rank as officers. a general is a greater man than a prince," replied dimitri. "with all my heart, for then i'm somebody," replied mcshane. "you?" replied the courier. "i mean my master," returned mcshane, correcting himself; "for he's an officer, and a good one, too." "yes, that may be; but you said yourself," replied the courier, laughing. "my good friend, a valet to any one in petersburg is no better than one of the mujiks who work in the streets. well, i know that our master is an officer, and of high rank; as for his political opinions, i have never heard him express any, except his admiration of the city, and of course of the emperor." "most decidedly; and of the empress also," replied mcshane. "that is not at all necessary," continued dimitri, laughing. "in fact, he has no business to admire the empress." "but he admires the government and the laws," said mcshane; "and you may add, my good fellow--the army and the navy--by the powers, he's all admiration, all over!--you may take my word for it." "well, i will do so; but then there is one other question to reply to, which is, why did he come here? what is his business?" "to look about him, to be sure; to spend his money like a gentleman; to give his letters of introduction; and to amuse himself," replied mcshane. "but this is dry talking, so, dimitri, order a bottle of champagne, and then we'll wet our whistle before we go on." "champagne! will your master stand that?" inquired dimitri. "stand it? to be sure, and he'd be very angry if he thought i did not make myself comfortable. tell them to put it down in the bill for me; if they doubt the propriety, let them ask my master." dimitri went and ordered the champagne. as soon as they had a glass, dimitri observed, "your master is a fine liberal fellow, and i would serve him to the last day of my life; but you see that the reasons you give for your master being here are the same as are given by everybody else, whether they come as spies or secret emissaries, or to foment insurrection; that answer, therefore, is considered as no answer at all by the police (although very often a true one), and they will try to find out whether it is so or not." "what other cause can a gentleman like him have for coming here? he is not going to dirty his hands with speculation, information, or any other botheration," replied mcshane, tossing off his glass. "i don't say so; but his having letters from the king's brother will be considered suspicious." "the devil it will. now in our country that would only create a suspicion that he was a real gentleman--that's all." "you don't understand this country," replied dimitri. "no, it beats my comprehension entirely, and that's a fact; so fill up your glass. i hope it's not treason; but if it is, i can't help saying it. my good friend dimitri--" "stop," said dimitri, rising and shutting the door, "now, what is it?" "why, just this; i haven't seen one good-looking woman since i've been in this good-looking town of yours; now, that's the truth." "there's more truth than treason in that," replied the courier; "but still there are some beautiful women among the higher classes." "it's to be hoped so; for they've left no beauty for the lower, at all events." "we have very beautiful women in poland," said the courier. "why don't you bring a few here, then?" "there are a great many polish ladies in petersburg at this moment." "then go down and order another bottle," said mcshane, "and we'll drink their healths." the second bottle was finished, and mcshane, who had been drinking before, became less cautious. "you said," observed he, "that you have many polish ladies in petersburg; did you ever hear of a princess czartowinky?--i think that's the name." "czartorinski, you mean," replied dimitri; "to be sure i did; i served in the family some years ago, when the old prince was alive. but where did you see her?" "in england, to be sure." "well, that's probable, for she has just returned from travelling with her uncle." "is she now in petersburg, my good fellow?" "i believe she is--but why do wish to know?" "merely asked--that's all." "now, macshanovich,"--for such was the familiar way in which dimitri addressed his supposed brother-servant--"i suspect this princess czartorinski is some way connected with your master's coming here. tell me the truth--is such the case? i'm sure it is." "then you know more than i do," replied mcshane, correcting himself, "for i'm not exactly in my master's secrets; all that i do know is, that my master met her in england, and i thought her very handsome." "and so did he?" "that's as may be; between ourselves, i've an idea he was a little smitten in that quarter; but that's only my own opinion, nothing more." "has he ever spoken about her since you were here?" said dimitri. "just once, as i handed his waistcoat to him; he said--`i wonder if all the ladies are as handsome as that polish princess that we met in cumberland?'" "if i thought he wished it, or cared for her, i would make inquiry, and soon find out all about her; but otherwise, it's no use taking the trouble," replied the courier. "well, then, will you give me your hand, and promise to serve faithfully, if i tell you all i know about the matter?" "by the blessed saint nicholas, i do!" replied dimitri; "you may trust me." "well, then, it's my opinion that my master's over head and ears in love with her, and has come here for no other purpose." "well, i'm glad you told me that; it will satisfy the police." "the police; why murder and irish! you're not going to inform the police, you villain?" "not with whom he is in love, most certainly, but that he has come here on that account; it will satisfy them, for they have no fear of a man that's in love, and he will not be watched. depend upon it, i cannot do a better thing to serve our master." "well, then, perhaps you are right. i don't like this champagne--get a bottle of burgundy, dimitri. don't look so hard--it's all right. the captain dines out every day, and has ordered me to drink for the honour of the house." "he's a capital master," replied dimitri, who had begun to feel the effects of the former bottles. as soon as the third bottle was tapped, mcshane continued-"now, dimitri, i've given my opinion, and i can tell you, if my master has, as i suspect, come here about this young lady, and succeeds in obtaining her, it will be a blessed thing for you and me; for he's as generous as the day, and has plenty of money. do you know who she is?" "to be sure i do; she is an only daughter of the late prince czartorinski, and now a sort of ward under the protection of the emperor. she inherits all the estates, except one which was left to found an hospital at warsaw, and is a rich heiress. it is supposed the emperor will bestow her upon one of his generals. she is at the palace, and a maid of honour to the empress." "whew!" whistled mcshane; "won't there be a difficulty." "i should think so," replied the courier, gravely. "he must run away with her," said mcshane, after a pause. "how will he get to see her?" "he will not see her, so as to speak with her, in the palace; that is not the custom here; but he might meet her elsewhere." "to be sure, at a party or a ball," said mcshane. "no, that would not do; ladies and gentlemen keep very apart here in general company. he might say a word or two when dancing, but that is all." "but how is he to meet her, when, in this cursed place of yours, if men and women keep at arm's length?" "that must depend upon her. tell me, does she love him?" "well, now, that's a home question: she never told him she did, and she never told me, that's certain; but still i've an idea that she does." "then all i can say, macshanovich, is, that your master had better be very careful what he is about. of course, he knows not that you have told me anything; but as soon as he thinks proper to trust me, i then will do my utmost in his service." "you speak like a very rational, sensible, intelligent courier," replied mcshane, "and so now let us finish the bottle. here's good luck to captain o'donahue, alive or dead: and now--please the fleas--i'll be asleep in less than ten minutes." chapter fourteen. going to court, and courting. when mcshane awoke the next morning he tried to recall what had passed between him and dimitri, and did not feel quite convinced that he had not trusted him too much. "i think," said he, "it was all upon an _if_. yes, sure; _if_ o'donahue was in love, and _if_ she was. yes, i'm sure that it was all upon _ifs_. however, i must go and tell o'donahue what has taken place." mcshane did so; and o'donahue, after a little thought, replied, "well, i don't know: perhaps it's all for the best; for you see i must have trusted somebody, and the difficulty would have been to know whom to trust, for everybody belongs to the police here, i believe: i think, myself, the fellow is honest; at all events, i can make it worth his while to be so." "he would not have told me he belonged to the police if he wished to trap us," replied mcshane. "that's very true, and on the whole i think we could not do better. but we are going on too fast; who knows whether she meant anything by what she said to me when we parted; or, if she did then, whether she may not have altered her mind since?" "such things have been--that's a fact, o'donahue." "and will be, as long as the world lasts. however, to-morrow i am to be presented--perhaps i may see her. i'm glad that i know that i may chance to meet her, as i shall now be on my guard." "and what shall i say to dimitri?" "say that you mentioned her name, and where she was, and that i had only replied, that i should like to see her again." "exactly; that will leave it an open question, as the saying is," replied mcshane. the next day o'donahue, in his uniform, drove to the ambassador's hotel, to accompany him to the annishkoff palace, where he was to be presented to the emperor. o'donahue was most graciously received, the emperor walking up to him, as he stood in the circle, and inquiring after the health of his royal highness the commander-in-chief, what service he had been employed upon, etcetera. he then told o'donahue that the empress would be most glad to make his acquaintance, and hoped that he would make a long stay at saint petersburg. it was with a quickened pulse that o'donahue followed the ambassador into the empress's apartments. he had not waited there more than five minutes, in conversation with the ambassador when the doors opened, and the empress, attended by her chamberlain, and followed by her ladies in waiting and maids of honour, entered the room. o'donahue had made up his mind not to take his eyes off the empress until the presentation was over. as soon as he had kissed hands, and answered the few questions which were graciously put to him, he retired to make room for others, and then, for the first time, did he venture to cast his eyes on the group of ladies attending the empress. the first that met his view were unknown, but, behind all the rest, he at length perceived the princess czartorinski, talking and laughing with another lady. after a short time she turned round, and their eyes met. the princess recognised him with a start, and then turned away and put her hand up to her breast, as if the shock had taken away her breath. once more she turned her face to o'donahue, and this time he was fully satisfied by her looks that he was welcome. ten minutes after, the ambassador summoned o'donahue, and they quitted the palace. "i have seen her, mcshane," said o'donahue; "she is more beautiful, and i am more in love than ever. and now, what am i to do?" "that's just the difficulty," replied mcshane. "shall i talk with dimitri, or shall i hold my tongue, or shall i think about it while you go to dinner at the ambassador's?" "i cannot dine out to-day, mcshane. i will write an excuse." "well, now, i do believe you're in for it in good earnest. my love never spoiled my appetite; on the contrary, it was my appetite that made me fall in love." "i wish she had not been a princess," said o'donahue, throwing himself on the sofa. "that's nothing at all here," replied mcshane. "a _princess_ is to be had. now, if she had been a _general_ it would have been all up with you. military rank is everything here, as dimitri says." "she's an angel," replied o'donahue, with a sigh. "that's rank in heaven, but goes for nothing in petersburg," replied mcshane. "dimitri tells me they've _civil_ generals here, which i conceive are improvements on our staff, for devil a civil general i've had the pleasure of serving under." "what shall i do," said o'donahue, getting up and preparing to write his note to the ambassador. "eat your dinner, drink a bottle of champagne, and then i'll come and talk it over with you, that's all you can do at present. give me the note, and i'll send dimitri off with it at once, and order up your dinner." mcshane's advice not being very bad, it was followed. o'donahue had finished his dinner, and was sitting by the fire with mcshane, when there was a knock at the door. mcshane was summoned, and soon returned, saying, "there's a little fellow that wants to speak with you, and won't give his message. he's a queer little body, and not so bad-looking either, with a bolster on the top of his head, and himself not higher than a pillow; a pigeon could sit upon his shoulder and peck up peas out of his shoes; he struts like a grenadier, and, by the powers! a grenadier's cap would serve as an extinguisher for him. shall i show him in?" "certainly," replied o'donahue. the reader may not be aware that there is no part of the globe where there are so many dwarfs as at saint petersburg; there is scarcely an hotel belonging to a noble family without one or two, if not more; they are very kindly treated, and are, both in appearance and temper, very superior to the dwarfs occasionally met with elsewhere. one of this diminutive race now entered the room, dressed in a turkish costume; he was remarkably well made and handsome in person; he spoke sufficient french to inquire if he addressed himself to captain o'donahue; and on being replied to in the affirmative, he gave him a small billet, and then seated himself on the sofa with all the freedom of a petted menial. o'donahue tore open the note; it was very short:-"as i know you cannot communicate with me, i write to say that i was delighted at your having kept your promise. you shall hear from me again as soon as i know where i can meet you; in the meantime, be cautious. the bearer is to be trusted; he belongs to me. "c." o'donahue pressed the paper to his lips, and then sat down to reply. we shall not trouble the reader with what he said; it is quite sufficient that the lady was content with the communication, and also at the report from her little messenger of the captain's behaviour when he had read her billet. two or three days afterwards, o'donahue received a note from a german widow lady, a countess erhausen, particularly requesting he would call upon her in the afternoon, at three o'clock. as he had not as yet had the pleasure of being introduced to the countess, although he had often heard her spoken of in the first society, o'donahue did not fail in his appointment, as he considered that it was possible that the princess czartorinski might be connected with it; nor was he deceived, for on his entering the saloon, he found the princess sitting on the sofa with madame erhausen, a young and pretty woman, not more than twenty-five years of age. the princess rose, and greeted captain o'donahue, and then introduced the countess as her first cousin. a few minutes after his introduction, the countess retired, leaving them alone. o'donahue did not lose this opportunity of pouring out the real feelings of his heart. "you have come a long way to see me, captain o'donahue, and i ought to be grateful," replied the princess: "indeed, i have much pleasure in renewing our acquaintance." o'donahue, however, did not appear satisfied with this mere admission: he became eloquent in his own cause, pointed out the cruelty of having brought him over to see her again if he was not to be rewarded, and after about an hour's pleading he was sitting on the sofa by her side, with her fair hand in his, and his arm round her slender waist. they parted, but through the instrumentality of the little dwarf, they often met again at the same rendezvous. occasionally they met in society, but before others they were obliged to appear constrained and formal; there was little pleasure in such meetings, and when o'donahue could not see the princess his chief pleasure was to call upon madame erhausen and talk about her. "you are aware, captain o'donahue," said the countess one day, "that there will be a great difficulty to overcome in this affair. the princess is a sort of ward of the emperor's, and it is said that he has already, in his own mind, disposed of her hand." "i am aware of that," replied o'donahue; "and i know no other means than running away with her." "that would never do," replied the countess; "you could not leave petersburg without passports; nor could she leave the palace for more than an hour or two without being missed. you would soon be discovered, and then you would lose her for ever." "then what can i do, my dear madame? shall i throw myself upon the indulgence of the emperor?" "no, that would not answer either; she is too rich a prize to be permitted to go into foreign hands. i'll tell you what you must first do." "i'm all attention." "you must make love to me," replied the countess. "nay, understand me. i mean that you must _appear_ to make love to me, and the report of our marriage must be spread. the emperor will not interfere in such a case; you must do so to avoid suspicion. you have been here very often, and your equipage has been constantly seen at the door. if it is supposed you do not come on my account, it will be inquired why you do come; and there is no keeping a secret at petersburg. after it is supposed that it is a settled affair between us, we then may consider what next ought to be done. my regard for my cousin alone induces me to consent to this; indeed, it is the only way she could avoid future misery." "but is the emperor so despotic on these points?" "an emperor is not to be trifled with; a ward of the emperor is considered sacred--at least, so far, that if a russian were to wed one without permission, he probably would be sent to siberia. with an englishman it is different, perhaps; and, once married, you would be safe, as you could claim the protection of your ambassador. the great point is, to let it be supposed that you are about to marry some one else; and then, suspicion not being awakened, you may gain your wish." "but tell me, madame,--that i may be safe from the emperor's displeasure is true--but would the princess, after he discovered it? could he not take her away from me, and send her to siberia for disobedience?" "i hope, by the means i propose, to get you both clear of the emperor-at least, till his displeasure is softened down. me he cannot hurt; he can only order me out of his dominions. as for the princess, i should think that, if once married to you, she would be safe, for you could claim the protection of the ambassador for her, as your wife, as well as for yourself. do you comprehend me now?" "i do, madame; and may blessings follow you for your kindness. i shall in future act but by your directions?" "that is exactly what i wished you to say; and so now, captain o'donahue, farewell." chapter fifteen. a runaway and a hard pursuit. "well, now," said mcshane, after he had been informed by o'donahue of what had passed between him and the countess,--"this is all very pretty, and looks very well; but tell me, are we to trust that fellow dimitri? can we do without him? i should say not when it comes to the finale; and is it not dangerous to keep him out of our confidence, being such a sharp, keen-witted fellow? nay, more, as he has stated his wish to serve you in any way, it is only treating him fairly. he knows the little dwarf who has been here so often; indeed, they were fellow-servants in the czartorinski family, for he told me so. i would trust him." "i think so, too; but we must not tell him all." "no, that we certainly need not, for he will find it out without telling." "well, mcshane, do as you please; but on second thoughts, i will speak to the countess to-morrow." o'donahue did so, the countess called upon the princess at the palace, and the next morning o'donahue received a note stating that dimitri was to be trusted. o'donahue then sent for the courier, and told him that he was about to put confidence in him on a promise of his fidelity. "i understand you, sir, and all you intend to do; there is no occasion to say anything more to me, until you want my assistance. i will not, in the meantime, neglect your interest, for i hope to remain with you, and that is the only reward i ask for any services i may perform. i have only one remark to make now, which is, that it will be necessary, a few days before you leave petersburg, to let me know, that i may advertise it." "advertise it!" "yes, sir, you must advertise your departure, that you may not run away in debt. such is the custom; and without three notices being put in the _gazette_, the police will not give you your passport." "i am glad that you mentioned it. of course you are aware that i am paying attention to the countess erhausen, and shall leave petersburg with her, i trust, as my wife?" "i understand sir, and shall take care that your intimacy there shall be known to everybody." so saying, dimitri left the room. the winter now set in with unusual severity. the river was one mass of ice, the floating bridges had been removed, the montagnes-russes became the amusement of the day, and the sledges were galloping about in every direction. for more than a month o'donahue continued his pretended addresses to the fair cousin of the princess, and during that time he did not once see the real object of his attachment: indeed, the dwarf never made his appearance, and all communication, except an occasional note from her to the countess, was, from prudence, given up. the widow was rich, and had often been pressed to renew her bonds, but had preferred her liberty. o'donahue, therefore, was looked upon as a fortunate man, and congratulated upon his success. nor did the widow deny the projected union, except in a manner so as to induce people to believe in the certainty of its being arranged. o'donahue's equipage was always at her door, and it was expected that the marriage would immediately take place, when o'donahue attended a levee given by the emperor on the feast of saint nicholas. the emperor, who had been very civil to o'donahue, as he walked past him, said, "well, captain o'donahue, so i understand that you intend to run away with one of our fairest and prettiest ladies--one of the greatest ornaments of my court?" "i trust that i have your majesty's permission so to do," replied o'donahue, bowing low. "oh, certainly you have; and, moreover, our best wishes for your happiness." "i humbly thank your majesty," replied o'donahue; "still i trust your majesty does not think that i wish to transplant her to my own country altogether, and that i shall be permitted to reside, for the major part of the year, in your majesty's dominions." "nothing will give me greater pleasure; and it will be a satisfaction to feel that i shall gain instead of losing by the intended marriage." "by the powers! but i will remind him of this, some day or another," thought o'donahue. "haven't i his permission to the marriage, and to remain in the country?" everything was now ripe for the execution of the plot. the countess gave out that she was going to her country-seat, about ten miles from saint petersburg; and it was naturally supposed that she was desirous that the marriage should be private, and that she intended to retire there to have the ceremony performed; and o'donahue advertised his departure in the _gazette_. the princess czartorinski produced a letter from the countess, requesting her, as a favour, to obtain leave from the empress to pass two or three days with her in the country; and the empress, as the countess was first-cousin to the princess, did not withhold her consent; on the contrary, when the princess left the palace, she put a case of jewels in her hand, saying, "these are for the bride, with the good wishes and protection of the empress, as long as she remains in this country." one hour afterwards o'donahue was rewarded for all his long forbearance by clasping his fair one in his arms. a priest had been provided, and was sent forward to the country chateau, and at ten in the morning all the parties were ready. the princess and her cousin set off in the carriage, followed by o'donahue, with mcshane and his suite. everything was _en regle_. the passports had been made out for germany, to which country it was reported the countess would proceed a few days after the marriage, and the princess was to return to the palace. as soon as they arrived at the chateau the ceremony was performed, and o'donahue obtained his prize; and to guard against any mishap, it was decided that they should leave the next morning, on their way to the frontier. dimitri had been of the greatest use, had prepared against every difficulty, and had fully proved his fidelity. the parting between the countess and her cousin was tender. "how much do i owe, dear friend!" said the princess. "what risk do you incur for me! how will you brave the anger of the emperor?" "i care little for his anger. i am a woman, and not a subject of his; but, before you go, you must both write a letter--your husband to the emperor, reminding him of his having given his consent to the marriage, and his wish that he should remain in his dominions; and let him add his sincere wish, if permitted, to be employed in his majesty's service. you, my dear cousin, must write to the empress, reminding her of her promise of protection, and soliciting her good offices with the emperor. i shall play my own game; but, depend upon it, it will all end in a laugh." o'donahue and his wife both wrote their letters, and o'donahue also wrote one to the english ambassador, informing him of what had taken place, and requesting his kind offices. as soon as they were finished, the countess bade them farewell, saying, "i shall not send these letters until you are well out of reach, depend upon it;" and, with many thanks for her kindness, o'donahue and his bride bade her adieu, and set off on their long journey. the carriage procured for their journey was what is called a german _batarde_, which is very similar to an english chariot with coach-box, fixed upon a sleigh. inside were o'donahue and his young bride, mcshane preferring to ride outside on the box with joey, that he might not be in the way, as a third person invariably is, with a newly married couple. the snow was many feet deep on the ground; but the air was dry, and the sun shone bright. the bride was handed in, enveloped in a rich mantle of sable; o'donahue followed, equally protected against the cold; while mcshane and joey fixed themselves on the box, so covered up in robes of wolf-skins, and wrappers of bear-skins for their feet, that you could see but the tips of their noses. on the front of the sleigh, below the box of the carriage, were seated the driver and the courier; four fiery young horses were pawing with impatience; the signal was given, and off they went at the rate of sixteen miles an hour. "where's the guns, joey, and the pistols, and the ammunition?" inquired mcshane; "we're going through a wild sort of country, i expect." "i have put them in myself, and i can lay my hands on them immediately, sir," replied joey; "the guns are behind us, and your pistols and the ammunition are at my feet; the captain's are in the carriage." "that's all right, then; i like to know where to lay my hands upon my tools. just have the goodness to look at my nose now and then, joey; and if you see a white spot on the tip of it, you'll be pleased to tell me, and i'll do the same for you. mrs mcshane would be anything but pleased if i came home with only half a handle to my face." the journey was continued at the same rapid pace until the close of the day, when they arrived at the post-house; there they stopped, mcshane and joey, with the assistance of the courier, preparing their supper from the stores which they brought with them. after supper they retired, o'donahue and his wife sleeping in the carriage, which was arranged so as to form a bed if required; while mcshane and joey made it out how they could upon the cloaks and what little straw they could procure, on the floor of the post-house, where, as mcshane said the next morning, they "had more bed-fellows than were agreeable, although he contrived to get a few hours' sleep in spite of the jumping vagabonds." when they rose the next morning, they found that the snow had just begun to fall fast. as soon as they had breakfasted they set out, nevertheless, and proceeded at the same pace. mcshane telling joey, who was, as well as himself, almost embedded in it before the day was half over, that it was "better than rain, at all events;" to be sure that was cold comfort, but any comfort is better than none. o'donahue's request for mcshane to come inside was disregarded; he was as tough as little joey, at all events, and it would be a pity to interrupt the conversation. about four o'clock they had changed their horses at a small village, and were about three miles on their last stage, for that day's journey, when they passed through a pine-forest. "there's a nice place for an ambuscade, joey, if there were any robbers about here," observed mcshane. "murder and irish! what's those chaps running among the trees so fast, and keeping pace with us? i say, dimitri," continued mcshane, pointing to them, "what are those?" the courier looked in the direction pointed out, and as soon as he had done so, spoke to the driver, who, casting his eyes hastily in the direction, applied the lash to his horses, and set off with double speed. "wolves, sir," replied the courier, who then pulled out his pistols, and commenced loading them. "wolves!" said mcshane, "and hungry enough, i'll warrant; but they don't hope to make a meal of us, do they? at all events we will give them a little fight for it. come, joey, i see that dimitri don't like it, so we must shake off the snow, and get our ammunition ready." this was soon done; the guns were unstrapped from the back of the coach-box, the pistols got from beneath their feet, and all were soon ready, loaded and primed. "it's lucky there's such a mist on the windows of the carriage, that the lady can't see what we're after, or she'd be frightened, perhaps," said joey. the rapid pace at which the driver had put his horses had for a time left the wolves in the rear; but now they were seen following the carriage at about a quarter of a mile distant, having quitted the forest and taken to the road. "here they come, the devils! one, two, three--there are seven of them. i suppose this is what they call a covey in these parts. were you ever wolf-hunting before, joey?" "i don't call this wolf-hunting," replied joey; "i think the wolves are hunting us." "it's all the same, my little poacher--it's a hunt, at all events. they are gaining on us fast; we shall soon come to an explanation." the courier now climbed up to the coach-box to reconnoitre, and he shook his head, telling them in very plain english that he did not like it; that he had heard that the wolves were out in consequence of the extreme severity of the weather, and that he feared that these seven were only the advance of a whole pack; that they had many versts to go, for the stage was a long one, and it would be dark before they were at the end of it. "have you ever been chased by them before?" said joey. "yes," replied the courier, "more than once; it's the horses that they are so anxious to get hold of. three of our horses are very good, but the fourth is not very well, the driver says, and he is fearful that he will not hold out; however, we must keep them off as long as we can; we must not shoot at them till the last moment." "why not?" inquired mcshane. "because the whole pack would scent the blood at miles, and redouble their efforts to come up with us. there is an empty bottle by you, sir; throw it on the road behind the carriage; that will stop them for a time." "an empty bottle stop them! well, that's queer: it may stop a man drinking, because he can get no mote out of it. however, as you please, gentlemen; here's to drink my health, bad manners to you," said mcshane, throwing the bottle over the carriage. the courier was right: at the sight of the bottle in the road, the wolves, who are of a most suspicious nature, and think that there is a trap laid for them in everything, stopped short, and gathered round it cautiously; the carriage proceeded, and in a few minutes the animals were nearly out of sight. "well, that bothers me entirely," said mcshane; "an empty bottle is as good to them as a charged gun." "but look, sir, they are coming on again," said joey, "and faster than ever. i suppose they were satisfied that there was nothing in it." the courier mounted again to the box where joey and mcshane were standing. "i think you had a ball of twine," said he to joey, "when you were tying down the baskets; where is it?" "it is here under the cushion," replied joey, searching for the twine and producing it. "what shall we find to tie to it?" said the courier; "something not too heavy--a bottle won't do." "what's it for?" inquired mcshane. "to trail, sir," replied the courier. "to trail! i think they're fast enough upon our trail already; but if you want to help them, a red herring's the thing." "no, sir, a piece of red cloth would do better," replied the courier. "red cloth! one would think you were fishing for mackerel," replied mcshane. "will this piece of black cloth do, which was round the lock of the gun?" said joey. "yes, i think it will," replied the courier. the courier made fast the cloth to the end of the twine, and throwing it clear of the carriage, let the ball run out, until he had little more than the bare end in his hand, and the cloth was about forty yards behind the carriage, dragging over the snow. "they will not pass the cloth, sir," said the courier; "they think that it's a trap." sure enough the wolves, which had been gaining fast on the carriage, now retreated again; and although they continued the pursuit, it was at a great distance. "we have an hour and a half more to go before we arrive, and it will be dark, i'm afraid," said the courier; "all depends upon the horse holding out; i'm sure the pack is not far behind." "and how many are there in a pack?" inquired mcshane. the courier shrugged up his shoulders. "perhaps two or three hundred." "oh! the devil! don't i wish i was at home with mrs mcshane." for half an hour they continued their rapid pace, when the horse referred to showed symptoms of weakness. still the wolves had not advanced beyond the piece of black cloth which trailed behind the carriage. "i think that, considering that they are so hungry, they are amazing shy of the bait," said mcshane. "by all the powers, they've stopped again!" "the string has broke, sir, and they are examining the cloth," cried joey. "is there much line left?" inquired the courier, with some alarm. "no, it has broken off by rubbing against the edge of the carriage behind." the courier spoke to the driver, who now rose from his seat and lashed his horses furiously; but although three of the horses were still fresh, the fourth could not keep up with them, and there was every prospect of his being dragged down on his knees, as more than once he stumbled and nearly fell. in the meantime the wolves had left the piece of cloth behind them, and were coming up fast with the carriage. "we must fire on them now, sir," said the courier, going back to his seat, "or they will tear the flanks of the horses." mcshane and joey seized their guns, the headmost wolf was now nearly ahead of the carriage; joey fired, and the animal rolled over in the snow. "that's a good shot, joey; load again; here's at another." mcshane fired, and missed the animal, which rushed forward; the courier's pistol, however, brought it down, just as he was springing on the hindmost horses. o'donahue, astonished at the firing, now lowered down the glass, and inquired the reason. mcshane replied, that the wolves were on them, and that he'd better load his pistols in case they were required. the wolves hung back a little upon the second one falling, but still continued the chase, although at a more respectable distance. the road was now on a descent, but the sick horse could hardly hold on his legs. "a little half-hour more and we shall be in the town," said the courier, climbing up to the coach-seat, and looking up the road they had passed; "but saint nicholas preserve us!" he exclaimed; and he turned round and spoke in hurried accents to the driver in the russian language. again the driver lashed furiously, but in vain; the poor horse was dead-beat. "what is the matter now?" inquired mcshane. "do you see that black mass coming down the hill? it's the main pack of wolves; i fear we are lost; the horse cannot go on." "then why not cut his traces, and go on with the three others?" cried joey. "the boy is right," replied the man, "and there is no time to lose." the courier went down on the sleigh, spoke to the driver in russian, and the horses were pulled up. the courier jumped out with his knife, and commenced cutting the traces of the tired horse, while the other three, who knew that the wolves were upon them, plunged furiously in their harness, that they might proceed. it was a trying moment. the five wolves now came up; the first two were brought down by the guns of mcshane and joey, and o'donahue killed a third from the carriage windows. one of the others advanced furiously, and sprang upon the horse which the courier was cutting free. joey leapt down, and put his pistol to the animal's head, and blew out his brains, while mcshane, who had followed our hero, with the other pistol disabled the only wolf that remained. but this danger which they had escaped from was nothing compared to that which threatened them; the whole pack now came sweeping like a torrent down the hill, with a simultaneous yell which might well strike terror into the bravest. the horse, which had fallen down when the wolf seized him, was still not clear of the sleigh, and the other three were quite unmanageable. mcshane, joey, and the courier, at last drew him clear from the track; they jumped into their places, and away they started again like the wind, for the horses were maddened with fear. the whole pack of wolves was not one hundred yards from them when they recommenced their speed, and even then mcshane considered that there was no hope. but the horse that was left on the road proved their salvation; the starved animals darted upon it, piling themselves one on the other, snarling and tearing each other in their conflict for the feast. it was soon over; in the course of three minutes the carcass had disappeared, and the major portion of the pack renewed their pursuit; but the carriage had proceeded too far ahead of them, and their speed being now uninterrupted, they gained the next village, and o'donahue had the satisfaction of leading his terrified bride into the chamber of the post-house, where she fainted as soon as she was placed in a chair. "i'll tell you what, joey, i've had enough of wolves for all my life," said mcshane; "and joey, my boy, you're a good shot in the first place, and a brave little fellow in the next; here's a handful of roubles, as they call them, for you to buy lollipops with, but i don't think you'll find a shop that sells them hereabouts. never mind, keep your sweet tooth till you get to old england again; and after i tell mrs mcshane what you have done for us this day, she will allow you to walk into a leg of beef, or round a leg of mutton, or dive into a beefsteak pie, as long as you live, whether it be one hundred years more or less. i've said it, and don't you forget it; and now, as the wolves have not made their supper upon us, let us go and see what we can sup upon ourselves." chapter sixteen. return to england. the remainder of the journey was completed without any further adventure, and they at last found themselves out of the russian dominions, when they were met by the uncle of the princess, who, as a pole, was not sorry that his niece had escaped from being wedded to a russian. he warmly greeted o'donahue, as his connection, and immediately exerted all the interest which he had at the court to pacify the emperor. when the affair first became known, which it soon did, by the princess not returning to court, his majesty was anything but pleased at being outwitted; but the persuasions of the empress, the pleading of the english ambassador, who exerted himself strenuously for o'donahue, with the efforts made in other quarters, and more than all, the letter of o'donahue, proving that the emperor had given his consent (unwittingly, it is true), coupled with his wish to enter into his service, at last produced the desired effect, and after two months a notice of their pardon and permission to return was at last despatched by the empress. o'donahue considered that it was best to take immediate advantage of this turn in his favour, and retrace his way to the capital. mcshane, who had been quite long enough in the situation of a domestic, now announced his intention to return home; and o'donahue, aware that he was separating him from his wife, did not, of course, throw any obstacle in the way of his departure. our little hero, who has lately become such a cipher in our narrative, was now the subject of consideration. o'donahue wished him to remain with him, but mcshane opposed it. "i tell you, o'donahue, that it's no kindness to keep him here; the boy is too good to be a page at a lady's shoestring, or even a servant to so great a man as you are yourself now: besides, how will he like being buried here in a foreign country, and never go back to old england?" "but what will he do better in england, mcshane?" "depend upon it, major," said the princess, for she was now aware of mcshane's rank, "i will treat him like a son." "still he will be a servant, my lady, and that's not the position-although, begging your pardon, an emperor might be proud to be your servant; yet that's not the position for little joey." "prove that you will do better for him, mcshane, and he is yours: but without you do, i am too partial to him to like to part with him. his conduct on the journey--" "yes, exactly, his conduct on the journey, when the wolves would have shared us out between them, is one great reason for my objection. he is too good for a menial, and that's the fact. you ask me what i intend to do with him; it is not so easy to answer that question, because you see, my lady, there's a certain mrs mcshane in the way, who must be consulted; but i think that when i tell her, what i consider to be as near the truth as most things which are said in this world, that if it had not been for the courage and activity of little joey, a certain major mcshane would have been by this time eaten and digested by a pack of wolves, why, i then think, as mrs mcshane and i have no child, nor prospect of any, as i know of, that she may be well inclined to come into my way of thinking, and of adopting him as her own son; but, of course, this cannot be said without my consulting with mrs mcshane, seeing as how the money is her own, and she has a right to do as she pleases with it." "that, indeed, alters the case," replied o'donahue, "and i must not stand in the way of the boy's interest; still i should like to do something for him." "you have done something for him, o'donahue; you have prevented his starving; and if he has been of any use to you, it is but your reward-so you and he are quits. well, then, it is agreed that i take him with me?" "yes," replied o'donahue. "i cannot refuse my consent after what you have said." two days after this conversation the parties separated: o'donahue, with his wife, accompanied by dimitri, set off on their return to saint petersburg; while mcshane, who had provided himself with a proper passport, got into the diligence, accompanied by little joey, on his way back to england. chapter seventeen. the day after the murder. we must now return to the village of grassford, and the cottage in which we left rushbrook and his wife, who had been raised up from the floor, by her husband, and, having now recovered from her swoon, was crying bitterly for the loss of her son, and the dread of her husband's crime being discovered. for some time rushbrook remained in silence, looking at the embers in the grate: mum sometimes would look piteously in his master's face, at other times he would slowly approach the weeping woman. the intelligence of the animal told him that something was wrong. finding himself unnoticed, he would then go to the door by which joey had quitted, snuff at the crevice, and return to his master's side. "i'm glad that he's off," at last muttered rushbrook; "he's a fine boy, that." "yes, he is," replied jane; "but when shall i behold him again?" "by-and-bye, never fear, wife. we must not stay in this place, provided this affair blows over." "if it does, indeed!" "come, come, jane, we have every reason to hope it will; now, let's go to bed; it would not do, if any one should happen to have been near the spot, and to have found out what has taken place, for us to be discovered not to have been in bed all night, or even for a light to be seen at the cottage by any early riser. come, jane, let's to bed." rushbrook and his wife retired, the light was extinguished, and all was quiet, except conscience, which still tormented and kept rushbrook turning to the right and left continually. jane slept not: she listened to the wind; the slightest noise--the crowing of the cock--startled her, and soon footsteps were heard of those passing the windows. they could remain in bed no longer. jane arose, dressed, and lighted the fire: rushbrook remained sitting on the side of the bed in deep thought. "i've been thinking, jane," said he, at last, "it would be better to make away with mum." "with the dog? why, it can't speak, poor thing. no--no--don't kill the poor dog." "he can't speak, but the dog has sense; he may lead them to the spot." "and if he were to do so, what then? it would prove nothing." "no! only it would go harder against joey." "against the boy! yes, it might convince them that joey did the deed; but still, the very killing of the animal would look suspicious: tie him up, rushbrook; that will do as well." "perhaps better," replied he; "tie him up in the back-kitchen, there's a good woman." jane did so, and then commenced preparing the breakfast; they had taken their seats, when the latch of the door was lifted up, and furness, the schoolmaster, looked in. this he was often in the habit of doing, to call joey out to accompany him to school. "good morning," said he; "now, where's my friend joey?" "come in, come in, neighbour, and shut the door," said rushbrook; "i wish to speak to you. mayhap you'll take a cup of tea; if so, my missus will give you a good one." "well, as mrs rushbrook does make everything so good, i don't care if i do, although i have had breakfast. but where's my friend joey? the lazy little dog; is he not up yet? why mrs rushbrook, what's the matter? you look distressed." "i am, indeed," replied jane, putting her apron to her eyes. "why, mrs rushbrook, what is it?" inquired the pedagogue. "just this; we are in great trouble about joey. when we got up this morning we found that he was not in bed, and he has never been home since." "well, that is queer; why, where can the young scamp be gone to?" "we don't know; but we find that he took my gun with him, and i'm afraid--" and here rushbrook paused, shaking his head. "afraid of what?" "that he has gone poaching, and has been taken by the keepers." "but did he ever do so before?" "not by night, if he did by day. i can't tell; he always has had a hankering that way." "well, they do whisper the same of you, neighbour. why do you keep a gun?" "i've carried a gun all my life," replied rushbrook, "and i don't choose to be without one: but that's not to the purpose; the question is, what would you advise us to do?" "why, you see, friend rushbrook," replied the schoolmaster, "advice in this question becomes rather difficult. if joey has been poaching, as you imagine, and has been taken up, as you suspect, why, then, you will soon hear of it: you, of course, have had no hand in it?" "hand in it--hand in what?" replied rushbrook. "do you think we trust a child like him with a gun?" "i should think not; and therefore it is evident that he has acted without the concurrence of his parents. that will acquit you; but still, it will not help joey; neither do i think you will be able to recover the gun, which i anticipate will become a deodand to the lord of the manor." "but, the child--what will become of him?" exclaimed jane. "what will become of him?--why, as he is of tender years, they will not transport him--at least, i should think not; they may imprison him for a few months, and order him to be privately whipped. i do not see what you can do but remain quiet. i should recommend you not to say one syllable about it until you hear more." "but suppose we do not hear?" "that is to suppose that he did not go out with the gun to poach, but upon some other expedition." "what else could the boy have gone out for?" said rushbrook, hastily. "very true; it is not very likely that he went out to commit murder," replied the pedagogue. at the word "murder" rushbrook started from his chair; but, recollecting himself, he sat down again. "no, no, joey commit murder!" cried he. "ha, ha, ha--no, no, joey is no murderer." "i should suspect not. well, master rushbrook, i will dismiss my scholars this morning, and make every inquiry for you. byres will be able to ascertain very soon, for he knows the new keeper at the manor house." "byres help you, did you say? no, no, byres never will," replied rushbrook, solemnly. "and why not, my friend?" "why," replied rushbrook, recollecting himself, "he has not been over cordial with me lately." "nevertheless, depend upon it, he will if he can," replied furness; "if not for you, he will for me. good morning, mrs rushbrook, i will hasten away now; but will you not go with me?" continued furness, appealing to rushbrook. "i will go another way; it's no use both going the same road." "very true," replied the pedagogue, who had his reasons for not wishing the company of rushbrook, and furness then left the house. mr furness found all his boys assembled in the school-room, very busily employed thumbing their books; he ordered silence, and informed them that in consequence of joey being missing, he was going to assist his father to look after him: and therefore they would have a holiday for that day. he then ranged them all in a row, made them turn to the right face, clap their hands simultaneously, and disperse. although mr furness had advised secrecy to the rushbrooks, he did not follow the advice he had given; indeed, his reason for not having wished rushbrook to be with him was, that he might have an opportunity of communicating his secret through the village, which he did by calling at every cottage, and informing the women who were left at home, that joey rushbrook had disappeared last night, with his father's gun, and that he was about to go in quest of him. some nodded and smiled, others shook their heads, some were not at all surprised at it, others thought that things could not go on so for ever. mr furness having collected all their various opinions, then set off to the ale-house, to find byres the pedlar. when he arrived, he found that byres had not come home that night, and where he was nobody knew, which was more strange, as his box was up in his bed-chamber. mr furness returned to the village intending to communicate this information to rushbrook, but on calling, he found that rushbrook had gone out in search of the boy. furness then resolved to go up at once to the keeper's lodge, and solve the mystery. he took the high road, and met rushbrook returning. "well, have you gained any tidings," inquired the pedagogue. "none," replied rushbrook. "then it's my opinion, my worthy friend, that we had better at once proceed to the keeper's cottage and make inquiry; for, strange to say, i have been to the ale-house, and my friend byres is also missing." "indeed!" exclaimed rushbrook, who had now completely recovered his self-possession. "be it so, then; let us go to the keeper's." they soon arrived there, and found the keeper at home, for he had returned to his dinner. rushbrook, who had been cogitating how to proceed, was the first to speak. "you haven't taken my poor joey, have you, sir?" said he to the keeper. "not yet," replied the keeper, surlily. "you don't mean to say that you know nothing about him?" replied rushbrook. "yes, i know something about him and about you too, my chap," replied the keeper. "but, mr lucas," interrupted the pedagogue, "allow me to put you in possession of the facts. it appears that this boy--a boy of great natural parts, and who has been for some time under my tuition, did last night, but at what hour is unknown to his disconsolate parents, leave the cottage, taking with him his father's gun, and has not been heard of since." "well, i only hope he's shot himself, that's all," replied the keeper. "so you have a gun, then, have you, my honest chap?" continued he, turning to rushbrook. "which," replied furness, "as i have informed him already, will certainly be forfeited as a deodand to the lord of the manor; but, mr lucas, this is not all; our mutual friend, byres, the pedlar, is also missing, having left the cat and fiddle last night, and not having been heard of since." "indeed! that makes out a different case, and must be inquired into immediately. i think you were not the best of friends, were you?" said the keeper, looking at rushbrook; and then he continued, "come, mary, give me my dinner, quick, and run up as fast as you can for dick and martin: tell them to come down with their retrievers only. never fear, mr furness, we will soon find it out. never fear, my chap, we'll find your son also, and your gun to boot. you may hear more than you think for." "all i want to know," replied rushbrook, fiercely, for his choler was raised by the sneers of the keeper, "is, where my boy may be." so saying, he quitted the cottage, leaving the schoolmaster with the keeper. as rushbrook returned home, he revolved in his mind what had passed, and decided that nothing could be more favourable for himself, however it might turn out for joey. this conviction quieted his fears, and when the neighbours came in to talk with him, he was very cool and collected in his replies. in the meantime the keeper made a hasty meal, and, with his subordinates and the dogs, set off to the covers, which they beat till dark without success. the gun, however, which joey had thrown down in the ditch, had been picked up by one of the labourers returning from his work, and taken by him to the ale-house. none could identify the gun, as rushbrook had never permitted it to be seen. lucas, the keeper, came in about an hour after dusk, and immediately took possession of it. such were the events of the first day after joey's departure. notwithstanding that the snow fell fast, the cat and fiddle was, as it may be supposed, unusually crowded on that night. various were the surmises as to the disappearance of the pedlar and of little joey. the keeper openly expressed his opinion that there was foul play somewhere, and it was not until near midnight that the ale-house was deserted, and the doors closed. rushbrook and his wife went to bed; tired with watching and excitement, they found oblivion for a few hours in a restless and unrefreshing sleep. chapter eighteen. a coroner's inquest. day had scarcely dawned when the keeper and his satellites were again on the search. the snow had covered the ground for three or four inches, and, as the covers had been well examined on the preceding day, they now left them and went on in the direction towards where the gun had been picked up. this brought them direct to the furze bottom, where the dogs appeared to quicken their movements, and when the keepers came up with them again, they found them lying down by the frozen and stiffened corpse of the pedlar. "murder, as i expected," said lucas, as they lifted up the body, and scraped off the snow which covered it; "right through his heart, poor fellow; who would have expected this from such a little varmint? look about, my lads, and see if we can find anything else. what is nap scratching at?--a bag--take it up, martin. dick, do you go for some people to take the body to the cat and fiddle, while we see if we can find anything more." in a quarter of an hour the people arrived, the body was carried away, while the keeper went off in all haste to the authorities. furness, the schoolmaster, as soon as he had obtained the information, hastened to rushbrook's cottage, that he might be the first to convey the intelligence. rushbrook, however, from the back of the cottage, had perceived the people carrying in the body, and was prepared. "my good people, i am much distressed, but it must be told; believe me, i feel for you--your son, my pupil, has murdered the pedlar." "impossible!" cried rushbrook. "it is but too true; i cannot imagine how a boy, brought up under my tuition--nay, mrs rushbrook, don't cry--brought up, i may say, with such strict notions of morality, promising so fairly, blossoming so sweetly--" "he never murdered the pedlar!" cried jane, whose face was buried in her apron. "who then could have?" replied furness. "he never shot him intentionally, i'll swear," said rushbrook; "if the pedlar has come to his death, it must have been by some accident. i suppose the gun went off somehow or other; yes, that must be it: and my poor boy, frightened at what had taken place, has run away." "well," replied the schoolmaster, "such may have been the case; and i do certainly feel as if it were impossible that a boy like joey, brought up by me, grounded in every moral duty--i may add, religiously and piously instructed--could ever commit such a horrible crime." "indeed, he never did," replied jane; "i am sure he never would do such a thing." "well, i must wish you good-bye now, my poor people; i will go down to the cat and fiddle, and hear what they say," cried the pedagogue, quitting the cottage. "jane, be careful," said rushbrook; "our great point now is to say nothing. i wish that man would not come here." "oh, rushbrook!" cried jane, "what would i give if we could live these last three days over again." "then imagine, jane, what i would give!" replied rushbrook, striking his forehead; "and now say no more about it." at twelve o'clock the next day the magistrates met, and the coroner's inquest was held upon the body of the pedlar. on examination of the body, it was ascertained that a charge of small shot had passed directly through the heart, so as to occasion immediate death; that the murder had not been committed with the view of robbing, it was evident, as the pedlar's purse, watch, and various other articles were found upon his person. the first person examined was a man of the name of green, who had found the gun in the ditch. the gun was produced, and he deposed to its being the one which he had picked up, and given into the possession of the keeper; but no one could say to whom the gun might belong. the next party who gave his evidence was lucas, the game-keeper. he deposed that he knew the pedlar, byres, and that being anxious to prevent poaching, he had offered him a good sum if he would assist him in convicting any poacher; that byres had then confessed to him that he had often received game from rushbrook, the father of the boy, and still continued to do so, but rushbrook had treated him ill, and he was determined to be revenged upon him, and get him sent out of the country; that byres had informed him on the saturday night before the murder was committed, that rushbrook was to be out on monday night to procure game for him, and that if he looked out sharp he was certain to be taken. byres had also informed him that he had never yet found out when rushbrook left his cottage or returned, although he had been tracking the boy, joey. as the boy was missing on monday morning, and byres did not return to the ale-house, after he went out on saturday night, he presumed that it was on the sunday night that the pedlar was murdered. the keeper then farther deposed as to the finding of the body, and also of a bag by the side of it; that the bag had evidently been used for putting game in, not only from the smell, but from the feathers of the birds which were still remaining inside of it. the evidence as to the finding of the body and the bag was corroborated by that of martin and dick, the underkeepers. mr furness then made his appearance to give voluntary evidence, notwithstanding his great regard expressed for the rushbrooks. he deposed that, calling at the cottage, on monday morning, for his pupil, he found the father and mother in great distress at the disappearance of their son, whom they stated to have left the cottage some time during the night, and to have taken away his father's gun with him, and that their son had not since returned; that he pointed out to rushbrook the impropriety of his having a gun, and that rushbrook had replied that he had carried one all his life, and did not choose to be without one; that they told him they supposed that he had gone out to poach, and was taken by the keepers, and had requested him to go and ascertain if such was the fact. mr furness added that he really imagined that to be the case now that he saw the bag, which he recognised as having been once brought to him by little joey with some potatoes, which his parents had made him a present of; that he could swear to the bag, and so could several others as well as himself. mr furness then commenced a long flourish about his system of instruction, in which he was stopped by the coroner, who said that it had nothing to do with the business. it was then suggested that rushbrook and his wife should be examined. there was a demur at the idea of the father and mother giving evidence against their child, but it was over-ruled, and in ten minutes they both made their appearance. mrs rushbrook, who had been counselled by her husband, was the first examined; but she would not answer any question put to her. she did nothing but weep; and to every question her only reply was, "if he did kill him, it was by accident; my boy would never commit murder." nothing more was to be obtained from her; and the magistrates were so moved by her distress, that she was dismissed. rushbrook trembled as he was brought in and saw the body laid out on the table; but he soon recovered himself, and became nerved and resolute, as people often will do in extremity. he had made up his mind to answer some questions, but not all. "do you know at what time your son left the cottage?" "i do not." "does that gun belong to you?" "yes, it is mine." "do you know that bag?" "yes, it belongs to me." "it has been used for putting game into--has it not?" "i shall not answer that question. i'm not on trial." many other questions were put to him, but he refused to answer them; and as they would all more or less have criminated himself as a poacher, his refusals were admitted. rushbrook had played his game well in admitting the gun and bag to be his property, as it was of service to him, and no harm to joey. after summing up the whole evidence, the coroner addressed the jury, and they returned a unanimous verdict of wilful murder against joseph rushbrook the younger; and the magistrates directed the sum of 200 pounds to be offered for our hero's apprehension. chapter nineteen. a friend in need is a friend indeed. rushbrook and jane returned to their cottage. jane closed the door, and threw herself into her husband's arms. "you are saved at least," she cried: "thank heaven for that! you are spared. alas! we do not know how much we love till anger comes upon us." rushbrook was much affected: he loved his wife, and had good reason to love her. jane was a beautiful woman, not yet thirty; tall in her person, her head was finely formed, yet apparently small for her height her features were full of expression and sweetness. had she been born to a high station, she would have been considered one of the greatest belles. as it was, she was loved by those around her; and there was a dignity and commanding air about her which won admiration and respect. no one could feel more deeply than she did the enormity of the offence committed by her husband; and yet never in any moment since her marriage did she cling so earnestly and so closely by him as she did now. she was of that bold and daring temperament, that she could admire the courage that propelled to the crime, while the crime itself she abhorred. it was not, therefore, anything surprising that, at such a moment, with regard to a husband to whom she was devoted, she thought more of the danger to which he was exposed than she did of the crime which had been committed. to do rushbrook himself justice, his person and mind were of no plebeian mould. he was a daring, venturous fellow, ready at any emergency, cool and collected in danger, had a pleasure in the excitement created by the difficulty and risk attending his nocturnal pursuits, caring little or nothing for the profits. he, as well as his wife, had not been neglected in point of education: he had been born in humble life, and had, by enlisting, chosen a path by which advancement became impossible; but had rushbrook been an officer instead of a common soldier, his talents would probably have been directed to more noble channels, and the poacher and pilferer for his captain might have exerted his dexterity so as to have gained honourable mention. his courage had always been remarkable, and he was looked upon by his officers--and so he was by his companions--as the most steady and collected man under fire to be found in the whole company. we are the creatures of circumstances. frederick of prussia had no opinion of phrenology; and one day he sent for the professor, and dressing up a highwayman and a pickpocket in uniforms and orders, he desired the phrenologist to examine their heads, and give his opinion as to their qualifications. the _savant_ did so, and turning to the king, said, "sire, this person," pointing to the highwayman, "whatever he may be, would have been a great general, had he been employed. as for the other, he is quite in a different line. he may be, or, if he is not, he would make, an admirable financier." the king was satisfied that there was some truth in the science; "for," as he very rightly observed, "what is a general but a highwayman, and what is a financier, but a pickpocket?" "calm yourself, dear jane," said rushbrook; "all is well now." "all well!--yes; but my poor child--200 pounds offered for his apprehension! if they were to take him!" "i have no fear of that; and if they did, they could not hurt him. it is true that they have given their verdict; but still they have no positive proof." "but they have hanged people upon less proof before now, rushbrook." "jane," replied rushbrook, "our boy shall never be hanged--i promise you that; so make your mind easy." "then you must confess, to save him; and i shall lose you." a step at the door interrupted their colloquy. rushbrook opened it, and mr furness, the schoolmaster, made his appearance. "well, my good friends, i am very sorry the verdict has been such as it is, but it cannot be helped; the evidence was too strong, and it was a sad thing for me to be obliged to give mine." "you!" exclaimed rushbrook; "why, did they call you up?" "yes, and put me on my oath. an oath, to a moral man, is a very serious responsibility; the nature of an oath is awful; and when you consider my position in this place, as the inculcator of morals and piety to the younger branches of the community, you must not be surprised at my telling the truth." "and what had you to tell?" inquired rushbrook, with surprise. "had to tell--why, i had to tell what you told me this morning; and i had to prove the bag as belonging to you; for you know you sent me some potatoes in it by little joey, poor fellow. wilful murder, and two hundred pounds upon apprehension and conviction!" rushbrook looked at the pedagogue with surprise and contempt. "pray, may i ask how they came to know that anything had passed between us yesterday morning, for if i recollect right, you desired me to be secret." "very true, and so i did; but then they knew what good friends we always were, i suppose, and so they sent for me, and obliged me to speak upon my oath." "i don't understand it," replied rushbrook; "they might have asked you questions, but how could they have guessed that i had told you anything?" "my dear friend, you don't understand it; but in my situation, looking up to me, as every one does, as an example of moral rectitude and correctness of conduct--as a pattern to the juvenile branches of the community,--you see--" "yes, i do see that, under such circumstances, you should not go to the ale-house and get tipsy two days, at least, out of the week," replied rushbrook, turning away. "and why do i go to the ale-house, my dear friend, but to look after those who indulge too freely--yourself, for instance? how often have i seen you home?" "yes, when you were drunk and i was--" jane put her hand upon her husband's mouth. "and you were what, friend?" inquired furness, anxiously. "worse than you, perhaps. and now, friend furness, as you must be tired with your long evidence, i wish you a good night." "shall i see you down at the cat and fiddle?" "not for some time, if ever, friend furness, that you may depend upon." "never go to the cat and fiddle! a little wholesome drink drowns care, my friend; and, therefore, although i should be sorry that you indulged too much, yet, with me to look after you--" "and drink half my ale, eh? no, no, friend furness, those days are gone." "well, you are not in a humour for it now but another time. mrs rushbrook, have you a drop of small beer?" "i have none to spare," replied jane, turning away; "you should have applied to the magistrates for beer." "oh, just as you please," replied the pedagogue; "it certainly does ruffle people's temper when there is a verdict of wilful murder, and two hundred pounds for apprehension and conviction of the offender. good night." furness banged the cottage door as he went out. rushbrook watched till he was out of hearing, and then said, "he's a scoundrel." "i think so too," replied jane; "but never mind, we will go to bed now, thank god for his mercies, and pray for his forgiveness. come, dearest." the next morning mrs rushbrook was informed by the neighbours that the schoolmaster had volunteered his evidence. rushbrook's indignation was excited, and he vowed revenge. whatever may have been the feelings of the community at the time of the discovery of the murder, certain it is that, after all was over, there was a strong sympathy expressed for rushbrook and his wife, and the condolence was very general. the gamekeeper was avoided, and his friend furness fell into great disrepute, after his voluntarily coming forward and giving evidence against old and sworn friends. the consequence was, his school fell off, and the pedagogue, whenever he could raise the means, became more intemperate than ever. one saturday night, rushbrook, who had resolved to pick a quarrel with furness, went down to the ale-house. furness was half drunk, and pot-valiant. rushbrook taunted him so as to produce replies. one word brought on another, till furness challenged rushbrook to come outside and have it out. this was just what rushbrook wished, and after half an hour furness was carried home beaten to a mummy, and unable to leave his bed for many days. as soon as this revenge had been taken, rushbrook, who had long made up his mind so to do, packed up and quitted the village, no one knowing whither he and jane went; and furness, who had lost all means of subsistence, did the same in a very few days afterwards, his place of retreat being equally unknown. chapter twenty. in which we again follow up our hero's destiny. after the resolution that major mcshane came to, it is not to be surprised that he made, during the journey home, every inquiry of joey relative to his former life. to these joey gave him a very honest reply in everything except that portion of his history in which his father was so seriously implicated; he had the feeling that he was bound in honour not to reveal the circumstances connected with the murder of the pedlar. mcshane was satisfied, and they arrived in london without further adventure. as soon as mcshane had been embraced by his wife, he gave a narrative of his adventures, and did not forget to praise little joey as he deserved. mrs mcshane was all gratitude, and then it was that mcshane expressed his intentions towards our hero, and, as he expected, he found his amiable wife wholly coincide with him in opinion. it was therefore decided that joey should be put to a school, and be properly educated, as soon as an establishment that was eligible could be found. their full intentions towards him, however, were not communicated to our hero; he was told that he was to go to school, and he willingly submitted: it was not, however, for three months that mcshane would part with him: a difficulty was raised against every establishment that was named. during this time little joey was very idle, for there was nothing for him to do. books there were none, for mrs mcshane had no time to read, and major mcshane no inclination. his only resort was to rummage over the newspapers which were taken in for the benefit of the customers, and this was his usual employment. one day, in turning over the file, he came to the account of the murder of the pedlar, with the report of the coroner's inquest. he read all the evidence, particularly that of furness, the schoolmaster, and found that the verdict was wilful murder, with a reward of 200 pounds for his apprehension. the term, wilful murder, he did not exactly comprehend; so, after laying down the paper, with a beating heart he went to mrs mcshane, and asked her what was the meaning of it. "meaning, child?" replied mrs mcshane, who was then very busy in her occupation, "it means, child, that a person is believed to be guilty of murder, and, if taken up, he will be hanged by the neck till he is dead." "but," replied joey, "suppose he has not committed the murder?" "well then, child, he must prove that he has not." "and suppose, although he has not committed it, he cannot prove it?" "mercy on me, what a number of supposes! why, then he will be hanged all the same, to be sure." a fortnight after these queries, joey was sent to school; the master was a very decent man, the mistress a very decent woman, the tuition was decent, the fare was decent, the scholars were children of decent families; altogether, it was a decent establishment, and in this establishment little joey made very decent progress, going home every half year. how long joey might have remained there it is impossible to say; but having been there for a year and a half, and arrived at the age of fourteen, he had just returned from the holidays with three guineas in his pocket, for mcshane and his wife were very generous and very fond of their protege, when a circumstance occurred which again ruffled the smooth current of our hero's existence. he was walking out as all boys do walk out in decent schools, that is, in a long line, two by two, as the animals entered noah's ark, when a sort of shabby-genteel man passed their files. he happened to cast his eyes upon joey, and stopped. "master joseph rushbrook, i am most happy to see you once more," said he extending his hand. joey looked up into his face; there was no mistake; it was furness, the schoolmaster. "don't you recollect me, my dear boy? don't you recollect him who taught the infant idea how to shoot? don't you recollect your old preceptor?" "yes," replied joey, colouring up, "i recollect you very well." "i am delighted to see you; you know you were my fairest pupil, but we are all scattered now; your father and mother have gone no one knows where; you went away, and i also could no longer stay. what pleasure it is to meet you once more!" joey did not respond exactly to the pleasure. the stoppage of the line had caused some confusion, and the usher, who had followed it, now came up to ascertain the cause. "this is my old pupil, or rather i should say, my young pupil; but the best pupil i ever had. i am most delighted to see him, sir," said furness, taking off his hat. "may i presume to ask who has the charge of this dear child at this present moment?" the usher made no difficulty in stating the name and residence of the preceptor, and, having gained this information, furness shook joey by the hand, bade him farewell, and, wishing him every happiness, walked away. joey's mind was confused during the remainder of his walk, and it was not until their return home that he could reflect on what had passed. that furness had given evidence upon the inquest he knew, and he had penetration, when he read it, to feel that there was no necessity for furness having given such evidence. he also knew that there was a reward of two hundred pounds for his apprehension; and when he thought of furness's apparent kindness, and his not reverting to a subject so important as wilful murder having been found against him, he made up his mind that furness had behaved so with the purpose of lulling him into security, and that the next day he would certainly take him up, for the sake of the reward. now, although we have not stopped our narrative to introduce the subject, we must here observe that joey's love for his parents, particularly his father, was unbounded; he longed to see them again; they were constantly in his thoughts, and yet he dared not mention them, in consequence of the mystery connected with his quitting his home. he fully perceived his danger: he would be apprehended, and being so, he must either sacrifice his father or himself. having weighed all this in his mind, he then reflected upon what should be his course to steer. should he go home to acquaint major mcshane? he felt that he could trust him, and would have done so, but he had no right to intrust any one with a secret which involved his father's life. no, that would not do; yet, to leave him and mrs mcshane after all their kindness, and without a word, this would be too ungrateful. after much cogitation, he resolved that he would run away, so that all clue to him should be lost; that he would write a letter for mcshane, and leave it. he wrote as follows:- "dear sir,--do not think me ungrateful, for i love you and mrs mcshane dearly, but i have been met by a person who knows me, and will certainly betray me. i left my father's home, not for poaching, but a murder that was committed; _i was not guilty_. this is the only secret i have held from you, and the secret is not mine. i could not disprove it, and never will. i now leave because i have been discovered by a bad man, who will certainly take advantage of having fallen in with me. we may never meet again. i can say no more, except that i shall always pray for you and mrs mcshane, and remember your kindness with gratitude. "yours truly, joey mcshane." since his return from saint petersburg, joey had always, by their request, called himself joey mcshane, and he was not sorry when they gave him the permission, although he did not comprehend the advantages which were to accrue from taking the name. joey, having finished his letter, sat down and cried bitterly--but in a school there is no retiring place for venting your feelings, and he was compelled to smother his tears. he performed his exercise, and repeated his lessons, as if nothing had happened and nothing was about to happen, for joey was in essence a little stoic. at night he went to his room with the other boys; he could only obtain a small portion of his clothes, these he put up in a handkerchief, went softly downstairs about one o'clock in the morning, put his letter, addressed to mcshane, on the hall-table, opened the back door, climbed over the play-ground wall, and was again on the road to seek his fortune. but joey was much improved during the two years since he had quitted his father's house. before that, he was a reflective boy; now, he was more capable of action and decision. his ideas had been much expanded from the knowledge of the world gained during his entry, as it were, into life; he had talked much, seen much, listened much, and thought more; and naturally quiet in his manner, he was now a gentlemanlike boy. at the eating-house he had met with every variety of character; and as there were some who frequented the house daily, with those joey had become on intimate terms. he was no longer a child, but a lad of undaunted courage and presence of mind; he had only one fear, which was that his father's crime should be discovered. and now he was again adrift, with a small bundle, three guineas in his pocket, and the world before him. at first, he had but one idea--that of removing to a distance which should elude the vigilance of furness, and he therefore walked on, and walked fast. joey was capable of great fatigue; he had grown considerably, it is true, during the last two years; still he was small for his age; but every muscle in his body was a wire, and his strength, as had been proved by his school-mates, was proportionate. he was elastic as india-rubber, and bold and determined as one who had been all his life in danger. chapter twenty one. the scene is again shifted, and the plot advances. it will be necessary that for a short time we again follow up the fortunes of our hero's parents. when rushbrook and jane had quitted the village of grassford, they had not come to any decision as to their future place of abode; all that rushbrook felt was a desire to remove as far as possible from the spot where the crime had been committed. such is the feeling that will ever possess the guilty, who, although they may increase their distance, attempt in vain to fly from their consciences, or that all-seeing eye which follows them everywhere. jane had a similar feeling, but it arose from her anxiety for her husband. they wandered away, for they had sold everything before their departure, until they found themselves in the west riding of yorkshire, and there they at length settled in a small village. rushbrook easily obtained employment, for the population was scanty, and some months passed away without anything occurring of interest. rushbrook had never taken up his employment as a poacher since the night of the murder of the pedlar; he had abjured it from that hour. his knowledge of woodcraft was, however, discovered, and he was appointed first as under, and eventually as head keeper to a gentleman of landed property in the neighbourhood. in this situation they had remained about a year, rushbrook giving full satisfaction to his employer, and comparatively contented (for no man could have such a crime upon his conscience, and not pass occasional hours of misery and remorse), and jane was still mourning in secret for her only and darling child, when one day a paper was put into rushbrook's hands by his master, desiring him to read an advertisement which it contained, and which was as follows:--"if joseph rushbrook, who formerly lived in the village of grassford, in the county of devon, should be still alive, and will make his residence known to messrs. pearce, james, and simpson, of 14, chancery-lane, he will hear of something greatly to his advantage. should he be dead, and this advertisement meet the eye of his heirs, they are equally requested to make the communication to the above address." "what does it mean, sir?" inquired rushbrook. "it means that, if you are that person, in all probability there is some legacy bequeathed to you by a relative," replied mr s---; "is it you?" "yes, sir," replied rushbrook, changing colour; "i did once live at grassford." "then you had better write to the parties and make yourself known. i will leave you the newspaper." "what think you, jane?" said rushbrook, as soon as mr --had quitted. "i think he is quite right," replied jane. "but, jane, you forgot--this may be a trap; they may have discovered something about--you know what i mean." "yes, i do, and i wish we could forget it; but in this instance i do not think you have anything to fear. there is no reward offered for your apprehension, but for my poor boy's, who is now wandering over the wide world; and no one would go to the expense to apprehend you, if there was nothing to be gained by it." "true," replied rushbrook, after a minute's reflection; "but, alas! i am a coward now: i will write." rushbrook wrote accordingly, and, in reply, received a letter inclosing a bank-bill for 20 pounds, and requesting that he would come to town immediately. he did so, and found, to his astonishment, that he was the heir-at-law to a property of 7,000 pounds per annum--with the only contingency, that he was, as nearest of kin, to take the name of austin. having entered into all the arrangements required by the legal gentleman, he returned to yorkshire, with 500 pounds in his pocket, to communicate the intelligence to his wife; and when he did so, and embraced her, she burst into tears. "rushbrook, do not think i mean to reproach you by these tears; but i cannot help thinking that you would have been happier had this never happened. your life will be doubly sweet to you now, and joey's absence will be a source of more vexation than ever. do you think that you will be happier?" "jane, dearest! i have been thinking of it as well as you, and, on reflection, i think i shall be safer. who would know the poacher rushbrook in the gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year, of the name of austin? who would dare accuse him, even if there were suspicion? i feel that once in another county, under another name, and in another situation, i shall be safe." "but our poor boy, should he ever come back--" "will also be forgotten. he will have grown up a man, and, having another name, will never be recognised: they will not even know what our former name was." "i trust that it will be as you say. what do you now mean to do?" "i shall say that i have a property of four or five hundred pounds left me, and that i intend to go up to london," replied rushbrook. "yes, that will be wise; it will be an excuse for our leaving this place, and will be no clue to where we are going," replied jane. rushbrook gave up his situation, sold his furniture, and quitted yorkshire. in a few weeks afterwards he was installed into his new property, a splendid mansion, and situated in the west of dorsetshire. report had gone before them; some said that a common labourer had come into the property, others said it was a person in very moderate circumstances; as usual, both these reports were contradicted by a third, which represented him as a half-pay lieutenant in the army. rushbrook had contrived to mystify even the solicitor as to his situation in life; he stated to him that he had retired from the army, and lived upon the government allowance; and it was in consequence of a reference to the solicitor, made by some of the best families in the neighbourhood, who wished to ascertain if the newcomers were people who could be visited, that this third report was spread, and universally believed. we have already observed that rushbrook was a fine, tall man; and if there is any class of people who can be transplanted with success from low to high life, it will be those who have served in the army. the stoop is the evidence of a low-bred, vulgar man; the erect bearing equally so that of the gentleman. now, the latter is gained in the army, by drilling and discipline, and being well-dressed will provide for all else that is required, as far as mere personal appearance is concerned. when, therefore, the neighbours called upon mr and mrs austin they were not surprised to find an erect, military-looking man, but they were very much surprised to find him matched with such a fine, and even elegant-looking woman, as his wife. timid at first, jane had sufficient tact to watch others and copy; and before many months were passed in their new position, it would have been difficult to suppose that mrs austin had not been born in the sphere in which she then moved. austin was _brusque_ and abrupt in his manners as before; but still there was always a reserve about him, which he naturally felt, and which assisted to remove the impression of vulgarity. people who are distant are seldom considered ungentlemanlike, although they may be considered unpleasant in their manners. it is those who are too familiar who obtain the character of vulgarity. austin, therefore, was respected, but not liked; jane, on the contrary, whose beauty had now all the assistance of dress, and whose continued inward mourning for her lost son had improved that beauty by the pensive air which she wore, was a deserved and universal favourite. people of course said that austin was a harsh husband, and pitied poor mrs austin; but that people always do say if a woman is not inclined to mirth. austin found ample amusement in sporting over his extensive manor, and looking after his game. in one point the neighbouring gentlemen were surprised, that, although so keen a sportsman himself, he never could be prevailed upon to convict a poacher. he was appointed a magistrate, and being most liberal in all his subscriptions, was soon considered as a great acquisition to the county. his wife was much sought after, but it was invariably observed that, when children were mentioned, the tears stood in her eyes. before they had been a year in their new position, they had acquired all the knowledge and tact necessary; their establishment was on a handsome scale; they were visited and paid visits to all the aristocracy and gentry, and were as popular as they could have desired to be. but were they happy? alas! no. little did those who envied austin his property and establishment imagine what a load was on his mind--what a corroding care was wearing out his existence. little did they imagine that he would gladly have resigned all, and been once more the poacher in the village of grassford, to have removed from his conscience the deed of darkness which he had committed, and once more have his son by his side. and poor jane, her thoughts were day and night upon one object--where was her child? it deprived her of rest at night; she remained meditating on her fate for hours during the day; it would rush into her mind in the gayest scenes and the happiest moments; it was one incessant incubus--one continual source of misery. of her husband she thought less; for she knew how sincerely contrite he was for the deed he had done--how bitterly he had repented it ever since, and how it would, as long as he lived, be a source of misery--a worm that would never die, but gnaw till the last hour of his existence. but her boy--her noble, self-sacrificed little joey!--he and his destiny were ever in her thoughts; and gladly would she have been a pauper applying for relief, if she had but that child to have led up in her hand. and yet all the county thought how happy and contented the austins ought to be, to have suddenly come into possession of so much wealth. 'tis god alone that knows the secrets of the heart of man. chapter twenty two. a very long chapter, but in which our hero obtains employment in a very short time. the preparatory establishment for young gentlemen to which our hero had been sent, was situated on clapham-rise. joey did not think it prudent to walk in the direction of london; he therefore made a cut across the country, so as to bring him, before seven o'clock in the morning, not very far from gravesend. the night had been calm and beautiful, for it was in the month of august; and it had for some time been broad daylight when our hero, who had walked fifteen or sixteen miles, sat down to repose himself; and, as he remained quietly seated on the green turf on the way side, he thought of his father and mother, of the kindness of the mcshanes, and his own hard fate, until he became melancholy and wept; and, as the tears were rolling down his cheeks, a little girl, of about ten years old, very neatly dressed, and evidently above the lower rank of life, came along the road, her footsteps so light as not to be perceived by joey; she looked at him as she passed, and perceived that he was in tears, and her own bright, pretty face became clouded in a moment. joey did not look up, and after hesitating awhile, she passed on a few steps, and then she looked round, and observing that he was still weeping, she paused, turned round, and came back to him; for a minute or two she stood before him, but joey was unconscious of her presence, for he was now in the full tide of his grief, and, not having forgotten the precepts which had been carefully instilled into him, he thought of the god of refuge, and he arose, fell on his knees, and prayed. the little girl, whose tears had already been summoned by pity and sympathy, dropped her basket, and knelt by his side--not that she prayed, for she knew not what the prayer was for, but from an instinctive feeling of respect towards the deity which her new companion was addressing, and a feeling of kindness towards one who was evidently suffering. joey lifted up his eyes, and beheld the child on her knees, the tears rolling down her cheeks; he hastily wiped his eyes, for until that moment, he imagined that he had been alone; he had been praying on account of his loneliness--he looked up, and he was not alone, but there was one by his side who pitied him, without knowing wherefore; he felt relieved by the sight. they both regained their feet at the same time, and joe went up to the little girl, and, taking her by the hand, said, "thank you." "why do you cry?" said the little girl. "because i am unhappy; i have no home," replied joey. "no home!" said the little girl; "it is boys who are in rags and starving, who have no home, not young gentlemen dressed as you are." "but i have left my home," replied joey. "then go back again--how glad they will be to see you!" "yes, indeed they would," replied joey, "but i must not." "you have not done anything wrong, have you? no, i'm sure you have not--you must have been [be] a good boy, or you would not have prayed." "no, i have done nothing wrong, but i must not tell you any more." indeed, joey was much more communicative with the little girl than he would have been with anybody else; but he had been surprised into it, and, moreover, he had no fear of being betrayed by such innocence. he now recollected himself, and changed the conversation. "and where are you going to?" inquired he. "i am going to school at gravesend. i go there every morning, and stay till the evening. this is my dinner in my basket. are you hungry?" "no, not particularly." "are you going to gravesend?" "yes," replied joey. "what is your name?" "emma phillips." "have you a father and mother?" "i have no father; he was killed fighting, a little while after i was born." "and your mother--" "lives with grandmother, at that house you see there through the large trees. and what are you going to do with yourself? will you come home with me? and i'll tell my mother all you have told me, and she is very kind, and will write to your friends." "no, no; you must not do that; i am going to seek for employment." "why, what can you do?" "i hardly know," replied joey; "but i can work, and am willing to work, so i hope i shall not starve." with such conversation they continued their way, until the little girl said, "there is my school, so now i must wish you good-bye." "good-bye; i shall not forget you," replied joey, "although we may never meet again." tears stood in the eyes of our hero, as they reluctantly unclasped their hands and parted. joey, once more left alone, now meditated what was the best course for him to pursue. the little emma's words, "not young gentlemen dressed as you are," reminded him of the remarks and suspicions which must ensue if he did not alter his attire. this he resolved to do immediately; the only idea which had presented itself to his mind was, if possible, to find some means of getting back to captain o'donahue, who, he was sure, would receive him, if he satisfied him that it was not safe for him to remain in england; but, then, must he confess to him the truth or not? on this point our hero was not decided, so he put off the solution of it till another opportunity. a slop warehouse now attracted his attention; he looked into the door after having examined the articles outside, and seeing that a sailor-boy was bargaining for some clothes, he went in as if waiting to be served, but in fact, more to ascertain the value of the articles which he wished to purchase. the sailor had cheapened a red frock and pair of blue trousers, and at last obtained them from the jew for 14 shillings. joey argued that, as he was much smaller than the lad, he ought to pay less; he asked for the same articles, but the jew, who had scanned in his own mind the suit of clothes which joey had on, argued that he ought to pay more. joey was, however, firm, and about to leave the shop, when the jew called him back, and after much haggling, joey obtained the dress for 12 shillings. having paid for the clothes, joey begged permission to be permitted to retire to the back shop and put them on, to ascertain if they fitted him, to which the jew consented. a jew asks no questions when a penny is to be turned; who joey was, he cared little; his first object was to sell him the clothes, and having so done he hoped to make another penny by obtaining those of joey at a moderate price. perceiving that our hero was putting his own clothes, which he had taken off; into a bundle, the jew asked him whether he would sell them, and joey immediately agreed; but the price offered by the jew was so small, that they were returned to the bundle, and once more was joey leaving the shop, when the jew at last offered to return to him the money he had paid for the sailor's dress, and take his own clothes in exchange, provided that joey would also exchange his hat for one of tarpaulin, which would be more fitting to his present costume. to this our hero consented, and thus was the bargain concluded without joey having parted with any of his small stock of ready money. no one who had only seen him dressed as when he quitted the school, would have easily recognised joey in his new attire. joey sallied forth from the shop with his bundle under his arm, intending to look out for a breakfast, for he was very hungry. turning his head right and left to discover some notice of where provender might be obtained, he observed the sailor lad, who had been in the shop when he went in, with his new purchase under his arm, looking very earnestly at some prints in a shop window. joey ranged up alongside of him, and inquired of him where he could get something to eat; the lad turned round, stared, and, after a little while, cried, "well, now, you're the young gentleman chap that came into the shop; i say aren't you after a rig, eh? given them leg bail, i'll swear. no consarn of mine, old fellow. come along, i'll show you." joey walked by his new acquaintance a few yards, when the lad turned to him, "i say, did your master whop you much?" "no," replied joey. "well, then, that's more than i can say of mine, for he was at it all day. hold out your right hand, now your left," continued he, mimicking; "my eyes! how it used to sting. i don't think i should mind it much now, continued the lad, turning up his hand; it's a little harder than it was then. here's the shop, come in; if you haven't no money i'll give you a breakfast." the lad took his seat on one side of a narrow table, joey on the other, and his new acquaintance called for two pints of tea, a twopenny loaf, and two penny bits of cheese. the loaf was divided between them, and with their portion of cheese and pint of tea each they made a good breakfast. as soon as it was over, the young sailor said to joey, "now, what are you going arter; do you mean to ship?" "i want employment," replied joey; "and i don't much care what it is." "well, then, look you; i ran away from my friends and went to sea, and do you know i've only repented of it once, and that's ever since. better do anything than go to sea--winter coming on and all; besides, you don't look strong enough; you don't know what it is to be coasting in winter time; thrashed up to furl the top-gallant sail when it is so dark you can't see your way, and so cold that you can't feel your fingers, holding on for your life, and feeling as if life, after all, was not worth caring for; cold and misery aloft, kicks and thumps below. don't you go to sea; if you do, after what i've told you, why then you're a greater fool than you look to be." "i don't want to be a sailor," replied joey, "but i must do something to get my living. you are very kind: will you tell me what to do?" "why, do you know, when i saw you come up to me, when i was looking at the pictures, in your frock and trousers, you put me in mind, because you are so much like him, of a poor little boy who was drowned the other day alongside of an india ship; that's why i stared, for i thought you were he, at first." "how was he drowned, poor fellow?" responded joey. "why, you see, his aunt is a good old soul, who keeps a bumboat, and goes off to the shipping." "what's a bumboat?" "a boat full of soft tommy, soldiers, pipes, and backey, rotten apples, stale pies, needles and threads, and a hundred other things; besides a fat old woman sitting in the stern sheets." joey stared; he did not know that "soft tommy" meant loaves of bread, or that "soldiers" was the term for red-herrings. he only thought that the boat must be very full. "now, you see that little peter was her right-hand man, for she can't read and write. can you? but of course you can." "yes, i can," replied joey. "well, little peter was holding on by the painter against a hard sea, but his strength was not equal to it, and so when a swell took the boat he was pulled right overboard, and he was drowned." "was the painter drowned too?" inquired joey. "ha! ha! that's capital; why, the painter is a rope. now, the old woman has been dreadfully put out, and does nothing but cry about little peter, and not being able to keep her accounts. now, you look very like him, and i think it very likely the old woman would take you in his place, if i went and talked her over; that's better than going to sea, for at all events you sleep dry and sound on shore every night, even if you do have a wet jacket sometimes. what d'ye think?" "i think you are very kind; and i should be glad to take the place." "well, she's a good old soul, and has a warm heart, and trusts them who have no money; too much, i'm afraid, for she loses a great deal. so now i'll go and speak to her, for she'll be alongside of us when i go on board; and where shall i find you when i come on shore in the evening?" "wherever you say, i will be." "well, then, meet me here at nine o'clock; that will make all certain. come, i must be off now. i'll pay for the breakfast." "i have money, i thank you," replied joey. "then keep it, for it's more than i can do; and what's your name?" "joey." "well then, joey, my hearty, if i get you this berth, when we come in, and i am short, you must let me go on tick till i can pay." "what's tick?" "you'll soon find out what tick is, after you have been a week in the bumboat," replied the lad, laughing. "nine o'clock, my hearty; good-bye." so saying, the young sailor caught up his new clothes, and hastened down to the beach. the room was crowded with seamen and women, but they were too busy talking and laughing to pay any attention to joey and his comrade. our little hero sat some little time at the table after his new acquaintance had left, and then walked out into the streets, telling the people of the house that he was coming back again, and requesting them to take care of his bundle. "you'll find it here, my little fellow, all right when you ask for it," said the woman at the bar, who took it inside and put it away under the counter. joey went out with his mind more at ease. the nature of his new employment, should he succeed in obtaining it, he could scarcely comprehend, but still it appeared to him one that he could accomplish. he amused himself walking down the streets, watching the movements of the passers-by, the watermen in their wherries, and the people on board of the vessels which were lying off in the stream. it was a busy and animating sight. as he was lolling at the landing-place, a boat came on shore, which, from the description given by his young sailor friend, he was convinced was a bumboat; it had all the articles described by him, as well as many others, such as porter in bottles, a cask probably containing beer; leeks, onions, and many other heterogeneous matters, and, moreover, there was a fat woman seated in the stern. the waterman shoved in with his boat-hook, and the wherry grounded. the fat personage got out, and the waterman handed to her a basket, a long book, and several other articles, which she appeared to consider indispensable; among others, a bundle which looked like dirty linen for the wash. "dear me! how shall i get up all these things?" exclaimed the woman; "and, william, you can't leave the boat, and there's nobody here to help me." "i'll help you," said joey, coming down the steps: "what shall i carry for you?" "well, you are a good kind boy," replied she; "can you carry that bundle? i'll manage all the rest." joey tossed the bundle on his shoulder in a moment. "well, you are a strong little chap," said the waterman. "he is a very nice little fellow, and a kind one. now, come along, and i'll not forget you." joey followed with the bundle, until they arrived at a narrow door, not eighty yards from the landing-place, and the woman asked him if he would carry it upstairs to the first floor, which he did. "do you want me any more?" said joey, setting down the bundle. "no, dear, no; but i must give you something for your trouble. what do you expect?" "nothing at all," replied joey; "and i shall not take anything; you're very welcome; good-bye;" and so saying, joey walked downstairs, although the woman halloed after him, and recommenced his peregrination in the streets of gravesend; but he was soon tired of walking on the pavement, which was none of the best, and he then thought that he would go out into the country, and enjoy the green fields; so off he set, the same way that he came into the town, passed by the school of little emma, and trudged away on the road, stopping every now and then to examine what attracted his notice; watching a bird if it sang on the branch of a tree, and not moving lest he should frighten it away; at times sitting down by the road-side, and meditating or the past and the future. the day was closing in, and joey was still amusing himself as every boy who has been confined to a schoolroom would do; he sauntered on until he came to the very spot where he had been crying, and had met with little emma phillips; and as he sat down again, he thought of her sweet little face, and her kindness towards him--and there he remained some time till he was roused by some one singing as they went along the road. he looked up, and perceived it was the little girl, who was returning from school. joey rose immediately, and walked towards her to meet her, but she did not appear to recognise him, and would have passed him if he had not said, "don't you know me?" "yes, i do now," replied she, smiling, "but i did not at first--you have put on another dress; i have been thinking of you all day--and, do you know, i've got a black mark for not saying my lesson," added the little girl, with a sigh. "and, then, it is my fault," replied joey; "i'm very sorry." "oh, never mind; it is the first that i have had for a long while, and i shall tell mamma why. but you are dressed as a sailor-boy--are you going to sea?" "no, i believe not--i hope to have employment in the town here, and then i shall be able to see you sometimes, when you come from school. may i walk with you as far as your own house?" "yes, i suppose so, if you like it." joey walked with her until they came to the house, which was about two hundred yards farther. "but," said joey, hesitating, "you must make me a promise." "what is that?" "you must keep my secret. you must not tell your mother that you saw me first in what you call gentleman's clothes--it might do me harm--and indeed it's not for my own sake i ask it. don't say a word about my other clothes, or they may ask me questions which i must not answer, for it's not my secret. i told you more this morning than i would have told any one else--i did, indeed." "well," replied the little girl, after thinking a little, "i suppose i have no right to tell a secret, if i am begged not to do it, so i will say nothing, about your clothes. but i must tell mother that i met you." "oh, yes; tell her you met me, and that i was looking for some work, and all that, and to-morrow or next day i will let you know if i get any." "will you come in now?" said emma. "no, not now; i must see if i can get this employment promised for me, and then i shall see you again; if i should not see you again, i shall not forget you, indeed i won't--good-bye." emma bade him adieu, and they separated, and joey remained and watched her till she disappeared under the porch of the entrance. our hero returned towards gravesend in rather a melancholy mood; there was something so unusual in his meeting with the little girl--something so uncommon in the sympathy expressed by her--that he felt pain at parting. but it was getting late, and it was time that he kept his appointment with his friend, the sailor boy. joey remained at the door of the eating-house for about a quarter of an hour, when he perceived the sailor lad coming up the street. he went forward to meet him. "oh, here we are. well, young fellow, i've seen the old woman, and had a long talk with her, and she won't believe there can be another in the world like her peter, but i persuaded her to have a look at you, and she has consented; so come along, for i must be on board again in half an hour." joey followed his new friend down the street, until they came to the very door to which he had carried the bundle. the sailor boy mounted the stairs, and turning into the room at the first landing, joey beheld the woman whom he had assisted in the morning. "here he is, mrs chopper, and if he won't suit you, i don't know who will," said the boy. "he's a regular scholar, and can sum up like winkin'." this character, given so gratuitously by his new acquaintance, made joey stare, and the woman looked hard into joey's face. "well, now," said she, "where have i seen you before? dear me! and _he is_ like poor peter, as you said, jim; i vow he is." "i saw you before to-day," replied joey, "for i carried a bundle up for you." "and so you did, and would have no money for your trouble. well, jim, he is like poor peter." "i told you so, old lady; ay, and he'll just do for you as well as peter did; but i'll leave you to settle matters, for i must be a-board." so saying, the lad tipped a wink to joey, the meaning of which our hero did not understand, and went downstairs. "well, now, it's very odd; but do you know you are like poor peter, and the more i look at you the more you are like him: poor peter! did you hear how i lost him?" "yes, the sailor lad told me this morning." "poor fellow! he held on too fast; most people drown by not holding on fast enough: he was a good boy, and very smart indeed; and so it was you who helped me this morning when i missed poor peter so much? well, it showed you had a good heart, and i love that; and where did you meet with jim paterson?" "i met him first in a slop-shop, as he calls it, when i was buying my clothes." "well, jim's a wild one, but he has a good heart, and pays when he can. i've been told by those who know his parents, that he will have property by-and-bye. well, and what can you do? i am afraid you can't do all peter did." "i can keep your accounts, and i can be honest and true to you." "well, peter could not do more: are you sure you can keep accounts, and sum up totals?" "yes, to be sure i can; try me." "well, then, i will: here is pen, ink, and paper. well, you are the very image of peter, and that's a fact. now write down beer, 8 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down?" "yes." "let me see: duck for trousers, 3 shillings, 6 pence; beer again, 4 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down? well, then, say beer again, 8 pence. now sum that all up." joey was perfect master of the task, and, as he handed over the paper, announced the whole sum to amount to 5 shillings, 10 pence. "well," says mrs chopper, "it looks all right; but just stay here a minute while i go and speak to somebody." mrs chopper left the room, went downstairs, and took it to the bar-girl at the next public-house to ascertain if it was all correct. "yes, quite correct, mrs chopper," replied the lass. "and is it as good as peter's was, poor fellow?" "much better," replied the girl. "dear me! who would have thought it? and so like peter too!" mrs chopper came upstairs again, and took her seat--"well," said she, "and now what is your name?" "joey." "joey what?" "joey--o'donahue," replied our hero, for he was fearful of giving the name of mcshane. "and who are your parents?" "they are poor people," replied joey, "and live a long way off." "and why did you leave them?" joey had already made up his mind to tell his former story; "i left there because i was accused of poaching, and they wished me to go away." "poaching; yes, i understand that--killing hares and birds. well, but why did you poach?" "because father did." "oh, well, i see; then, if you only did what your father did we must not blame his child; and so you come down here to go to sea?" "if i could not do better." "but you shall do better, my good boy. i will try you instead of poor peter, and if you are an honest and good, careful boy, it will be much better than going to sea. dear me! how like he is,--but now i _must_ call you peter; it will make me think i have him with me, poor fellow!" "if you please," said joey, who was not sorry to exchange his name. "well, then, where do you sleep to-night?" "i did intend to ask for a bed at the house where i left my bundle." "then, don't do so; go for your bundle, and you shall sleep in peter's bed (poor fellow, his last was a watery bed, as the papers say), and then to-morrow morning you can go off with me." joey accepted the offer, went back for his bundle, and returned to mrs chopper in a quarter of an hour; she was then preparing her supper, which joey was not sorry to partake of; after which she led him into a small room, in which was a small bed without curtains; the room itself was hung round with strings of onions, papers of sweet herbs, and flitches of bacon; the floor was strewed with empty ginger-beer bottles, oakum in bags, and many other articles. altogether, the smell was anything but agreeable. "here is poor peter's bed," said mrs chopper; "i changed his sheets the night before he was drowned, poor fellow! can i trust you to put the candle out?" "oh, yes; i'll be very careful." "then, good night, boy. do you ever say your prayers? poor peter always did." "yes, i do," replied joey; "good night." mrs chopper left the room. joey threw open the window--for he was almost suffocated--undressed himself, put out the light, and, when he had said his prayers, his thoughts naturally reverted to the little emma who had knelt with him on the road-side. chapter twenty three. in which our hero goes on duty. at five o'clock the next morning joey was called up by mrs chopper; the waterman was in attendance, and, with the aid of joey, carried down the various articles into the boat. when all was ready, mrs chopper and joey sat down to their breakfast, which consisted of tea, bread and butter, and red herrings; and, as soon as it was finished, they embarked, and the boat shoved off. "well, mrs chopper," said the waterman, "so i perceive you've got a new hand." "yes," replied mrs chopper; "don't you think he's the moral of poor peter?" "well, i don't know; but there is a something about the cut of his jib which reminds me of him, now you mention it. peter was a good boy." "aye, that he was, and as sharp as a needle. you see," said mrs chopper, turning to joey, "sharp's the word in a bumboat. there's many who pay, and many who don't; some i trust, and some i don't--that is, those who won't pay me old debts. we lose a bit of money at times, but it all comes round in the end; but i lose more by not booking the things taken than in any other way, for sailors do pay when they have the money--that is, if ever they come back again, poor fellows. now, peter." "what! is his name peter, too?" "yes, i must call him peter, william; he is so like poor peter." "well, that will suit me; i hate learning new names." "well, but, peter," continued mrs chopper, "you must be very careful; for, you see, i'm often called away here and there after wash clothes and such things; and then you must look out, and if they do take up anything, why, you must book it, at all events. you'll learn by-and-bye who to trust, and who not to trust; for i know the most of my customers. you must not trust a woman--i mean any of the sailors' wives--unless i tell you; and you must be very sharp with them, for they play all manner of tricks; you must look two ways at once. now, there's a girl on board the brig we are pulling to, called nancy; why, she used to weather poor peter, sharp as he was. she used to pretend to be very fond of him, and hug him close to her with one arm, so as to blind him, while she stole the tarts with the other; so, don't admit her familiarities; if you do, i shall pay for them." "then, who am i to trust?" "bless the child! you'll soon find out that; but mind one thing; never trust a tall, lanky seaman without his name's on the books; those chaps never pay. there's the book kept by poor peter; and you see names upon the top of each score--at least, i believe so; i have no learning myself, but i've a good memory; i can't read nor write, and that's why peter was so useful." that peter could read his own writing it is to be presumed; but certain it was that joey could not make it out until after many days examination, when he discovered that certain hieroglyphics were meant to represent certain articles; after which it became more easy. they had now reached the side of the vessel, and the sailors came down into the boat, and took up several articles upon credit; joey booked them very regularly. "has bill been down yet?" said a soft voice from the gangway. "no, nancy, he has not." "then he wants two red herrings, a sixpenny loaf, and some 'baccy." joey looked up, and beheld a very handsome, fair, blue-eyed girl with a most roguish look, who was hanging over the side. "then he must come himself, nancy," replied mrs chopper, "for, you know, the last time you took up the things he said that you were never told to do so, and he would not pay for them." "that's because the fool was jealous; i lost the tobacco, mrs chopper, and he said i had given it to dick snapper." "i can't help that; he must come himself." "but he's away in the boat, and he told me to get the things for him. who have you there? not peter; no, it's not peter; but, what a dear little boy." "i told you so," said mrs chopper to our hero; "now, if i wasn't in the boat, she would be down in it in a minute, and persuade you to let her have the things--and she never pays." joey looked up again, and, as he looked at nancy, felt that it would be very unkind to refuse her. "now, what a hard-hearted old woman you are, mrs chopper. bill will come on board; and, as sure as i stand here, he'll whack me. he will pay you, you may take my word for it." "your word, nancy!" replied mrs chopper, shaking her head. "stop a moment," said nancy, coming down the side with very little regard as to showing her well-formed legs; "stop, mrs chopper, and i'll explain to you." "it's no use coming down, nancy, i tell you," replied mrs chopper. "well, we shall see," replied nancy, taking her seat in the boat, and looking archly in mrs chopper's face; "the fact is mrs chopper, you don't know what a good-tempered woman you are." "i know, nancy, what you are," replied mrs chopper. "oh, so does everybody: i'm nobody's enemy but my own, they say." "ah! that's very true, child; more's the pity." "now, i didn't come down to wheedle you out of anything, mrs chopper, but merely to talk to you, and look at this pretty boy." "there you go, nancy; but ain't he like peter?" "well, and so he is! very like peter; he has peter's eyes and his nose, and his mouth is exactly peter's--how very strange!" "i never see'd such a likeness!" exclaimed mrs chopper. "no, indeed," replied nancy, who, by agreeing with mrs chopper in all she said, and praising joey, and his likeness to peter, at last quite came over the old bumboat-woman; and nancy quitted her boat with the two herrings, the loaf; and the paper of tobacco. "shall i put them down, mrs chopper?" said joey. "oh, dear," replied mrs chopper, coming to her recollection, "i'm afraid that it's no use; but put them down, anyhow; they will do for bad debts. shove off, william, we must go to the large ship now." "i do wish that that nancy was at any other port," exclaimed mrs chopper, as they quitted the vessel's side; "i do lose so much money by her." "well," said the waterman, laughing, "you're not the only one; she can wheedle man or woman, or, as they say, the devil to boot, if she would try." during the whole of the day the wherry proceeded from ship to ship, supplying necessaries; in many instances they were paid for in ready money, in others joey's capabilities were required, and they were booked down against the customers. at last, about five o'clock in the evening, the beer-barrel being empty, most of the contents of the baskets nearly exhausted, and the wherry loaded with the linen for the wash, biscuits, empty bottles, and various other articles of traffic or exchange, mrs chopper ordered william, the waterman, to pull on shore to the landing-place. as soon as the baskets and other articles had been carried up to the house, mrs chopper sent out for the dinner, which was regularly obtained from a cook's-shop. joey sat down with her, and when his meal was finished, mrs chopper told him he might take a run and stretch his legs a little if he pleased, while she tended to the linen which was to go to the wash. joey was not sorry to take advantage of this considerate permission, for his legs were quite cramped from sitting so long jammed up between baskets of eggs, red herrings, and the other commodities which had encompassed him. we must now introduce mrs chopper to the reader a little more ceremoniously. she was the widow of a boatswain, who had set her up in the bumboat business with some money he had acquired a short time before his death, and she had continued it ever since on her own account. people said that she was rich, but riches are comparative, and if a person in a seaport town, and in her situation, could show 200 or 300 pounds at her bankers, she was considered rich. if she was rich in nothing else, she certainly was in bad and doubtful debts, having seven or eight books like that which joey was filling up for her during the whole day, all containing accounts of long standing, and most of which probably would stand for ever; but if the bad debts were many, the profits were in proportion; and what with the long standing debts being occasionally paid, the ready-money she continually received, and the profitable traffic which she made in the way of exchange, etcetera, she appeared to do a thriving business, although it is certain the one-half of her goods were as much given away as were the articles obtained from her in the morning by nancy. it is a question whether these books of bad debts were not a source of enjoyment to her, for every night she would take one of the books down, and although she could not read, yet, by having them continually read to her, and knowing the pages so exactly, she could almost repeat every line by heart which the various bills contained; and then there was always a story which she had to tell about each--something relative to the party of whom the transaction reminded her; and subsequently, when joey was fairly domiciled with her, she would make him hand down one of the books, and talk away from it for hours; they were the ledgers of her reminiscences; the events of a considerable portion of her life were all entered down along with the 'baccy, porter, pipes, and red herrings; a bill for these articles was to her time, place and circumstance; and what with a good memory, and bad debts to assist it, many were the hours which were passed away (and pleasantly enough, too, for one liked to talk, and the other to listen) between mrs chopper and our little hero. but we must not anticipate. the permission given to joey to stretch his legs induced him to set off as fast as he could to gain the high road before his little friend, emma phillips, had left her school. he sat down in the same place, waiting for her coming. the spot had become hallowed to the poor fellow, for he had there met with a friend--with one who sympathised with him when he most required consolation. he now felt happy, for he was no longer in doubt about obtaining his livelihood, and his first wish was to impart the pleasing intelligence to his little friend. she was not long before she made her appearance in her little straw bonnet with blue ribbons. joey started up, and informed her that he had got a very nice place, explained to her what it was, and how he had been employed during the day. "and i can very often come out about this time, i think," added joey, "and then i can walk home with you, and see that you come to no harm." "but," replied the little girl, "my mother says that she would like to see you, as she will not allow me to make acquaintance with people i meet by accident. don't you think that mother is right?" "yes, i do; she's very right," replied joey; "i didn't think of that." "will you come and see her, then?" "not now, because i am not very clean. i'll come on sunday, if i can get leave." they separated, and joey returned back to the town. as he walked on, he thought he would spend the money he had got in a suit of sunday clothes, of a better quality than those he had on, the materials of which were very coarse. on second thoughts, he resolved to apply to mrs chopper, as he did not exactly know where to go for them, and was afraid that he would be imposed upon. "well, peter," said his new mistress, "do you feel better for your walk?" "yes, thank you, ma'am." "peter," continued mrs chopper, "you appear to be a very handy, good boy, and i hope we shall live together a long while. how long have you been at sea?" "i was going to sea; i have never been to sea yet, and i don't want to go; i would rather stay with you." "and so you shall, that's a settled thing. what clothes have you got, peter?" "i have none but what i stand in, and a few shirts in a bundle, and they are sunday ones; but when i left home i had some money given me, and i wish to buy a suit of clothes for sunday, to go to church in." "that's a good boy, and so you shall; but how much money have you got?" "quite enough to buy a suit of clothes," replied joey, handing out two sovereigns, and seventeen shillings in silver. "oh, i suppose they gave you all that to fit you out with when you left home; poor people, i dare say they worked hard for it. well, i don't think the money will be of any use to you; so you had better buy a sunday suit, and i will take care you want for nothing afterwards. don't you think i'm right?" "yes, i wish to do so. to-day is tuesday; i may have them made by next sunday?" "so you can; and as soon as william comes in, which he will soon, from the washerwoman's, we will go out and order them. here he comes up the stairs--no, that foot's too light for his. well, it's nancy, i declare! why, nancy, now," continued mrs chopper, in a deprecating tone, "what do you want here?" "well, i leave you to guess," replied nancy, looking very demurely, and taking a seat upon a hamper. "guess, i fear there's no guess in it, nancy; but i will not--now it's no use--i will not trust another shilling." "but i know you will, mrs chopper. lord love you, you're such a good-natured creature, you can't refuse any one, and certainly not me. why don't you take me in your boat with you as your assistant? then there would be something in it worth looking at. i should bring you plenty of custom." "you're too wild, nancy; too wild, girl. but, now, what do you want? recollect you've already had some things to-day." "i know i have, and you are a good-natured old trump, that you are. now i'll tell you--gold must pass between us this time." "mercy on me, nancy, why you're mad. i've no gold--nothing but bad debts." "look you, mrs chopper, look at this shabby old bonnet of mine. don't i want a new one?" "then you must get somebody else to give you money, nancy," replied mrs chopper, coolly and decidedly. "don't talk so fast, mrs chopper: now, i'll let you know how it is. when bill came on board he asked the captain for an advance; the captain refused him before, but this time he was in a good humour, and he consented. so then i coaxed bill out of a sovereign to buy a new bonnet, and he gave it me; and then i thought what a kind soul you were, and i resolved that i would bring you the sovereign, and go without the new bonnet; so here it is, take it quick, or i shall repent." "well, nancy," said mrs chopper, "you said right; gold has passed between us, and i am surprised. now i shall trust you again." "and so you ought; it's not every pretty girl, like me, who will give up a new bonnet. only look what a rubbishy affair this is," continued nancy, giving her own a kick up in the air. "i wish i had a sovereign to give away," said joey to mrs chopper; "i wish i had not said a word about the clothes." "do as you like with your own money, my dear," said the bumboat-woman. "then, nancy, i'll give you a sovereign to buy yourself a new bonnet with," said joey, taking one out of his pocket and putting into her hand. nancy looked at the sovereign, and then at joey. "bless the boy!" said she, at last, kissing him on the forehead; "he has a kind heart; may the world use him better than it has me! here, take your sovereign, child; any bonnet's good enough for one like me." so saying, nancy turned hastily away, and ran downstairs. chapter twenty four. in which mrs. chopper reads her ledger. "ah, poor girl," said mrs chopper, with a sigh, as nancy disappeared. "you are a good boy, peter; i like to see boys not too fond of money, and if she had taken it (and i wish she had, poor thing) i would have made it up to you." "is the man she calls bill her husband?" inquired joey. "oh, i know nothing about other people's husbands," replied mrs chopper, hastily. "now then, let us go and order the clothes, and then you'll be able to go to church on sunday; i will do without you." "what, won't you go to church?" "bless you, child! who is to give the poor men their breakfast and their beer? a bumboat-woman can't go to church any more than a baker's man, for people must eat on a sunday. church, like everything else in this world, appears to me only to be made for the rich; i always take my bible in the boat with me on sunday, but then i can't read it, so it's of no great use. no, dear, i can't go to church, but i can contrive, if it don't rain in the evening, to go to meeting and hear a little of the word; but you can go to church, dear." a suit of blue cloth, made in sailor's fashion, having been ordered by mrs chopper, she and joey returned home; and, after their tea, mrs chopper desired joey to hand her one of the account-books, which she put upon her knees and opened. "there," said she, looking at the page, "i know that account well; it was tom alsop's--a fine fellow he was, only he made such a bad marriage: his wife was a very fiend, and the poor fellow loved her, which was worse. one day he missed her, and found she was on board another vessel; and he came on shore, distracted like, and got very tipsy, as sailors always do when they're in trouble, and he went down to the wharf, and his body was picked up next day." "did he drown himself?" "yes, so people think, peter; and he owed me 1 pound, 3 shillings, 4 pence, if i recollect right. aren't that the figure, peter?" "yes, ma'am," replied joey; "that's the sum total of the account, exactly." "poor fellow!" continued mrs chopper, with a sigh, "he went to his long account without paying me my short one. never mind; i wish he was alive, and twice as much in my debt. there's another--i recollect that well, peter, for it's a proof that sailors are honest; and i do believe that, if they don't pay, it's more from thoughtlessness than anything else; and then the women coax all their money from them, for sailors don't care for money when they do get it--and then those jews are such shocking fellows; but look you, peter, this is almost the first bill run up after i took up the business. he was a nice fair-haired lad from shields; and the boy was cast away, and he was picked up by another vessel, and brought here; and i let him have things and lent him money to the amount of a matter of 20 pounds, and he said he would save all and pay me, and he sailed away again, and i never heard of him for nine years. i thought that he was drowned, or that he was not an honest lad; i didn't know which, and it was a deal of money to lose; but i gave it up; when one day a tall, stout fellow, with great red whiskers, called upon me, and said, `do you know me?' `no,' said i, half-frightened; `how should i know you? i never see'd you before.'--`yes, you did,' says he, `and here's a proof of it;' and he put down on the table a lot of money, and said, `now, missus, help yourself: better late than never. i'm jim sparling, who was cast away, and who you were as good as a mother to; but i've never been able to get leave to come to you since. i'm boatswain's mate of a man-of-war, and have just received my pay, and now i've come to pay my debts.' he would make me take 5 pounds more than his bill, to buy a new silk gown for his sake. poor fellow! he's dead now. here's another, that was run up by one of your tall, lanky sailors, who wear their knives in a sheath, and not with a lanyard round their waists; those fellows never pay, but they swear dreadfully. let me see, what can this one be? read it, peter; how much is it?" "4 pounds, 2 shillings, 4 pence," replied our hero. "yes, yes, i recollect now--it was the dutch skipper. there's murder in that bill, peter: it was things i supplied to him just before he sailed; and an old man was passenger in the cabin: he was a very rich man, although he pretended to be poor. he was a diamond merchant, they say; and as soon as they were at sea, the dutch captain murdered him in the night, and threw him overboard out of the cabin-window; but one of the sailors saw the deed done, and the captain was taken up at amsterdam, and had his head cut off. the crew told us when the galliot came back with a new captain. so the dutch skipper paid the forfeit of his crime; he paid my bill, too, that's certain. oh, deary me!" continued the old lady, turning to another page. "i shan't forget this in a hurry. i never see poor nancy now without recollecting it. look, peter; i know the sum--8 pounds, 4 shillings 6 pence--exactly: it was the things taken up when tom freelove married nancy,--it was the wedding dinner and supper." "what, nancy who was here just now?" "yes, that nancy; and a sweet, modest young creature she was then, and had been well brought up too; she could read and write beautifully, and subscribed to a circulating library, they say. she was the daughter of a baker in this town. i recollect it well: such a fine day it was when they went to church, she looking so handsome in her new ribbons and smart dress, and he such a fine-looking young man. i never seed such a handsome young couple; but he was a bad one, and so it all ended in misery." "tell me how," said joey. "i'll tell all you ought to know, boy; you are too young to be told all the wickedness of this world. her husband treated her very ill; before he had been married a month he left her, and went about with other people, and was always drunk, and she became jealous and distracted, and he beat her cruelly, and deserted her; and then, to comfort her, people would persuade her to keep her spirits up, and gave her something to drink, and by degrees she became fond of it. her husband was killed by a fall from the mast-head; and she loved him still and took more to liquor, and that was her ruin. she don't drink now, because she don't feel as she used to do; she cares about nothing; she is much to be pitied, poor thing, for she is still young, and very pretty. it's only four years ago when i saw her come out of church, and thought what a happy couple they would be." "where are her father and mother?" "both dead. don't let's talk about it any more. it's bad enough when a man drinks; but if a woman takes to it, it is all over with her; but some people's feelings are so strong, that they fly to it directly to drown care and misery. put up the book, peter; i can't look at it any more to-night; we'll go to bed." joey every day gave more satisfaction to his employer, and upon his own responsibility, allowed his friend the sailor lad to open an account as soon as his money was all gone. finding that the vessel was going up the river to load, joey determined to write a few lines to the mcshanes, to allay the uneasiness which he knew his absence must have occasioned, jim paterson promising to put the letter in the post as soon as he arrived at london. our hero simply said, "my dear sir, i am quite well, and have found employment, so pray do not grieve about me, as i never shall forget your kindness.--joey mcshane." on the following sunday joey was dressed in his sailor's suit, and looked very well in it. he was not only a very good-looking, but a gentlemanlike boy in his manners. he went to church, and after church he walked out to the abode of his little friend, emma phillips. she ran out to meet him, was delighted with his new clothes, and took him by the hand to present him to her mother. mrs phillips was a quiet-looking, pleasing woman, and the old lady was of a very venerable appearance. they made many inquiries about his friends, and joey continued in the same story, that he and his father had been poachers, that he had been discovered and obliged to go away, and that he went with the consent of his parents. they were satisfied with his replies, and prepossessed in his favour; and as joey was so patronised by her little daughter, he was desired to renew his visits, which he occasionally did on sundays, but preferred meeting emma on the road from school; and the two children (if joey could be called a child) became very intimate, and felt annoyed if they did not every day exchange a few words. thus passed the first six months of joey's new life. the winter was cold, and the water rough, and he blew his fingers, while mrs chopper folded her arms up in her apron; but he had always a good dinner and a warm bed after the day's work was over. he became a great favourite with mrs chopper, who at last admitted that he was much more useful than even peter; and william, the waterman, declared that such was really the case, and that he was, in his opinion, worth two of the former peter, who had come to such an untimely end. chapter twenty five. in which the biter is bit. the disappearance of joey from the school was immediately communicated to mcshane by the master, who could not imagine how such an incident could have occurred in such a decent establishment as his preparatory seminary; it was an epoch in his existence, and ever afterwards his chronology was founded upon it, and everything that occurred was so many months or weeks before or after the absconding of young master mcshane. the letter had, of course, been produced, and as soon as the schoolmaster had taken his departure, mcshane and his wife were in deep council. "i recollect," said mrs mcshane, who was crying in an easy chair--"i recollect, now, that one day the boy came up and asked me the meaning of wilful murder, and i told him. and now i think of it, i do also remember the people at number 1 table, close to the counter, some time ago, talking about a murder having been committed by a mere child, and a long report of it in the newspapers. i am sure, however (as joey says in his letter), that he is not guilty." "and so am i," replied mcshane. "however, bring up the file of newspapers, dear, and let me look over them. how long back do you think it was?" "why, let me see; it was about the time you went away with captain o'donahue, i think, or a little before--that was in october." mcshane turned over the file of newspapers, and after a quarter of an hour's search found the report of the coroner's inquest. "here it is, my dear, sure enough," said mcshane. as soon as he had read it over, and came to the end, he said, "yes; wilful murder against joseph rushbrook the younger, and 200 pounds for his apprehension. this it was that drove the boy away from home, and not poaching, although i have no doubt that poaching was the cause of the murder. now, my dear," continued mcshane, "i think i can unravel all this; the murder has been committed, that's evident, by somebody, but not by joey, i'll be sworn; he says that he is not guilty, and i believe him. nevertheless, joey runs away, and a verdict is found against him. my dear wife, i happen to know the father of joey well; he was a fine, bold soldier, but one who would stick at nothing; and if i could venture an opinion, it is, that the murder was committed by rushbrook, and not by the boy, and that the boy has absconded to save his father." the reader will acknowledge that mcshane was very clear-sighted. "that's my opinion," continued mcshane. "how it has been managed to make the boy appear as the party, i cannot tell; but knowing the father, and knowing the son, i'd stake my commission that i've guessed at the truth." "poor boy!" exclaimed mrs mcshane; "well, the commandments say that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children. what can be done, mcshane?" "nothing at present; it would injure joey to raise a hue and cry after him; for, you see, if he is apprehended, he must either be tried for his life, and convicted himself, or prove that he did not do it, which probably he could not do without convicting his father; i will, however, make some inquiries about rushbrook himself, and if i can i will see him." the same evening the schoolmaster again called upon mcshane, to say that two persons had come to the school in the afternoon and asked to see him; that one of them, shabbily dressed, but evidently a person who was not of so low a class in life as the other, had accosted him, when he came into the parlour, with, "i believe i have the pleasure of speaking to mr slappum; if so, may i request the favour to see my little friend joey, whom i met yesterday walking out with the other young gentlemen under your care, as i have a message to him from his father and mother? the dear boy was once under my tuition, and did me much credit, as i have no doubt that he has done you." now, the usher had told mr slappum that joey had been addressed by this person the day before, and the schoolmaster presuming, of course, that it was joey mcshane, replied,--"i am sorry to say that he left this house last night, and has absconded we know not where. he left a letter for major mcshane, which i have this day delivered to him, acquainting him with the unpleasant circumstance." "bolted, by all that's clever!" said the second personage to the first, who looked very much surprised and confounded. "you really have astonished me, my dear sir," replied the first person, whom the reader will of course recognise to be furness; "that a lad brought up by me in such strict moral principles, such correct notions of right and wrong, and, i may add, such pious feelings, should have taken such a step, is to me incomprehensible. major mcshane, i think you said, lives at ---?" "major mcshane lives at number --in holborn," replied the schoolmaster. "and the lad has not gone home to him?" "no, he has not; he left a letter, which i took to major mcshane; but i did not break the seal, and am ignorant of its contents." "i really am stupefied with grief and vexation," replied furness, "and will not intrude any longer. bless the poor boy! what can have come of him?" so saying, furness took his departure with the peace-officer, whom he had intrusted with the warrant, which he had taken out to secure the person of our hero. mcshane heard the schoolmaster's account of this visit without interruption, and then said, "i have no doubt but that this person who has called upon you will pay me a visit; oblige me, therefore, by describing his person particularly, so that i may know him at first sight." the schoolmaster gave a most accurate description of furness, and then took his leave. as the eating-house kept by mrs mcshane had a private door, furness (who, as mcshane had prophesied, came the next afternoon), after having read the name on the private door, which was not on the eating-house, which went by the name of the chequers, imagined that it was an establishment apart, and thought it advisable to enter into it, and ascertain a little about major mcshane before he called upon him. although mcshane seldom made his appearance in the room appropriated for the dinners, it so happened that he was standing at the door when furness entered and sat down in a box, calling for the bill of fare, and ordering a plate of beef and cabbage. mcshane recognised him by the description given of him immediately, and resolved to make his acquaintance incognito, and ascertain what his intentions were; he therefore took his seat in the same box, and winking to one of the girls who attended, also called for a plate of beef and cabbage. furness, who was anxious to pump any one he might fall in with, immediately entered into conversation with the major. "a good house this, sir, and well attended apparently?" "yes, sir," replied mcshane; "it is considered a very good house." "do you frequent it much yourself?" "always, sir; i feel much interested in its success," replied mcshane; "for i know the lady who keeps it well, and have a high respect for her." "i saw her as i passed by--a fine woman, sir! pray may i ask who is major mcshane, who i observe lives in the rooms above?" "he is a major in the army, sir--now on half-pay." "do you know him?" "remarkably well," replied mcshane; "he's a countryman of mine." "he's married, sir, i think? i'll trouble you for the pepper." "he is married, sir, to a very amiable woman." "any family, sir?" "not that i know of; they have a young _protege_, i believe, now at school--a boy they call joey." "indeed! how very kind of them; really, now, it's quite refreshing for me to see so much goodness of heart still remaining in this bad world. adopted him, i presume?" "i really cannot exactly say that; i know that they treat him as their own child." "have you seen major mcshane lately, sir?" "saw him this morning, sir, just after he got up." "indeed! this is remarkably good ale, sir--will you honour me by tasting it?" "sir, you are very kind; but the fact is i never drink malt liquor. here, girl, bring a half pint of brandy. i trust, sir, you will not refuse to join me in a glass, although i cannot venture to accept your polite offer." furness drank off his pot of ale, and made ready for the brandy which had been offered him; mcshane filled his own glass, and then handed the decanter over to furness. "i have the pleasure of drinking your good health, sir," said mcshane. "you are from the country, i presume; may i inquire from what part?" "i am from devonshire; i was formerly head of the grammar school at ---; but, sir, my principles would not allow me to retain my situation; rectitude of conduct, sir, is absolutely necessary to the profession which inculcates morality and virtue, as well as instruction to youth, sir. here's to our better acquaintance, sir." "sir, to your's; i honour your sentiments. by the powers! but you're right, mr ---, i beg your pardon--but i don't catch your name exactly." "furness, sir, at your service. yes, sir, the directors of the foundation which i presided over, i may say, with such credit to myself, and such advantage to the pupils under my care, wished to make a job-yes, sir--of a charity; i could not consent to such deeds, and i resigned." "and you have been in london ever since?" "no, sir; i repaired to the small village of grassford, where i set up a school, but circumstances compelled me to resign, and i am now about to seek for employment in another hemisphere; in short, i have an idea of going out to new south wales as a preceptor. i understand they are in great want of tuition in that quarter." "i should think so," replied mcshane; "and they have a great deal to unlearn as well as to learn." "i speak of the junior branches--the scions or offsets, i may say--born in the colony, and who i trust, will prove that crime is not hereditary." "well, i wish you luck, sir," replied mcshane; "you must oblige me by taking another glass, for i never shall be able to finish this decanter myself." "i gladly avail myself of the pleasure of your company, sir." as the reader is well aware that furness was an intemperate man, it is not surprising that he accepted the offer; and before the second glass was finished, the ale and brandy had begun to have the effect, and he had become very communicative. "what was the name of the village which you stated you had resided in lately, sir?" inquired mcshane. "the village of grassford." "there is something i recollect about that village; let me see-something that i read in the newspapers. i remember now--it was the murder of a pedlar." "very true, sir, such a circumstance did take place; it was a dreadful affair--and, what is more strange, committed by a mere child, who absconded." "indeed! what was his name?" "rushbrook, sir; his father was a well-known poacher--a man who had been in the army, and had a pension for wounds. there is an old saying, sir, of high authority--`bring up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it.' i instructed that boy, sir; but alas! what avails the instruction of a preceptor when a father leads a child into evil ways?" "that's the truth, and no mistake," replied mcshane. "so the boy ran away? yes; i recollect now. and what became of the father?" "the father, sir, and mother have since left the village, and gone nobody knows where." "indeed! are you sure of that?" "quite sure, sir; for i was most anxious to discover them, and took great pains, but without success." "what did the people say thereabouts? was there no suspicion of the father being implicated?" "i do not think there was. he gave evidence at the inquest, and so did i, sir, as you may suppose, most unwillingly; for the boy was a favourite of mine. i beg your pardon, sir--you say you are acquainted with major mcshane, and saw him this morning; is the interesting little boy you speak of as under his protection now at home or still at school?" "i really cannot positively say," replied mcshane; "but this is not holiday-time. come, sir, we must not part yet; your conversation is too interesting. you must allow me to call for some more brandy; poor as i am, i must treat myself and you too. i wish i knew where i could pick up a little money; for, to tell you the truth, cash begins to run low." furness was now more than half drunk. "well, sir," said he; "i have known money picked up without any difficulty: for instance, now, suppose we should fall in with this young rascal who committed the murder; there is 200 pounds offered for his apprehension and conviction." "i thought as much," muttered mcshane; "the infernal scoundrel! i suspect that you will find him where you are going to, mr furbish, he's got that far by this time." "between you and i, i think not, sir. my name is furness, sir--i beg your pardon--not furbish." "why you do not think he would be such a fool as to remain in the country after such an act?" "the wicked are foolish, sir, as well as others," replied furness, putting his finger to his nose, and looking very knowingly. "that's truth, sir. help yourself; you drink nothing. excuse me one minute; i'll be back directly." mcshane left the box for a few minutes to explain to his wife what he was about, and to give time for the liquor to operate upon furness. as he expected, he found, on his return, that furness had finished his glass, and was more tipsy than when he left him. the conversation was renewed, and mcshane again pleading his poverty, and his wish to obtain money, brought out the proposal of furness, who informed him that he had recognised the _protege_ of major mcshane to be the identical joseph rushbrook; that the boy had absconded from the school, and was concealed in the house. he concluded by observing to mcshane, that, as he was so intimate with the major, it would be very easy for him to ascertain the fact, and offered him 50 pounds, as his share of the reward, if he would assist him in the boy's capture. it was lucky for furness that mcshane was surrounded by others, or in all probability there would have been another murder committed. the major, however, said he would think of it, and fell back in deep thought; what he was thinking of was what he should do to punish furness. at last an idea came into his head; the rascal was drunk, and he proposed that he should go to another house, where they might find the major, and he would present him. furness consented, and reeled out of the box; mcshane, although he would as soon have touched a viper, controlled himself sufficiently to give furness his arm, and leading him down by two or three back courts, he took him into an ale-house where there was a rendezvous for enlisting marines for the navy. as soon as they were seated, and had liquor before them, mcshane spoke to the sergeant, tipped him a guinea, and said he had a good recruit for him, if he could be persuaded to enlist. he then introduced the sergeant as the major, and advised furness to pretend to agree with him in everything. the sergeant told long stories, clapped furness, who was now quite intoxicated, on the back, called him a jolly fellow, and asked him to enlist. "say `yes,' to please him," said mcshane in his ear. furness did so, received the shilling, and when he came to his senses next day, found his friend had disappeared, and that he was under an escort for portsmouth. all remonstrances were unavailing; mcshane had feed [paid a fee to] the sergeant, and had promised him a higher fee not to let furness off; and the latter, having but a few shillings in his pocket, was compelled to submit to his fate. chapter twenty six. in which our hero again falls in with an old acquaintance. for nearly two years joey had filled his situation as chancellor of the exchequer to mrs chopper. he certainly did not feel himself always in the humour or the disposition for business, especially during the hard winter months, when, seated almost immovably in the boat during the best portion of the day, he would find his fingers so completely dead, that he could not hold his pen. but there is no situation, under any of the powers that be, that has not some drawback. people may say that a sinecure is one that has not its disadvantages; but such is not the case--there is the disgrace of holding it. at all events, joey's place was no sinecure, for he was up early, and was employed the whole of the day. nancy, the young woman we have introduced to our readers, had contracted a great regard for our hero, ever since his offering her his money; and joey was equally partial to her, for she possessed a warm heart and much good feeling, she would very often run upstairs into mrs chopper's room, to talk with the old lady and to see joey, and would then take out her thimble and needle, examine his clothes, and make the necessary repairs. "i saw you walking with little emma phillips, peter," said nancy: "where did you come to know her?" "i met her in the road the day that i came down to gravesend." "well, i'm sure! and do you speak to every young lady you chance to meet?" "no; but i was unhappy, and she was very kind to me." "she's a very sweet child, or rather, i can only say that she was, when i knew her?" "when did you know her?" "four or five years ago. i lived for a short time with mrs phillips; that was when i was a good girl." "yes, indeed, nancy," said mrs chopper, shaking her head. "why ain't you good, now, nancy?" replied joey. "because--" said nancy. "because why?" "because i am not good," replied the girl; "and now, peter, don't ask any more questions, or you'll make me cry. heigho! i think crying very pleasant now and then; one's heart feels fresher, like flowers after the rain. peter, where are your father and mother?" "i don't know; i left them at home." "you left them at home! but do you never hear from them? do you never write?" "no." "but why not? i am sure they have brought you up well. they must be very good people--are they not?" joey could not answer; how could he say that his father was a good man after what had passed? "you don't answer me, peter; don't you love your father and mother dearly?" "yes, indeed i do; but i must not write to them." "well, i must say there is something about peter and his parents which i cannot understand, and which i have often tried to make him tell, and he will not," said mrs chopper. "poaching ain't such a great crime, especially in a boy. i can't see why he should not write to his father and mother, at all events, i hope, peter, you have told me the truth?" "i have told you what is true; but my father was a poacher, and they know it; and if they did not punish me, they would him, and transport him, too, if i gave evidence against him, which i must do, if put to my oath. i've told you all i can tell; i must not tell of father, must i?" "no, no, child; i dare say you are right," replied mrs chopper. "now, i don't ask you to tell me, peter," said nancy, "for i can guess what has taken place; you and your father have been out poaching, there has been a scuffle with the keepers, and there has been blood shed; and that's the reason why you keep out of the way. ain't i right?" "you are not far wrong," replied joey; "but i will not say a word more upon it." "and i won't ask you, my little peter; there--that's done--and now i shall have a peep out of the window, for it's very close here, mrs chopper." nancy threw the window open and leaned out of it, watching the passers-by. "mercy on us! here's three soldiers coming up the street with a deserter handcuffed," cried she. "who can it be? he's a sailor. why, i do believe it's sam oxenham, that belongs to the _thomas and mary_ of sunderland. poor fellow! yes, it is him." joey went to the window, and took his stand by the side of nancy. "what soldiers are those?" inquired he. "they're not soldiers, after all," replied nancy; "they are jollies--a sergeant and two privates." "jollies! what are they?" "why, marines, to be sure." joey continued looking at them until they passed under the window, when nancy, who had a great disgust at anything like arbitrary power, could not refrain from speaking. "i say, master sergeant, you're a nice brave fellow, with your two jollies. d'ye think the young man will kill you all three, that you must put the darbies on so tight?" at this appeal, the sergeant and privates looked up at the window, and laughed when they saw such a pretty girl as nancy. the eyes of one of the privates were, however, soon fixed on our hero's face, and deeply scrutinising it, when joey looked at him. as soon as joey recognised him, he drew back from the window, pale as death, the private still remaining staring at the window. "why, what's the matter, peter?" said nancy; "what makes you look so pale? do you know that man?" "yes," replied joey, drawing his breath, "and he knows me, i'm afraid." "why do you fear?" replied nancy. "see if he's gone," said joey. "yes, he has; he has gone up the street with the sergeant; but every now and then he looks back at this window; but perhaps that's to see me." "why, peter, what harm can that marine do you?" inquired mrs chopper. "a great deal; he will never be quiet until he has me taken up, and then what will become of my poor father?" continued joey, with the tears running down his cheeks. "give me my bonnet, peter. i'll soon find out what he is after," said nancy, leaving the window. she threw her bonnet on her head, and ran downstairs. mrs chopper in vain endeavoured to console our hero, or make him explain--he did nothing but sit mournfully by her side, thinking what he had best do, and expecting every minute to hear the tramp of furness (for it was he who had recognised joey) coming up the stairs. "mrs chopper," at last said joey, "i must leave you, i'm afraid; i was obliged to leave my former friends on this man's account." "leave me, boy! no, no, you must not leave me--how could i get on without you?" "if i don't leave you myself, i shall be taken up, that is certain; but indeed i have not done wrong--don't think that i have." "i'm sure of it, child; you've only to say so, and i'll believe you; but why should he care about you?" "he lived in our village, and knows all about it; he gave evidence at--" "at what, boy?" "at the time that i ran away from home; he proved that i had the gun and bag which were found." "well, and suppose you had; what then?" "mrs chopper, there was a reward offered, and he wants to get the money." "oh, i see now--a reward offered; then it must be as nancy said, there was blood shed," and mrs chopper put her apron up to her eyes. joey made no answer. after a few minutes' silence he rose, and went to his room where he slept, and put his clothes up in a bundle. having so done, he sat down on the side of his bed and reflected what was the course he ought to pursue. our hero was now sixteen, and much increased in stature; he was no longer a child, although, in heart, almost as innocent. his thoughts wandered--he yearned to see his father and mother, and reflected whether he might not venture back to the village, and meet them by stealth; he thought of the mcshanes, and imagined that he might in the same way return to them; then little emma phillips rose in his imagination, and his fear that he should never see her again; captain o'donahue was at last brought to his recollection, and he longed to be once more with him in russia; and, lastly, he reviewed the happy and contented life he had lately led with his good friend mrs chopper, and how sorry he should be to part with her. after a time he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in the pillow; and, overcome with the excess of his feelings, he at last fell asleep. in the mean time nancy had followed the marines up the street, and saw them enter, with their prisoner, into a small public-house, where she was well known; she followed them, spoke a few kind words to the seaman who had been apprehended, and with whom she was acquainted, and then sat down by furness to attract his attention. furness had certainly much improved in his appearance since he had (much against his will) been serving his majesty. being a tall man, he had, by drilling, become perfectly erect, and the punishment awarded to drunkenness, as well as the difficulty of procuring liquor, had kept him from his former intemperance, and his health had in consequence improved. he had been more than once brought up to the gangway upon his first embarkation, but latterly had conducted himself properly, and was in expectation of being made a corporal, for which situation his education certainly qualified him. on the whole, he was now a fine-looking marine, although just as unprincipled a scoundrel as ever. "well, my pretty lass, didn't i see you looking out of a window just now?" "to be sure you did, and you might have heard me too," replied nancy; "and when i saw such a handsome fellow as you, didn't i put on my bonnet in a hurry, and come after you? what ship do you belong to?" "the _mars_, at the nore." "well, i should like to go on board of a man-of-war. will you take me?" "to be sure i will; come, have a drink of beer." "here's to the jollies," said nancy, putting the pewter pot to her lips. "when do you go on board again?" "not till to-morrow; we've caught our bird, and now we'll amuse ourselves a little. do you belong to this place?" "yes, bred and born here; but we hardly ever see a man-of-war; they stay at the nore, or go higher up." nancy did all she could to make furness believe she had taken a fancy to him, and knew too well how to succeed. before an hour had passed, furness had, as he thought, made every arrangement with her, and congratulated himself on his good fortune. in the mean time the beer and brandy went round; even the unfortunate captive was persuaded to drink with them, and drown reflection. at last, furness said to nancy, "who was that lad that was looking out of the window with you? was it your brother?" "my brother! bless you, no. you mean that scamp, peter, who goes in the bumboat with old mother chopper." "does he?--well, i have either seen him before, or some one like him." "he's not of our town," replied nancy; "he came here about two years ago, nobody knows where from, and has been with mrs chopper ever since." "two years ago," muttered furness, "that's just the time. come, girl, take some more beer." nancy drank a little, and put down the pot. "where does mrs chopper live?" inquired furness. "where you saw me looking out of the window," replied nancy. "and the boy lives with her? i will call upon mrs chopper by-and-bye." "yes, to be sure he does; but why are you talking so about the boy? why don't you talk to me, and tell me what a pretty girl i am, for i like to be told that." furness and his comrades continued the carouse, and were getting fast into a state of intoxication; the sergeant only was prudent; but furness could not let pass this opportunity of indulging without fear of punishment. he became more loving towards nancy as he became more tipsy; when nancy, who cajoled him to the utmost of her power, again mentioned our hero; and then it was that furness, who, when inebriated, could never hold a secret, first told her there was a reward offered for his apprehension, and that if she would remain with him they would spend the money together. to this nancy immediately consented, and offered to assist him as much as she could, as she had the entrance into mrs chopper's house, and knew where the lad slept. but nancy was determined to gain more from furness, and as he was now pretty far gone, she proposed that they should take a walk out, for it was a beautiful evening. furness gladly consented. nancy again explained to him how she should manage to get joey into her power, and appeared quite delighted at the idea of there being a reward, which they were to obtain; and finding that furness was completely deceived, and that the fresh air had increased his inebriety, she then persuaded him to confide to her all the circumstances connected with the reward offered for our hero's apprehension. she then learned what had occurred at the inquest--joey's escape--his being again discovered by furness--and his second escape from the school, to which he had been put by the mcshanes. "and his father and mother, where are they? when i think of them i must say that i do not much like to assist in taking up the boy. poor people, how they will suffer when they hear of it? really i don't know what to say," continued nancy, biting the tip of her finger, as if hesitating. "don't let them stop you," said furness; "they will not be likely even to hear of it; they left the village before me, and no one knows where they are gone. i tried to find out myself, but could not. it's very clear that they are gone to america." "indeed!" said nancy, who had put the questions because she wished to give joey some information relative to his parents; "gone to america, do you say?" "yes, i am inclined to think so, for i lost all trace of them." "well, then," replied nancy, "that scruple of mine is got over." she then pointed out to furness the propriety of waiting an hour or two, till people were in bed, that there might be no chance of a rescue; and they returned to the public-house. furness took another glass of ale, and then fell fast asleep on the bench, with his head over the table. "so," thought nancy, as she left the public-house, "the drunken fool makes sure of his 200 pounds; but there is no time to be lost." nancy hastened back to mrs chopper, whom she found sitting with a candle turning over the leaves of one of the old account books. "o, nancy, is that you? i was just sighing over you, here's the things that were ordered for your wedding. poor girl! i fear you have not often been to church since." nancy was silent for a short time. "i'm sick of my life and sick of myself, mrs chopper: but what can i do?--a wretch like me! i wish i could run away, as poor peter must directly, and go to where i never was known; i should be so happy." "peter must go, do you say, nancy? is that certain?" "most certain, mrs chopper, and he must be off directly i have been with the marines, and the fellow has told me everything; he is only waiting now for me to go back, to come and take him." "but tell me, nancy, has peter been guilty?" "i believe from my heart that he has done nothing; but still murder was committed, and peter will be apprehended, unless you give him the means of running away. where is he now?" "asleep, fast asleep: i didn't like to wake him, poor fellow!" "then he must be innocent, mrs chopper: they say the guilty never sleep. but what will he do--he has no money?" "he has saved me a mint of money, and he shall not want it," replied mrs chopper. "what shall i do without him? i can't bear to part with him." "but you must, mrs chopper; and, if you love him, you will give him the means, and let him be off directly. i wish i was going too," continued nancy, bursting into tears. "go with him, nancy, and look after him, and take care of my poor peter," said mrs chopper, whimpering; "go, my child, go, and lead a good life. i should better part with him, if i thought you were with him, and away from this horrid place." "will you let me go with him, mrs chopper--will you, indeed?" cried nancy, falling on her knees. "oh! i will watch him as a mother would her son, as a sister would her brother! give us but the means to quit this place, and the good and the wicked both will bless you." "that you shall have, my poor girl, it has often pained my heart to look at you; for i felt that you are too good for what you are, and you will be again a good honest girl. you both shall go. poor peter! i wish i were young enough, i would go with you; but i can't. how i shall be cheated again when he is gone! but go he must. here nancy, take the money; take all i have in the house:" and mrs chopper put upwards of 20 pounds into nancy's hand as she was kneeling before her. nancy fell forward with her face in the lap of the good old woman, suffocated with emotion and tears. "come, come, nancy," said mrs chopper, after a pause, and wiping her eyes with her apron, "you mustn't take on so, my poor girl. recollect poor peter; there's no time to lose." "that is true," replied nancy, rising up. "mrs chopper you have done a deed this night for which you will have your reward in heaven. may the god of mercy bless you! and, as soon as i dare, night and morning will i pray for you." mrs chopper went into joey's room with the candle in her hand, followed by nancy. "see, how sound he sleeps!" said the old woman; "he is not guilty. peter! peter! come get up, child." joey rose from his bed, confused at first with the light in his eyes, but soon recovered himself. "peter, you must go, my poor boy, and go quickly, nancy says." "i was sure of it," replied joey: "i am very, very sorry to leave you, mrs chopper. pray think well of me, for, indeed, i have done nothing wrong." "i am sure of it; but nancy knows it all, and away you must go. i wish you were off; i'm getting fidgety about it, although i cannot bear to lose you; so good-bye at once, peter, and god bless you! i hope we shall meet again yet." "i hope so, indeed, mrs chopper; for you have been very kind to me, as kind as a mother could be." mrs chopper hugged him to her breast, and then said, in a hurried tone, as she dropped on the bed,--"there; go, go." nancy took up joey's bundle in one hand and joey by the other, and they went down stairs. as soon as they were in the street, nancy turned short round, and went to the house where she usually slept, desiring joey to wait a moment at the door. she soon returned with her own bundle, and then, with a quick pace, walked on, desiring joey to follow her. they proceeded in this manner until they were clear of the town, when joey came up to nancy, and said, "thank you, nancy; i suppose we'd better part now?" "no, we don't part yet, peter," replied nancy. "but where are you going, and why have you that bundle?" "i am going with you, peter," replied nancy. "but, nancy--," replied joey; and then, after a pause, "i will do all i can for you--i will work for you--but i have no money, and i hope we shall not starve." "bless you, boy! bless you for that kind feeling! but we shall not starve; i have mrs chopper's leave to go with you; indeed, she wished me so to do, and she has given me money for you--it is for you, although she said for both." "she is very kind; but why should you go with me, nancy? you have nothing to fear." "we must not talk now, peter; let us walk on; i have more to fear than you." "how is that? i fear being taken up for that of which i am not guilty, but you have nothing to fear." "peter, dear," replied nancy, solemnly, "i do not fear for anything the world can do to me--but don't talk now; let us go on." chapter twenty seven. in which the wheel of fortune brings our hero's nose to a grindstone. when nancy and our hero had proceeded about three miles on their way, nancy slackened her pace, and they entered into conversation. "which way are you going?" demanded joey. "i'm cutting right across the country, peter, or rather joey, as i shall in future call you, for that is your real name--the marine told me it was joseph rushbrook; is it not?" "yes, it is," replied joey. "then in future i shall call you so, for i do not want to hear even a name which would remind me of the scene of my misery; and joey, do you never call me nancy again, the name is odious to me; call me mary." "i will if you wish it; but i cannot imagine why you should run away from gravesend, mary. what do you mean to do? i ran away from fear of being taken up." "and i, joey, do more; i fly from the wrath to come. you ask me what i intend to do; i will answer you in the words of the catechism which i used once to repeat, `to lead a new life, have a thankful remembrance of christ's death, and be in charity with all men.' i shall seek for service; i care not how humble--it will be good enough. i will sift cinders for brick-making, make bricks, do anything, as long as what i do is honest." "i am very glad to hear you say that, mary," replied joey, "for i was always very fond of you." "yes, joey, and you were the first who offered to do a kind thing for me for a long while; i have never forgotten it, and this night i have done something to repay it." nancy then entered into a detail of all that had passed between her and furness, of which joey had been ignorant, and which proved to him what a narrow escape he had had. "i little thought you had done all this while i slept," replied joey; "but i am very grateful, mary." "i know you are, so say no more about it. you see, joey, he gave me all your history, and appears to believe that you committed the murder. i do not believe it; i do not believe you would do such a thing, although your gun might have gone off by accident." "no, mary, i did not do it, either on purpose or by accident; but you must ask me no more questions, for if i were put on my trial, i should not reveal the secret." "then i will never speak to you any more about it, if i can help it. i have my own thoughts on the business, but now i drop it. it is nearly daylight, and we have walked a good many miles; i shall not be sorry to sit down and rest myself." "do you know how far we have to go before we come to any town, mary?" "we are not far from maidstone; it is on our right, but it will be as well not to go through so large a town so near to gravesend. besides, some of the soldiers may know me. as soon as we come to a good place, where we can find a drink of water, we will sit down and rest ourselves." about a mile further on they came to a small rivulet which crossed the road. "this will do, joey," said nancy; "now we'll sit down." it was then daylight; they took their seats on their bundles as soon as they had drunk from the stream. "now, joey," said mary (as we shall call her for the future), let us see what money we have. mrs chopper put all she had in my hands; poor, good old woman, bless her! count it. joey; it is yours. "no, mary; she gave it for both of us." "never mind; do you keep it: for you see, joey, it might happen that you might have to run off at a moment's warning, and it would not do for you to be without money." "if i was to run off at a minute's warning, i should then take it all with me, and it would not do for you to be left without any money, mary; so we must halve it between us, although we will always make one purse." "well, be it so; for if you were robbed, or i were robbed, on the way, the other might escape." they then divided the money, joey putting his share into his pocket, and tying it in with a string. mary dropped hers down into the usual deposit of women for bank-notes and billets-doux. as soon as this matter had been arranged, mary opened her bundle, and took out a handkerchief, which she put on her shoulders; combed out the ringlets which she had worn, and dressed her hair flat on her temples; removed the gay ribbons from her bonnet, and substituted some plain brown in their stead. "there," says she; "now, joey, don't i look more respectable?" "you do look more neat and more--" "more modest, you would say, joey. well, and i hope in future to become what i look. but i look more fit to be your sister, joey, for i have been thinking we had better pass off as brother and sister to avoid questioning. we must make out some story to agree in. who shall we say that we are (as we dare not say who we really are)? i am looking out for service, and so are you, that's very clear; father and mother are both dead; father was a baker. that's all true, as far as relates to me: and as you are my brother, why you must take my father and mother. it's no very great story, after all." "but it won't do to say we came from gravesend." "no; we need not say that, and yet tell no story; the village we passed through last night was wrotham, so we came from thence." "but where do you think of going, mary?" "a good way farther off yet; at all events, before we look out for service, we will get into another county. now, if you are ready, we will go on joey, and look out for some breakfast, and then i shall be able to change my gown for a quieter one." in half an hour they arrived at a village, and went into a public-house. mary went up stairs and changed her dress; and now that she had completed her arrangements, she looked a very pretty, modest young woman, and none could have supposed that the day before she had been flaunting in the street of a seafaring town. inquiries were made, as might be supposed, and mary replied that she was going to service, and that her brother was escorting her. they had their breakfast, and, after resting two hours, they proceeded on their journey. for some days they travelled more deliberately, until they found themselves in the village of manstone, in dorsetshire, where they, as usual, put up at an humble public-house. here mary told a different story; she had been disappointed in a situation, and they intended to go back to their native town. the landlady of the hotel was prepossessed in favour of such a very pretty girl as mary, as well as with the appearance of joey, who, although in his sailor's dress, was very superior in carriage and manners to a boy in his supposed station in life, and she said that if they would remain there a few days she would try to procure them some situation. the third day after their arrival, she informed mary that she had heard of a situation as under-housemaid at the squire's, about a mile off, if she would like to take it, and mary gladly consented. mrs derborough sent up word, and received orders for mary to make her appearance, and mary accordingly went up to the hall, accompanied by joey. when she arrived there, and made known her business, she was desired to wait in the servants' hall until she was sent for. in about a quarter of a hour she was summoned, and, leaving joey in the hall, she went up to see the lady of the house, who inquired whether she had ever been out at service before, and if she had a good character. mary replied that she had never been out at service, and that she had no character at all (which, by the bye, was very true). the lady of the house smiled at this apparently _naive_ answer from so very modest-looking and pretty a girl, and asked who her parents were. to this question mary's answer was ready, and she further added that she had left home in search of a place, and had been disappointed; that her father and mother were dead, but her brother was down below, and had escorted her; and that mrs chopper was an old friend of her mother's, and could answer to her character. the lady was prepossessed by mary's appearance, by the report of mrs derborough, and by the respectability of her brother travelling with her, and agreed to try her; but at the same time said she must have mrs chopper's address, that she might write to her; but, the place being vacant, she might come to-morrow morning: her wages were named, and immediately accepted; and thus did mary obtain her situation. people say you cannot be too particular when you choose servants; and, to a certain degree, this is true; but this extreme caution, however selfishness and prudence may dictate it, is but too often the cause of servants who have committed an error, and have in consequence been refused a character, being driven to destitution and misery, when they had a full intention, and would have, had they been permitted, redeemed their transgression. mary was resolved to be a good and honest girl. had the lady of the house been very particular, and had others to whom she might afterwards have applied been the same, all her good intentions might have been frustrated, and she might have been driven to despair, if not to her former evil courses. it is perhaps fortunate that everybody in the world is not so particular as your very good people, and that there is an occasional loophole by which those who have erred are permitted to return to virtue. mary left the room delighted with her success, and went down to joey in the servants' hall. the servants soon found out from mary that she was coming to the house, and one of the men chucked her under the chin, and told her she was a very pretty girl. mary drew back, and joey immediately resented the liberty, stating that he would not allow any man to insult his sister, for joey was wise enough to see that he could not do a better thing to serve mary. the servant was insolent in return, and threatened to chastise joey, and ordered him to leave the house. the women took our hero's part. the housekeeper came down at the time, and hearing the cause of the dispute, was angry with the footman; the butler took the side of the footman; and the end of it was that the voices were at the highest pitch when the bell rang, and the men being obliged to answer it, the women were for the time left in possession of the field. "what is that noise below?" inquired the master of the house. "it is a boy, sir--the brother, i believe of the girl who has come as under-housemaid, who has been making a disturbance." "desire him to leave the house instantly." "yes, sir," replied the butler, who went down to enforce the order. little did the master of the house imagine that in giving that order he was turning out of the house his own son; for the squire was no other than mr austin. little did the inconsolable mrs austin fancy that her dear, lamented boy was at that moment under the same roof with her, and been driven out of it by her menials; but such was the case. so joey and mary quitted the hall, and bent their way back to the village inn. "well, mary," said joey, "i am very glad that you have found a situation." "and so i am very thankful, indeed, joey," replied she; "and only hope that you will be able to get one somewhere about here also, and then we may occasionally see something of one another." "no, mary," replied joey, "i shall not look for a situation about here; the only reason i had for wishing it was that i might see you; but that will be impossible now." "why so?" "do you think that i will ever put my foot into that house again, after the manner i was treated to-day? never." "i was afraid so," replied mary, mournfully. "no, mary, i am happy that you are provided for; for i can seek my own fortune, and i will write to you, and let you know what i do; and you will write to me, mary, won't you?" "it will be the greatest pleasure that will be left to me, joey; for i love you as dearly as it you were my own brother." the next day our hero and mary parted, with many tears on her side, and much sorrow on his. joey refused to take more of the money than what he had in his possession, but promised; in case of need, to apply to mary, who said that she would hoard up everything for him; and she kept her word. joey, having escorted mary to the hall lodge, remained at the inn till the next morning, and then set off once more on his travels. our hero started at break of day, and had walked, by a western road, from manstone, about six miles, when he met two men coming towards him. they were most miserably clad--neither of them had shoes or stockings; one had only a waistcoat and a pair of trousers, with a sack on his back; the other had a pair of blue trousers torn to ribbons, a guernsey frock, and a tarpaulin hat. they appeared what they represented themselves to be, when they demanded charity, two wrecked seamen, who were travelling to a northern port to obtain employment; but had these fellows been questioned by a sailor, he would soon have discovered, by their total ignorance of anything nautical, that they were impostors. perhaps there is no plan more successful than this, which is now carried on to an enormous extent by a set of rogues and depredators, who occasionally request charity, but too often extort it, and add to their spoils by robbing and plundering everything in their way. it is impossible for people in this country to ascertain the truth of the assertions of these vagabonds, and it appears unfeeling to refuse assistance to a poor seaman who has lost his all: even the cottager offers his mite, and thus do they levy upon the public to an extent which is scarcely credible; but it should be known that, in all cases of shipwreck, sailors are now invariably relieved and decently clothed, and supplied with the means of travelling to obtain employment; and whenever a man appeals for charity in a half-naked state, he is invariably an impostor or a worthless scoundrel. the two men were talking loud and laughing when they approached our hero. as soon as they came near, they looked hard at him, and stopped right before him, so as to block up the footpath. "hilloah, my little sailor! where are you bound to?" said one to joey, who had his common sailor's dress on. "and, i say, what have you got in that bundle?" said the other; "and how are you off for brads?--haven't you something to spare for brother-seamen? come, feel in your pockets; or shall i feel for you?" joey did not much like this exordium; he replied, stepping into the road at the same time, "i've no money, and the bundle contains my clothes." "come, come," said the first, "you're not going to get off that way. if you don't wish your brains beaten out, you'll just hand over that bundle for me to examine;" and so saying, the man stepped into the road towards joey, who continued to retreat to the opposite side. there was no footpath at the side of the road to which joey retreated, but a very thick quick-set hedge, much too strong for any man to force his way through. joey perceived this; and as the man came at him to seize his bundle, he contrived, by a great effort, to swing it over the hedge into the field on the other side. the man, exasperated at this measure on the part of our hero, ran to seize him; but joey dodged under him, and ran away down the road for a few yards, where he picked up a heavy stone for his defence, and there remained, prepared to defend himself, and not lose his bundle if he could help it. "you get hold of him, bill, while i go round for the bundle," said the man who had followed across the road, and he immediately set off to find the gate, or some entrance into the field, while the other man made after joey. our hero retreated at full speed; the man followed, but could not keep pace with our hero, as the road was newly-gravelled, and he had no shoes. joey, perceiving this, slackened his pace, and when the man was close to him, turned short round, and aiming the stone with great precision, hit him on the forehead, and the fellow fell down senseless. in the meantime the other miscreant had taken the road in the opposite direction to look for the gate; and joey, now rid of his assailant, perceived that in the hedge, opposite to the part of the road where he now stood, there was a gap which he could get through. he scrambled into the field, and ran for his bundle. the other man, who had been delayed, the gate being locked, and fenced with thorns, had but just gained the field when joey had his bundle in his possession. our hero caught it up, and ran like lightning to the gap, tossed over his bundle, and followed it, while the man was still a hundred yards from him. once more in the high road, joey took to his heels, and having run about two hundred yards, he looked back to ascertain if he was pursued, and perceived the man standing over his comrade, who was lying where he had fallen. satisfied that he was now safe, joey pursued his journey at a less rapid rate, although he continued to look back every minute, just by way of precaution; but the fellows, although they would not lose an opportunity of what appeared such an easy robbery, had their own reasons for continuing their journey, and getting away from that part of the country. our hero pursued his way for two miles, looking out for some water by the wayside to quench his thirst, when he observed in the distance that there was something lying on the roadside. as he came nearer, he made it out to be a man prostrate on the grass, apparently asleep, and a few yards from where the man lay was a knife-grinder's wheel, and a few other articles in the use of a travelling tinker; a fire, nearly extinct, was throwing up a tiny column of smoke, and a saucepan, which appeared to have been upset, was lying beside it. there was something in the scene before him which created a suspicion in the mind of our hero that all was not right; so, instead of passing on, he walked right up to where the man lay, and soon discovered that his face and dress were bloody. joey knelt down by the side of him, and found that he was senseless, but breathing heavily. joey untied the handkerchief which was round his neck, and which was apparently very tight, and almost immediately afterwards the man appeared relieved and opened his eyes. after a little time he contrived to utter one word, "water!" and joey, taking up the empty saucepan, proceeded in search of it. he soon found some, and brought it back. the tinker had greatly recovered during his absence, and as soon as he had drunk the water, sat upright. "don't leave me, boy," said the tinker; "i feel very faint." "i will stay by you as long as i can be of any use to you," replied joey; "what has happened?" "robbed and almost murdered!" replied the man, with a groan. "was it by those two rascals without shoes and stockings who attempted to rob me?" inquired joey. "yes, the same, i've no doubt. i must lie down for a time, my head is so bad," replied the man, dropping back upon the grass. in a few minutes the exhausted man fell asleep, and joey remained sitting by his side for nearly two hours. at last, his new companion awoke, raised himself up, and, dipping his handkerchief into the saucepan of water, washed the blood from his head and face. "this might have been worse, my little fellow," said he to joey, after he had wiped his face; "one of those rascals nearly throttled me, he pulled my handkerchief so tight. well, this is a wicked world, this, to take away a fellow-creature's life for thirteenpence-halfpenny, for that was all the money they found in my pocket. i thought an itinerant tinker was safe from highway robbery, at all events. did you not say that they attacked you, or did i dream it?" "i did say so; it was no dream." "and how did a little midge like you escape?" joey gave the tinker a detail of what had occurred. "cleverly done, boy, and kindly done now to come to my help, and to remain by me. i was going down the road, and as you have come down, i presume we are going the same way," replied the tinker. "do you feel strong enough to walk now?" "yes, i think i can; but there's the grindstone." "oh, i'll wheel that for you." "do, that's a good boy, for i tremble very much, and it would be too heavy for me now." joey fixed his bundle with the saucepan, etcetera, upon the knife-grinder's wheel, and rolled it along the road, followed by the tinker, until they came to a small hamlet, about two miles from the spot from which they had started; they halted when they were fifty yards from the first cottage, and the tinker, having selected a dry place under the hedge, said, "i must stop here a little while?" joey, who had heard the tinker say that the men had robbed him of thirteenpence-halfpenny, imagined that he was destitute, and as he wished to proceed on his way, he took out two shillings, and held them out to the man, saying, "this will keep you till you can earn some more. good-bye now; i must go on." the tinker looked at joey. "you're a kind-hearted lad, at all events, and a clever, bold one, if i mistake not," said he; "put up your money, nevertheless, for i do not want any. i have plenty, if they had only known where to look for it." joey was examining his new companion during the time that he was speaking to him. there was a free and independent bearing about the man, and a refinement of manner and speech very different from what might be expected from one in so humble a situation. the tinker perceived this scrutiny, and, after meeting our hero's glance, said, "well, what are you thinking of now?" "i was thinking that you have not always been a tinker." "and i fancy that you have not always been a sailor, my young master; but, however, oblige me by going into the village and getting some breakfast for us. i will pay you the money when you return, and then we can talk a little." joey went into the village, and finding a small chandler's shop, bought some bread and cheese, and a large mug which held a quart of beer, both of which he also purchased, and then went back to the tinker. as soon as they had made their breakfast, joey rose up and said--"i must go on now; i hope you'll find yourself better to-morrow." "are you in a very great hurry, my lad?" inquired the tinker. "i want to find some employment," replied joey; "and, therefore, i must look for it." "tell me what employment you want. what can you do?" "i don't exactly know; i have been keeping accounts for a person." "then you are a scholar, and not a seafaring person?" "i am not a sailor, if you mean that; but i have been on the river." "well, if you wish to get employment, as i know this country well and a great many people, i think i may help you. at all events, a few days can make no difference; for you see, my boy, to-morrow i shall be able to work, and then, i'll answer for it, i'll find meat and drink for both of us, so, what do you say? suppose you stay with me, and we'll travel together for a few days, and when i have found work that will suit you, then we can part?" "i will if you wish it," replied joey. "then that's agreed," said the tinker; "i should like to do you a good turn before we part, and i hope i shall be able; at all events, if you stay with me a little while, i will teach you a trade which will serve you when all others fail." "what, to mend kettles and to grind knives?" "exactly; and, depend upon it, if you would be sure of gaining your livelihood, you will choose a profession which will not depend upon the caprice of others, or upon patronage. kettles, my boy, will wear out, knives will get blunt, and, therefore, for a good trade, give me `kettles to mend, knives to grind.' i've tried many trades, and there is none that suits me so well. and now that we've had our breakfast, we may just as well look out for lodgings for the night, for i suppose you would not like the heavens for your canopy, which i very often prefer. now, put yourself to the wheel, and i'll try my old quarters." the knife-grinder walked into the village, followed by joey, who rolled the wheel, until they stopped at a cottage, where he was immediately recognised and welcomed. joey was ordered to put the wheel under a shed, and then followed the tinker into the cottage. the latter told his story, which created a good deal of surprise and indignation, and then complained of his head and retired to lie down, while joey amused himself with the children. they ate and slept there that night, the people refusing to take anything for their reception. the next day the tinker was quite recovered, and having mended a kettle and ground three or four knives for his hostess, he set off again, followed by joey, who rolled the wheel. chapter twenty eight. on the science of tinkering and the art of writing despatches. they had proceeded about two miles when the tinker said--"come, my lad, let us sit down now, and rest ourselves a bit, for it is past noon, and you must be tired with shoving that wheel along. i would have taken it from you before this, but the fact is, i'm rather stiff yet about the head and shoulders; i feel it more than i thought i should. here's a nice spot; i like to sit down under a tree, not too well covered with leaves, like this ash; i like to see the sunshine playing here and there upon the green grass, shifting its spots as the leaves are rustled by the wind. now, let us lie down here, and not care a fig for the world. i am a philosopher; do you know that?" "i don't exactly know what it means; a very clever, good man--is it not?" "well, not exactly; a man may be a philosopher without being very good, or without being very clever. a philosopher is a man who never frets about anything, cares about nothing, is contented with a little, and doesn't envy any one who appears better off than himself, at least that is my school of philosophy. you stare, boy, to hear a tinker talk in this way--i perceive that; but you must know that i am a tinker by choice; and i have tried many other professions before, all of which have disgusted me." "what other professions have you been?" "i have been--let me see--i almost forget; but i'll begin at the beginning. my father was a gentleman, and until i was fourteen years old i was a gentleman, or the son of one; then he died, and that profession was over, for he left nothing; my mother married again, and left me; she left me at school, and the master kept me there for a year, in hopes of being paid; but, hearing nothing of my mother, and not knowing what to do with me, he at last (for he was a kind man) installed me as under usher of the school; for, you see, my education had been good, and i was well qualified for the situation, as far as capability went: it was rather a bathos, though, to sink from a gentleman's son to an under usher; but i was not a philosopher at that time. i handed the toast to the master and mistress, the head ushers and parlour boarders, but was not allowed any myself; i taught latin and greek, and english grammar, to the little boys, who made faces at me, and put crooked pins on the bottom of my chair; i walked at the head of the string when they went out for an airing, and walked upstairs the last when it was time to go to bed. i had all the drudgery, and none of the comforts i was up first, and held answerable for all deficiencies; i had to examine all their nasty little trowsers, and hold weekly conversation with the botcher, as to the possibility of repairs; to run out if a hen cackled, that the boys should not get the egg; to wipe the noses of my mistress's children, and carry them if they roared; to pay for all broken glass, if i could not discover the culprit to account for all bad smells, for all noise, and for all ink spilled; to make all the pens, and to keep one hundred boys silent and attentive at church; for all which, with deductions, i received 40 pounds a year, and found my own washing. i stayed two years, during which time i contrived to save about 6 pounds; and with that, one fine morning, i set off on my travels, fully satisfied that, come what would, i could not change for the worse." "then you were about in the position that i'm in now," said joey, laughing. "yes, thereabouts; only a little older, i should imagine. i set off with good hopes, but soon found that nobody wanted educated people--they were a complete drug. at last i obtained a situation as waiter, at a posting-house on the road, where i ran along all day long to the tinkling of bells, with hot brandy-and-water ever under my nose; i answered all the bells, but the head-waiter took all the money. however, i made acquaintances there; and at last obtained a situation as clerk to a corn-chandler, where i kept the books; but he failed, and then i was handed over to the miller, and covered with flour for the whole time i was in his service. i stayed there till i had an offer from a coal-merchant (that was going from white to black); but, however, it was a better place. then, by mere chance, i obtained the situation of clerk on board of a fourteen-gun brig, and cruised in the channel for six months; but, as i found that there was no chance of being a purser, and as i hated the confinement and discipline of a man-of-war, i cut and run as soon as i obtained my pay. then i was shopman at a draper's, which was abominable, for if the customers would not buy the goods, i got all the blame; besides, i had to clean my master's boots and my mistress's shoes, and dine in the kitchen on scraps, with a slipshod, squinting girl, who made love to me. then i was a warehouseman; but they soon tacked on to it the office of light porter, and i had to carry weights enough to break my back. at last i obtained a situation as foreman in a tinman and cutler's shop, and by being constantly sent into the workshop i learnt something of the trade; i had made up my mind not to remain much longer, and i paid attention, receiving now and then a lesson from the workmen, till i found that i could do very well; for, you see, it's a very simple sort of business, after all." "but still a travelling tinker is not so respectable as being in any of the situations you were in before," replied joey. "there i must beg your pardon, my good lad; i had often serious thoughts upon the subject, and i argued as follows:--what is the best profession in this world of ours?--that of a gentleman; for a gentleman does not work, he has liberty to go where he pleases, he is not controlled, and is his own master. many a man considers himself a gentleman who has not the indispensables that must complete the profession. a clerk in the treasury, or public offices, considers himself a gentleman; and so he is by birth, but not by profession; for he is not his own master, but is as much tied down to his desk as the clerk in a banker's counting-house, or in a shop. a gentleman by profession must be his own master, and independent; and how few there are in this world who can say so! soldiers and sailors are obliged to obey orders, and therefore i do not put them down as perfect gentlemen, according to my ideas of what a gentleman should be. i doubt whether the prime minister can be considered a gentleman until after he is turned out of office. do you understand me, boy?" "o yes, i understand what you mean by a gentleman; i recollect reading a story of a negro who came to this country, and who said that the pig was the only gentleman in the country, for he was the only living being who did not work." "the negro was not far wrong," resumed the tinker. "well, after thinking a long while, i came to the decision that, as i could not be a perfect gentleman, i would be the nearest thing to it that was possible; and i considered that the most enviable situation was that of a travelling tinker. i learned enough of the trade, saved money to purchase a knife-grinder's wheel, and here i have been in this capacity for nearly ten years." "and do you hold to the opinion that you formed?" "i do; for, look you, work i must; therefore, the only question was, to take up the work that was lightest, and paid best. i know no trade where you can gain so much with so little capital and so little labour. then, i am not controlled by any living being; i have my liberty and independence: i go where i please, stop where i please, work when i please, and idle when i please; and never know what it is to want a night's lodging. show me any other profession which can say the same! i might be better clothed--i might be considered more respectable; but i am a philosopher, and despise all that; i earn as much as i want, and do very little work for it. i can grind knives and scissors and mend kettles enough in one day to provide for a whole week; for instance, i can grind a knife in two minutes, for which i receive twopence. now, allowing that i work twelve hours in the day, at the rate of one penny per minute, i should earn 3 pounds per day, which, deducting sundays, is 939 pounds a year. put that against 40 pounds a year, as a drudge to a school, or confined to a desk, in a shop, or any other profession, and you see how lucrative mine is in proportion. then i am under no control; not ordered here or there, like a general or admiral; not attacked in the house of commons or lords, like a prime minister; on the contrary, half a day's work out of the seven is all i require; and i therefore assert, that my profession is nearer to that of a gentleman than any other that i know of." "it may be as you style it, but you don't look much like one," replied joey, laughing. "that's prejudice; my clothes keep me as warm as if they were of the best materials, and quite new. i enjoy my victuals quite as much as a well-dressed gentleman does--perhaps more; i can indulge in my own thoughts; i have leisure to read all my favourite authors, and can afford to purchase new books. besides, as i must work a little, it is pleasant to feel that i am always in request, and respected by those who employ me." "respected! on what account?" "because i am always wanted, and therefore always welcome. it is the little things of this life which annoy, not the great and a kettle that won't hold water, or a knife that won't cut, are always objects of execration; and as people heap their anathemas upon the kettle and the knife, so do they long for my return; and when i come, they are glad to see me, glad to pay me, and glad to find that their knives are sharp, and their kettles, thrown on one side, are useful again, at a trifling charge. i add to people's comforts; i become necessary to every poor person in the cottages; and therefore, they like me and respect me. and, indeed, if it is only considered how many oaths and execrations are used when a person is hacking and sawing away with a knife which will not cut, and how by my wheel i do away with the cause of crime, i think that a travelling tinker may be considered, as to his moral influence upon society, more important than any parson in his pulpit. you observe that i have not rendered the profession degrading by marriage, as many do." "how do you mean?" "i hold that, whatever may be the means of a gentleman, he must be considered to lose the most precious advantages appertaining to his profession when he marries; for he loses his liberty, and can no longer be said to be under no control. it is very well for other professions to marry, as the world must be peopled; but a gentleman never should. it is true, he may contrive to leave his clog at home, but then he pays dear for a useless and galling appendage but, in my situation as a travelling tinker, i could not have done so; i must have dragged my clog after me through the mud and mire, and have had a very different reception than what i have at present." "why so?" "why, a man may stroll about the country by himself--find lodging and entertainment for himself; but not so, if he had a wife in rags, and two or three dirty children at his heels. a single man, in every stage of society, if he pays his own way, more easily finds admission than a married one--that is, because the women regulate it and, although they will receive him as a tinker, they invariably object to his wife, who is considered and stigmatised as the tinker's trull. no, that would not do--a wife would detract from my respectability, and add very much to my cares." "but have you no home, then, anywhere?" "why, yes, i have, like all single men on the _pave_, as the french say--just a sort of `chambers' to keep my property in, which will accumulate in spite of me." "where are they?" "in dudstone, to which place i am now going. i have a room for six pounds a year; and the woman in the house takes charge of everything during my absence. and now, my boy, what is your name?" "joey atherton," replied our hero, who had made up his mind to take the surname of his adopted sister, nancy. "well, joey, do you agree with me that my profession is a good one, and are you willing to learn it? if so, i will teach you." "i shall be very glad to learn it, because it may one day be useful; but i am not sure that i should like to follow it." "you will probably change your opinion; at all events, give it a fair trial. in a month or so you will have the theory of it by heart, and then we will come to the practice." "how do you mean?" "it's of no use your attempting anything till you're well grounded in the theory of the art, which you will gain by using your eyes. all you have to do at first is to look on; watch me when i grind a knife or a pair of scissors; be attentive when you see me soldering a pot, or putting a patch upon a kettle; see how i turn my hand when i'm grinding, how i beat out the iron when i mend; and learn how to heat the tools when i solder. in a month you will know how things are to be done in theory, and after that we shall come to the practice. one only thing, in the way of practice, must you enter upon at once, and that is turning the wheel with your foot; for you must learn to do it so mechanically, that you are not aware that you are doing it, otherwise you cannot devote your whole attention to the scissors or knife in your hand." "and do you really like your present life, then, wandering about from place to place?" "to be sure i do. i am my own master; go where i like; stop where i like; pay no taxes or rates. i still retain all the gentleman except the dress, which i can resume when i please. besides, mine is a philanthropic profession; i go about doing good, and i've the means of resenting an affront like a despot." "as how?" "why, you see, we travellers never interfere in each other's beats; mine is a circuit of many miles of country, and at the rate i travel it is somewhat about three months until i am at the same place again; they must wait for me if they want their jobs done, for they cannot get any one else. in one village they played me a trick one saturday night, when all the men were at the ale-house, and the consequence was, i cut the village for a year; and there never was such a village full of old kettles and blunt knives in consequence. however, they sent me a deputation, hoping i would forget what had passed, and i pardoned them." "what is your name?" inquired joey. "augustus spikeman. my father was augustus spikeman, esquire; i was master augustus spikeman, and now i'm spikeman, the tinker; so now we'll go on again. i have nearly come to the end of my beat; in two days we shall be at dudstone where i have my room, and where we shall probably remain for some days before we start again." in the afternoon they arrived at a small hamlet, where they supped and slept. spikeman was very busy till noon grinding and repairing; they then continued their journey, and on the second day, having waited outside the town till it was dusk spikeman left his wheel in the charge of the landlord of a small ale-house, to whom he appeared well known, then walked with joey to the house in which he had a room, and led him upstairs to his apartments. when our hero entered the chamber of spikeman, he was very much surprised to find it was spacious, light, and airy, and very clean. a large bed was in one corner; a sofa, mahogany table, chest of drawers, and chairs, composed the furniture; there was a good-sized looking-glass over the chimney-piece, and several shelves of books round the room. desiring joey to sit down and take a book, spikeman rang for water, shaved off his beard, which had grown nearly half an inch long, washed himself, and then put on clean linen, and a very neat suit of clothes. when he was completely dressed, joey could hardly believe that it was the same person. upon joey expressing his astonishment, spikeman replied, "you see, my lad, there is no one in this town who knows what my real profession is. i always go out and return at dusk, and the travelling tinker is not recognised; not that i care for it so much, only other people do, and i respect their prejudices. they know that i am in the ironmongery line, and that is all; so i always make it a rule to enjoy myself after my circuit, and live like a gentleman till part of my money is gone, and then i set out again. i am acquainted with a good many highly respectable people in this town, and that is the reason why i said i could be of service to you. have you any better clothes?" "yes; much better." "then dress yourself in them, and keep those you wear for our travels." joey did as he was requested, and spikeman then proposed that they should make a call at a friend's, where he would introduce our hero as his nephew. they set off, and soon came to the front of a neat-looking house, at the door of which spikeman rapped. the door was opened by one of the daughters of the house, who, on seeing him, cried out, "dear me, mr spikeman, is this you? why, where have you been all this while?" "about the country for orders, miss amelia," replied spikeman; "business must be attended to." "well, come in; mother will be glad to see you," replied the girl, at the same time opening the door of the sitting-room for them to enter. "mr spikeman as i live!" exclaimed another girl, jumping up, and seizing his hand. "well, mr spikeman, it's an age since we have seen you," said the mother, "so now sit down and tell us all the news; and ophelia, my love, get tea ready; and who is it you have with you, mr spikeman?" "my little nephew, madam; he is about to enter into the mysteries of the cutlery trade." "indeed! well, i suppose, as you are looking out for a successor, you soon intend to retire from business and take a wife, mr spikeman?" "why, i suppose it will be my fate one of these days," replied spikeman; "but that's an affair that requires some consideration." "very true, mr spikeman, it is a serious affair," replied the old lady; "and i can assure you that neither my ophelia nor amelia should marry a man, with my consent, without i was convinced the gentleman considered it a very serious affair. it makes or mars a man, as the saying is." "well, miss ophelia, have you read all the books i lent you the last time i was here?" "yes, that they have, both of them," replied the old lady; "they are so fond of poetry." "but we've often wished that you were here to read to us," replied miss amelia, "you do read so beautifully; will you read to us after tea?" "certainly, with much pleasure." miss ophelia now entered with the tea-tray; she and her sister then went into the kitchen to make some toast, and to see to the kettle boiling, while mr spikeman continued in conversation with the mother. mrs james was the widow of a draper in the town, who had, at his death left her sufficient to live quietly and respectably with her daughters, who were both very good, amiable girls; and it must be acknowledged, neither of them unwilling to listen to the addresses of mr spikeman had he been so inclined; but they began to think that mr spikeman was not a marrying man, which, as the reader must know by this time, was the fact. the evening passed very pleasantly. mr spikeman took a volume of poetry, and, as miss ophelia had said, he did read very beautifully: so much so, that joey was in admiration, for he had never yet known the power produced by good reading. at ten o'clock they took their leave, and returned to spikeman's domicile. as soon as they were upstairs, and candles lighted, spikeman sat down on the sofa. "you see, joey," said he, "that it is necessary not to mention the knife-grinder's wheel, as it would make a difference in my reception. all gentlemen do not gain their livelihood as honestly as i do; but, still prejudices are not to be overcome. you did me a kind act, and i wished to return it; i could not do so without letting you into this little secret, but i have seen enough of you to think you can be trusted." "i should hope so," replied joey: "i have learnt caution, young as i am." "that i have perceived already, and therefore i have said enough on the subject. i have but one bed, and you must sleep with me, as you did on our travels." the next morning the old woman of the house brought up their breakfast. spikeman lived in a very comfortable way, very different to what he did as a travelling tinker; and he really appeared to joey to be, with the exception of his conversation, which was always superior, a very different person from what he was when joey first fell in with him. for many days they remained at dudstone, visiting the different houses, and were always well received. "you appear so well known, and so well liked in this town," observed joey, "i wonder you do not set up a business, particularly as you say you have money in the bank." "if i did, joey, i should no longer be happy, no longer be my own master, and do as i please; in fact, i should no longer be the gentleman, that is, the gentleman by profession, as near as i can be one--the man who has his liberty, and enjoys it. no, no, boy; i have tried almost everything, and have come to my own conclusions. have you been reading the book i gave you?" "yes; i have nearly finished it?" "i am glad to see that you like reading. nothing so much improves or enlarges the mind. you must never let a day pass without reading two or three hours, and when we travel again, and are alone by the way-side, we will read together: i will choose some books on purpose." "i should like very much to write to my sister mary," said joey. "do so, and tell her that you have employment; but do not say exactly how. there are pens and paper in the drawer. stop, i will find them for you." spikeman went to the drawer, and when taking out the pens and paper, laid hold of some manuscript writing. "by the bye," said he laughing, "i told you, joey, that i had been a captain's clerk on board the _weasel_, a fourteen-gun brig; i wrote the captain's despatches for him; and here are two of them of which i kept copies, that i might laugh over them occasionally. i wrote all his letters; for he was no great penman in the first place, and had a very great confusion of ideas in the second. he certainly was indebted to me, as you will acknowledge, when you hear what i read and tell you. i served under him, cruising in the channel; and i flatter myself that it was entirely through my writings that he got his promotion. he is now captain alcibiades ajax boggs, and all through me. we were cruising off the coast of france, close in to ushant, where we perceived a fleet of small vessels, called chasse-marees (coasting luggers), laden with wine, coming round; and as we did not know of any batteries thereabouts, we ran in to attempt a capture. we cut off three of them, but just as we had compelled them, by firing broadsides into them, to lower their sails, a battery, which our commander did not know anything of, opened fire upon us, and before we could get out of range, which we did as soon as we could, one shot came in on deck, and cut the top-sail halyard's fall, at the very time that the men were hoisting the sail (for we had been shaking another reef out), and the rope being divided, as the men were hauling upon it, of course they all tumbled on the deck, one over another. the other shot struck our foremast, and chipped off a large slice, besides cutting away one of the shrouds, and the signal halyards. now, you do not know enough about ships to understand that there was very little harm done, or that the coasting vessels were very small, with only three or four men on board of each of them; it therefore required some little management to make a flaming despatch. but i did it--only listen, now-i have begun in the true nelson style:- "`to the secretary of the admiralty. "`sir,--it has pleased the great disposer to grant a decided victory to his majesty's arms, through the efforts of the vessel which i have the honour to command. on the 23rd day of august last, ushant then bearing south west three quarters west, wind west, distant from three to four leagues, perceived an enemy's fleet, of three-masted vessels, rounding the point, with the hopes, i presume, of gaining the port of cherbourg. convinced that i should have every support from the gallant officers and true british tars under my command, i immediately bore down to the attack; the movements of the enemy fully proved that they were astounded at the boldness of the manoeuvre, and instead of keeping their line, they soon separated, and sheered off in different directions, so as to receive the support of their batteries.' "you see, joey, i have said three-masted vessels, which implies ships, although as in this case, they were only small coasting luggers. "`in half an hour we were sufficiently close to the main body to open our fire, and broadside after broadside were poured in, answered by the batteries on the coast, with unerring aim. notwithstanding the unequal contest, i have the pleasure of informing you, that in less than half an hour we succeeded in capturing three of the vessels (named as per margin), and finding nothing more could be done for the honour of his majesty's arms, as soon we could take possession, i considered it my duty to haul off from the incessant and galling fire of the batteries. "`in this well-fought and successful contest, i trust that the british flag has not been tarnished. what the enemy's loss may have been it is impossible to say; they acknowledge themselves, however, that it has been severe.'" "but did the enemy lose any men?" demanded joey. "not one; but you observe i do not say loss of life, although the admiralty may think i refer to it--that's not my fault. but i was perfectly correct in saying the enemy's loss was great; for the poor devils who were in the chasse-marees, when they were brought on board, wrung their hands, and said, that they had _lost their all_. now, what loss can be greater than _all_? "`his majesty's vessel is much injured in her spars and rigging from the precision of the enemy's fire; her lower rigging--running rigging being cut away, her foremast severely wounded, and, i regret to add, severely injured in the hull; but such was the activity of the officers and men, that with the exception of the foremast, which will require the services of the dockyard, in twenty-four hours we were ready to resume the contest. i am happy to say, that although we have many men hurt, we have none killed; and i trust that, under the care of the surgeon they will, most of them, be soon able to resume their duty.'" "but you had no men wounded?" interrupted joey. "none wounded! i don't say wounded, i only say hurt. didn't a dozen of the men, who were hoisting the main-topsail when the fall was cut away, all tumble backwards on the deck? and do you think they were not hurt by the fall?--of course they were; besides, one man nearly had his finger jammed off, and another burnt his hand by putting too much powder to the touch-hole of his carronade. so i continue:- "`it now becomes my duty to point out to their lordships the very meritorious conduct of mr john smith, an old and deserving officer, mr james hammond, mr cross, and mr byfleet; indeed, i may say that all the officers under my command vied in their exertions for the honour of the british flag.' "you see the commander had quarrelled with some of his officers at that time, and would not mention them. i tried all i could to persuade him, but he was obstinate. "`i have the honour to return a list of casualties, and the names of the vessels taken, and have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, alcibiades ajax boggs. "`report of killed and wounded on board of his majesty's brig _weasel_, in the action of the 23rd of august:--killed, none; wounds and contusions, john potts, william smith, thomas snaggs, william walker, and peter potter, able seamen; john hobbs, timothy stout, and walter pye, marines. "`return of vessels captured in the action of the 23rd of august, by his majesty's brig _weasel_:--notre dame de misericorde, de rochelle; la vengeur, de bourdeaux; l'etoile du matin, de charent. "`signed alcibiades ajax boggs, commander.'" "well, i'm sure, if you had not told me otherwise, i should have thought it had been a very hard fight." "that's what they did at the admiralty, and just what we wanted; but now i come to my other despatch, which obtained the rank for my captain; and upon which i plume myself not a little. you must know, that when cruising in the channel, in a thick fog, and not keeping a very sharp look-out, we ran foul of a french privateer. it was about nine o'clock in the evening, and we had very few hands on deck, and those on deck were most of them, if not all, asleep. we came bang against one another, and carried away both spars and yards; and the privateer, who was by far the most alert after the accident happened, cut away a good deal of our rigging, and got clear of us before our men could be got up from below. had they been on the look out, they might have boarded us to a certainty, for all was confusion and amazement; but they cleared themselves and got off before our men could get up and run to their guns. she was out of sight immediately, from the thickness of the fog; however, we fired several broadsides in the direction we supposed she might be; and there was an end to the matter. altogether, as you perceive, it was not a very creditable affair." "why, no," replied joey; "i don't see how you could make much out of that." "well, if you can't see, now you shall hear:- "`to the secretary of the admiralty. "`sir,--i have the honour to acquaint you that, on the night of the 10th of november, cruising in the channel, with the wind from south east, and foggy, a large vessel hove in sight, on our weather bow.' "you see, i didn't say we perceived a vessel, for that would not have been correct. "`as she evidently did not perceive us, we continued our course towards her; the men were summoned to their quarters, and, in a very short time, were ready to uphold the honour of the english flag. the first collision between the two vessels was dreadful; but she contrived to disengage herself, and we were therefore prevented carrying her by boarding. after repeated broadsides, to which, in her disabled and confused state, she could make no return, she gradually increased her distance; still, she had remained in our hands, a proud trophy--i say, still she had been a proud trophy--had not the unequal collision'--[it was a very unequal collision, for she was a much smaller vessel than we were]--`carried away our foreyard, cat-head, fore-top-gallant mast, jibboom, and dolphin-striker, and rendered us, from the state of our rigging, a mere wreck. favoured by the thick fog and darkness of the night, i regret that, after all our efforts, she contrived to escape, and the spoils of victory were wrested from us after all our strenuous exertions in our country's cause. "`when all performed their duty in so exemplary a manner, it would be unfair, and, indeed, invidious, to particularise, still, i cannot refrain from mentioning the good conduct of mr smith, my first lieutenant; mr bowles, my second lieutenant; mr chabb, my worthy master; mr jones and mr james, master's mates; messrs. hall, small, ball, and pall, midshipmen; and messrs. sweet and sharp, volunteers. i also received every assistance from mr grulf, the purser, who offered his services, and i cannot omit the conduct of mr spikeman, clerk. i am also highly indebted to the attention and care shown by mr thorn, surgeon, who is so well supported in his duties by mr green, assistant-surgeon, of this ship. the activity of mr bruce, the boatswain, was deserving of the highest encomiums; and it would be an act of injustice not to notice the zeal of mr bile, the carpenter, and mr sponge, gunner of the ship. james anderson, quarter-master, received a severe contusion, but is now doing well; i trust i shall not be considered presumptuous in recommending him to a boatswain's warrant. "`i am happy to say that our casualties, owing to the extreme panic of the enemy, are very few. i have the honour to be, sir, your very obedient and humble servant, alcibiades ajax boggs. "`wounded--very severely, james anderson, quarter-master. contusions--john peters, able seaman; james morrison, marine; thomas snowball, captain's cook.' "there, now; that i consider a very capital letter; no frenchman, not even an american, could have made out a better case. the admiralty were satisfied that something very gallant had been done, although the fog made it appear not quite so clear as it might have been; and the consequence was, that my commander received his promotion. there, now, write your letter, and tell your sister that she must answer it as soon as possible, as you are going out with me for orders in three or four days, and shall be absent for three months." joey wrote a long letter to mary; he stated the adventure with the two scoundrels who would have robbed him, his afterwards falling in with a gentleman who dealt in cutlery, and his being taken into his service; and, as spikeman had told him, requested her to answer directly, as he was about to set off on a circuit with his master, which would occasion his absence for three months. mary's reply came before joey's departure. she stated that she was comfortable and happy, that her mistress was very kind to her, but that she felt that the work was rather too much; however, she would do her duty to her employers. there was much good advice to joey, much affectionate feeling, occasional recurrence to past scenes, and thankfulness that she was no longer a disgrace to her parents and her sex; it was a humble, grateful, contrite, and affectionate effusion, which did honour to poor mary, and proved that she was sincere in her assertions of continuing in the right path, and dotingly attached to our hero. joey read it over and over again, and shed tears of pleasure as he recalled the scenes which had passed. poor joey had lost his father and mother, as he supposed, for ever; and it was soothing to the boy's feelings to know that there were some people in the world who loved him; and he remained for hours thinking of mary, mrs chopper, and his good and kind friends, the mcshanes. two days after the receipt of mary's letter, spikeman and joey went to the houses of their various acquaintances, and bade them adieu, announcing their intention to set off on the circuit. spikeman paid up everything, and put away many articles in his room which had been taken out for use. joey and he then put on their travelling garments, and, waiting till it was dusk, locked the chambers and set off to the little public-house, where the knife-grinder's wheel had been deposited. spikeman had taken the precaution to smudge and dirty his face, and joey, at his request, had done the same. when they entered the public-house, the landlord greeted spikeman warmly, and asked him what he had been about. spikeman replied that, as usual, he had been to see his old mother, and now he must roll his grindstone a bit. after drinking a pot of beer at the kitchen fire, they retired to bed; and the next morning, at daylight, they once more proceeded on their travels. chapter twenty nine. in which the tinker falls in love with a lady of high degree. for many months spikeman and our hero travelled together, during which time joey had learnt to grind a knife or a pair of scissors as well as spikeman himself, and took most of the work off his hands; they suited each other, and passed their time most pleasantly, indulging themselves every day with a few hours' repose and reading on the wayside. one afternoon, when it was very sultry, they had stopped and ensconced themselves in a shady copse by the side of the road, not far from an old mansion, which stood on an eminence, when spikeman said, "joey, i think we are intruding here; and, if so, may be forcibly expelled, which will not be pleasant; so roll the wheel in, out of sight, and then we may indulge in a siesta, which, during this heat, will be very agreeable." "what's a siesta?" said joey. "a siesta is a nap in the middle of the day, universally resorted to by the spaniards, italians, and, indeed, by all the inhabitants of hot climates; with respectable people it is called a siesta, but with a travelling tinker it must be, i suppose, called a snooze." "well, then, a snooze let it be," said joey, taking his seat on the turf by spikeman, in a reclining position. they had not yet composed themselves to sleep, when they heard a female voice singing at a little distance. the voice evidently proceeded from the pleasure-grounds which were between them and the mansion. "hush!" said spikeman, putting up his finger, as he raised himself on his elbow. the party evidently advanced nearer to them, and carolled in very beautiful tones, the song of ariel:- "where the bee sucks, there lurk i, in the cowslip's bell i lie," etcetera. "heigho!" exclaimed a soft voice, after the song had been finished; "i wish i could creep into a cowslip-bell. miss araminta, you are not coming down the walk yet; it appears you are in no hurry, so i'll begin my new book." after this soliloquy there was silence. spikeman made a sign to joey to remain still, and then, creeping on his hands and knees, by degrees arrived as far as he could venture to the other side of the copse. in a minute or two another footstep was heard coming down the gravel-walk, and soon afterwards another voice. "well, melissa, did you think i never would come? i could not help it. uncle would have me rub his foot a little." "ay, there's the rub," replied the first young lady. "well, it was a sacrifice of friendship at the altar of humanity. poor papa! i wish i could rub his foot for him; but i always do it to a quadrille tune, and he always says i rub it too hard. i only follow the music." "yes, and so does he; for you sometimes set him a dancing, you giddy girl." "i am not fit for a nurse, and that's the fact, araminta. i can feel for him, but i cannot sit still a minute; that you know. poor mamma was a great loss; and, when she died, i don't know what i should have done, if it hadn't been for my dear cousin araminta." "nay, you are very useful in your way, for you play and sing to him, and that soothes him." "yes, i do it with pleasure, for i can do but little else; but, araminta, my singing is that of the caged bird. i must sing where they hang my cage. oh, how i wish i had been a man!" "i believe that there never was a woman yet who has not, at one time of her life, said the same thing, however mild and quiet she may have been in disposition. but, as we cannot, why--" "why, the next thing is to wish to be a man's wife, araminta--is it not?" "it is natural, i suppose, to wish so," replied araminta; "but i seldom think about it. i must first see the man i can love before i think about marrying." "and now tell me, araminta, what kind of a man do you think you could fancy?" "i should like him to be steady, generous, brave, and handsome; of unexceptionable family, with plenty of money; that's all." "oh, that's all! i admire your `that's all.' you are not very likely to meet with your match, i'm afraid. if he's steady, he is not very likely to be very generous; and if to those two qualifications you tack on birth, wealth, beauty, and bravery, i think your `that's all' is very misplaced. now, i have other ideas." "pray let me have them, melissa." "i do not want my husband to be very handsome; but i wish him to be full of fire and energy--a man that--in fact, a man that could keep me in tolerable order. i do not care about his having money, as i have plenty in my own possession to bestow on any man i love; but he must be of good education--very fond of reading--romantic, not a little; and his extraction must be, however poor, respectable,--that is, his parents must not have been tradespeople. you know i prefer riding a spirited horse to a quiet one; and, if i were to marry, i should like a husband who would give me some trouble to manage. i think i would master him." "so have many thought before you, melissa; but they have been mistaken." "yes, because they have attempted it by meekness and submission, thinking to disarm by that method. it never will do, any more than getting into a passion. when a man gives up his liberty, he does make a great sacrifice--that i'm sure of; and a woman should prevent him feeling that he is chained to her." "and how would you manage that?" said araminta. "by being infinite in my variety, always cheerful, and instead of permitting him to stay at home, pinned to my apron-string, order him out away from me, join his amusements, and always have people in the house that he liked, so as to avoid being too much _tete-a-tete_. the caged bird ever wants to escape; open the doors, and let him take a flight, and he will come back of his own accord. of course, i am supposing my gentleman to be naturally good-hearted and good-tempered. sooner than marry what you call a steady, sober man, i'd run away with a captain of a privateer. and, one thing more, araminta, i never would, passionately, distractedly fond as i might be, acknowledge to my husband the extent of my devotion and affection for him. i would always have him to suppose that i could still love him better than what i yet did-in short, that there was more to be gained; for, depend upon it, when a man is assured that he has nothing more to gain, his attentions are over. you can't expect a man to chase nothing, you know." "you are a wild girl, melissa. i only hope you will marry well." "i hope i shall; but i can tell you this, that if i do make a mistake, at all events my husband will find that he has made a mistake also. there's a little lurking devil in me, which, if roused up by bad treatment, would, i expect, make me more than a match for him. i'm almost sorry that i've so much money of my own, for i suspect every man who says anything pretty to me; and there are but few in this world who would scorn to marry for money." "i believe so, melissa; but your person would be quite sufficient without fortune." "thanks, coz; for a woman that's very handsome of you. and so now we will begin our new book." miss melissa now commenced reading; and spikeman, who had not yet seen the faces of the two young ladies, crept softly nearer to the side of the copse, so as to enable him to satisfy his curiosity. in this position he remained nearly an hour; when the book was closed, and the young ladies returned to the house, melissa again singing as she went. "joey," said spikeman, "i did not think that there was such a woman in existence as that girl; she is just the idea that i have formed of what a woman ought to be; i must find out who she is; i am in love with her, and--" "mean to make her a tinker's bride," replied joey, laughing. "joey, i shall certainly knock you down, if you apply that term to her. come let us go to the village,--it is close at hand." as soon as they arrived at the village, spikeman went into the alehouse. during the remainder of the day he was in a brown study, and joey amused himself with a book. at nine o'clock the company had all quitted the tap-room, and then spikeman entered into conversation with the hostess. in the course of conversation, she informed him that the mansion belonged to squire mathews, who had formerly been a great manufacturer, and who had purchased the place; that the old gentleman had long suffered from the gout, and saw no company, which was very bad for the village; that miss melissa was his daughter, and he had a son, who was with his regiment in india, and, it was said, not on very good terms with his father; that the old gentleman was violent and choleric because he was always in pain; but that every one spoke well of miss melissa and miss araminta, her cousin, who were both very kind to the poor people. having obtained these particulars, spikeman went to bed: he slept little that night, as joey, who was his bedfellow, could vouch for; for he allowed joey no sleep either, turning and twisting round in the bed every two minutes. the next morning they arose early, and proceeded on their way. "joey," said spikeman, after an hour's silence, "i was thinking a great deal last night." "so i suppose, for you certainly were not sleeping." "no, i could not sleep; the fact is, joey, i am determined to have that girl, miss mathews, if i can; a bold attempt for a tinker, you will say, but not for a gentleman born as i was. i thought i never should care for a woman; but there is a current in the affairs of men. i shall now drift with the current, and if it leads to fortune, so much the better; if not, he who dares greatly does greatly. i feel convinced that i should make her a good husband, and it shall not be my fault if i do not gain her." "do you mean to propose in form with your foot on your wheel?" "no, saucebox, i don't; but i mean to turn my knife-grinder's wheel into a wheel of fortune; and with your help i will do so." "you are sure of my help if you are serious," replied joey; "but how you are to manage i cannot comprehend." "i have already made out a programme, although the interweaving of the plot is not yet decided upon; but i must get to the next town as fast as i can, as i must make preparations." on arrival, they took up humble quarters, as usual; and then spikeman went to a stationer's, and told them that he had got a commission to execute for a lady. he bought sealing-wax, a glass seal, with "esperance" as a motto, gilt-edged notepaper, and several other requisites in the stationery line, and ordered them to be packed up carefully, that he might not soil them; he then purchased scented soap, a hair-brush, and other articles for the toilet; and having obtained all these requisites, he added to them one or two pair of common beaver gloves, and then went to the barber's to get his hair cut. "i am all ready now, joey," said he, when he returned to the alehouse; "and to-morrow we retrace our steps." "what! back to the village?" "yes; and where we shall remain some time, perhaps." on reaching the village next morning, spikeman hired a bedroom, and, leaving joey to work the grindstone, remained in his apartments. when joey returned in the evening, he found spikeman had been very busy with the soap, and had restored his hands to something like their proper colour; he had also shaved himself, and washed his hair clean and brushed it well. "you see, joey, i have commenced operations already; i shall soon be prepared to act the part of the gentleman who has turned tinker to gain the love of a fair lady of high degree." "i wish you success: but what are your plans?" "that you will find out to-morrow morning; now we must go to bed." chapter thirty. plotting, reading and writing. spikeman was up early the next morning. when they had breakfasted, he desired joey to go for the knife-grinder's wheel, and follow him. as soon as they were clear of the village, spikeman said, "it will not do to remain at the village; there's a cottage half a mile down the road where they once gave me a lodging; we must try if we can get it now." when they arrived at the cottage, spikeman made a very satisfactory bargain for board and lodging for a few days, stating that they charged so much at the village alehouse that he could not afford to stay there, and that he expected to have a good job at squire mathews's, up at the mansion-house. as soon as this arrangement was completed, they returned back to the copse near to the mansion-house, joey rolling the knife-grinder's wheel. "you see, joey," said spikeman, "the first thing necessary will be to stimulate curiosity; we may have to wait a day or two before the opportunity may occur; but, if necessary, i will wait a month. that miss mathews will very often be found on the seat by the copse, either alone or with her cousin, i take to be certain, as all ladies have their favourite retreats. i do not intend that they should see me yet; i must make an impression first. now, leave the wheel on the outside, and come with me: do not speak." as soon as they were in the copse, spikeman reconnoitred very carefully, to ascertain if either of the young ladies were on the bench, and finding no one there, he returned to joey. "they cannot come without our hearing their footsteps," said spikeman; "so now we must wait here patiently." spikeman threw himself down on the turf in front of the copse, and joey followed his example. "come, joey, we may as well read a little to pass away the time; i have brought two volumes of byron with me." for half an hour they were thus occupied, when they heard the voice of miss mathews singing as before as she came down the walk. spikeman rose and peeped through the foliage. "she is alone," said he, "which is just what i wished. now, joey, i am going to read to you aloud." spikeman then began to read in the masterly style which we have before referred to:- "`i loved, and was beloved again; they tell me, sir, you never knew those gentle frailties; if 'tis true i shorten all my joys and pain, to you 'twould seem absurd as vain; but all now are not born to reign, or o'er their passions, or as you there, o'er themselves and nations too, i am, or rather was, a prince, a chief of thousands, and could lead them on when each would foremost bleed, but would not o'er myself the like control. but to resume: i loved, and was beloved again; in sooth it is a happy doom- but yet where happiness ends in pain.' "i am afraid that is but too true, my dear boy," said spikeman, laying down the book; "shakespeare has most truly said, `the course of true love never did run smooth.' nay, he cannot be said to be original in that idea, for horace and most of the greek and latin poets have said much the same thing before him; however, let us go on again- "`we met in secret, and the hour which led me to my lady's bower was fiery expectation's dower; the days and nights were nothing--all except the hour which doth recall, in the long lapse from youth to age, no other like itself.' "do you observe the extreme beauty of that passage?" said spikeman. "yes," said joey, "it is very beautiful." "you would more feel the power of it, my dear boy, if you were in love, but your time is not yet come; but i am afraid we must leave off now, for i expect letters of consequence by the post, and it is useless, i fear, waiting here. come, put the book by, and let us take up the wheel of my sad fortunes." spikeman and joey rose on their feet. joey went to the knife-grinder's wheel, and spikeman followed him without looking back; he heard a rustling, nevertheless, among the bushes, which announced to him that his manoeuvres had succeeded; and, as soon as he was about fifty yards from the road, he took the wheel from joey, desiring him to look back, as if accidentally. joey did so, and saw miss mathews following them with her eyes. "that will do," observed spikeman; "her curiosity is excited, and that is all i wish." what spikeman said was correct. araminta joined miss mathews shortly after spikeman and joey had gone away. "my dear araminta," said melissa, "such an adventure i can hardly credit my senses." "why, what is the matter, dear cousin?" "do you see that man and boy, with a knife-grinder's wheel, just in sight now?" "yes, to be sure i do; but what of them? have they been insolent?" "insolent! they never saw me; they had no idea that i was here. i heard voices as i came down the walk, so i moved softly, and when i gained the seat, there was somebody reading poetry so beautifully; i never heard any one read with such correct emphasis and clear pronunciation. and then he stopped, and talked to the boy about the greek and latin poets, and quoted shakespeare. there must be some mystery." "well, but if there is, what has that to do with the travelling tinkers?" "what! why it was the travelling tinker himself; dearest; but he cannot be a tinker; for i heard him say that he expected letters of consequence, and no travelling tinker could do that." "why, no; i doubt if most of them can read at all." "now, i would give my little finger to know who that person is." "did you see his face?" "no; he never turned this way; the boy did when they were some distance off. it's very strange." "what was he reading?" "i don't know; it was very beautiful. i wonder if he will ever come this way again? if he does--" "well, melissa, and if he does?" "my scissors want grinding very badly; they won't cut a bit." "why, melissa, you don't mean to fall in love with a tinker?" said araminta, laughing. "he is no tinker, i'm sure; but why is he disguised? i should like to know." "well, but i came out to tell you that your father wants you. come along." the two young ladies then returned to the house, but the mystery of the morning was broached more than once, and canvassed in every possible way. spikeman, as soon as he had returned to the cottage, took out his writing materials to concoct an epistle. after some time in correcting, he made out a fair copy, which he read to joey. "`i tremble lest at the first moment you cast your eyes over the page, you throw it away without deigning to peruse it; and yet there is nothing in it which could raise a blush on the cheek of a modest maiden. if it be a crime to have seen you by chance, to have watched you by stealth, to consider hallowed every spot you visit--nay, more, if it be a crime to worship at the shrine of beauty and of innocence, or, to speak more boldly, to adore you--then am i guilty. you will ask, why i resort to a clandestine step. simply, because, when i discovered your name and birth, i felt assured that an ancient feud between the two families, to which nor you nor i were parties, would bar an introduction to your father's house. you would ask me who i am. a gentleman, i trust, by birth and education; a poor one, i grant; and you have made me poorer, for you have robbed me of more than wealth--my peace of mind and my happiness. i feel that i am presumptuous and bold; but forgive me. your eyes tell me you are too kind, too good, to give unnecessary pain; and if you knew how much i have already suffered, you would not oppress further a man who was happy until he saw you. pardon me, therefore, my boldness, and excuse the means i have taken of placing this communication before you.' "that will do, i think," said spikeman; "and now, joey, we will go out and take a walk, and i will give you your directions." chapter thirty one. in which the plot thickens. the next day our hero, having received the letter with his instructions, went with the wheel down to the copse near to the mansion-house. here he remained quietly until he heard miss melissa coming down the gravel-walk; he waited till she had time to gain her seat, and then, leaving his wheel outside, he walked round the copse until he came to her. she raised her eyes from her book when she saw him. "if you please, miss, have you any scissors or knives for me to grind?" said joey, bowing with his hat in his hand. miss mathews looked earnestly at joey. "who are you?" said she at last; "are you the boy who was on this road with a knife-grinder and his wheel yesterday afternoon?" "yes, madam, we came this way," replied joey, bowing again very politely. "is he your father?" "no, madam, he is my uncle; he is not married." "your uncle. well, i have a pair of scissors to grind, and i will go for them: you may bring your wheel in here, as i wish to see how you grind." "certainly, miss, with the greatest pleasure." joey brought in his wheel, and observing that miss mathews had left her book on the seat, he opened it at the marked page and slipped the letter in; and scarcely had done so, when he perceived miss mathews and her cousin coming towards him. "here are the scissors; mind you make them cut well." "i will do my best, miss," replied joey, who immediately set to work. "have you been long at this trade?" said miss mathews. "no, miss, not very long." "and your uncle, has he been long at it?" joey hesitated on purpose. "why, i really don't know exactly how long." "why is your uncle not with you?" "he was obliged to go to town, miss--that is, to a town at some distance from here on business." "why, what business can a tinker have?" inquired araminta. "i suppose he wanted some soft solder, miss; he requires a great deal." "can you read and write, boy?" inquired melissa. "me, miss! how should i know how to write and read?" replied joey, looking up. "have you been much about here?" "yes, miss, a good deal; uncle seems to like this part; we never were so long before. the scissors are done now, miss, and they will cut very well. uncle was in hopes of getting some work at the mansion-house when he came back." "can your uncle write and read?" "i believe he can a little, miss." "what do i owe you for the scissors?" "nothing, miss, if you please; i had rather not take anything from you." "and why not from me?" "because i never worked for so pretty a lady before. wish you good morning, ladies," said joey, taking up his wheel and rolling it away. "well, araminta, what do you think now? that's no knife-grinder's boy; he is as well-bred and polite as any lad i ever saw." "i suspect that he is a little story-teller, saying that he could not write and read," araminta replied. "and so do i; what made him in such a hurry to go away?" "i suppose he did not like our questions. i wonder whether the uncle will come. well, melissa, i must not quit your father just now, so i must leave you with your book," and, so saying, araminta took her way to the house. miss mathews was in a reverie for some minutes; joey's behaviour had puzzled her almost as much as what she had overheard the day before. at last she opened the book, and, to her great astonishment, beheld the letter. she started--looked at it--it was addressed to her. she demurred at first whether she should open it. it must have been put there by the tinker's boy--it was evidently no tinker's letter; it must be a love-letter, and she ought not to read it. there was something, however, so very charming in the whole romance of the affair, if it should turn out, as she suspected, that the tinker should prove a gentleman who had fallen in love with her, and had assumed the disguise. melissa wanted an excuse to herself for opening the letter. at last she said to herself, "who knows but what it may be a petition from some poor person or other who is in distress? i ought to read it, at all events." had it proved to be a petition, miss melissa would have been terribly disappointed. "it certainly is very respectful," thought melissa, after she had read it, "but i cannot reply to it; that would never do. there certainly is nothing i can take offence at. it must be the tinker himself, i am sure of that: but still he does not say so. well, i don't know, but i feel very anxious as to what this will come to. o, it can come to nothing, for i cannot love a man i have never seen, and i would not admit a stranger to an interview; that's quite decided. i must show the letter to araminta. shall i? i don't know, she's so particular, so steady, and would be talking of propriety and prudence; it would vex her so, and put her quite in a fever, she would be so unhappy; no, it would be cruel to say anything to her, she would fret so about it; i won't tell her, until i think it absolutely necessary. it is a very gentleman-like hand, and elegant language too; but still i'm not going to carry on a secret correspondence with a tinker. it must be the tinker. what an odd thing altogether! what can his name be? an old family quarrel, too. why, it's a romeo and juliet affair, only romeo's a tinker. well, one mask is as good as another. he acknowledges himself poor, i like that of him, there's something so honest in it. well, after all, it will be a little amusement to a poor girl like me, shut up from year's end to year's end, with opodeldocs always in my nose; so i will see what the end of it may be," thought melissa, rising from her seat to go into the house, and putting the letter into her pocket. joey went back to spikeman and reported progress. "that's all i wish, joey," said spikeman; "now you must not go there to-morrow; we must let it work a little; if she is at all interested in the letter, she will be impatient to know more." spikeman was right. melissa looked up and down the road very often during the next day, and was rather silent during the evening. the second day after, joey, having received his instructions, set off, with his knife-grinder's wheel, for the mansion-house. when he went round the copse where the bench was, he found miss mathews there. "i beg your pardon, miss, but do you think there is any work at the house?" "come here, sir," said melissa, assuming a very dignified air. "yes, miss," said joey, walking slowly to her. "now, tell me the truth, and i will reward you with half-a-crown." "yes, miss." "did you not put this letter in my book the day before yesterday?" "letter, miss! what letter?" "don't you deny it, for you know you did; and if you don't tell me the truth, my father is a magistrate, and i'll have you punished." "i was told not to tell," replied joey, pretending to be frightened. "but you must tell; yes, and tell me immediately." "i hope you are not angry, miss." "no, not if you tell the truth." "i don't exactly know, miss, but a gentleman--" "what gentleman?" "a gentleman that came to uncle, miss." "a gentleman that came to your uncle; well, go on." "i suppose he wrote the letter, but i'm not sure; and uncle gave me the letter to put it where you might see it." "oh, then, a gentleman, you say, gave your uncle this letter, and your uncle gave it to you to bring to me. is that it?" "uncle gave me the letter, but i dare say uncle will tell you all about it, and who the gentleman was." "is your uncle come back?" "he comes back to-night, madam." "you're sure your uncle did not write the letter?" "la, miss! uncle write such a letter as that--and to a lady like you-that would be odd." "very odd, indeed!" replied miss melissa, who remained a minute or two in thought. "well, my lad," said she at last, "i must and will know who has had the boldness to write this letter to me; and as your uncle knows, you will bring him here to-morrow, that i may inquire about it; and let him take care that he tells the truth." "yes, miss; i will tell him as soon as he comes home. i hope you are not angry with me, miss; i did not think there was any harm in putting into the book such a nice clean letter as that." "no, i am not angry with you; your uncle is more to blame; i shall expect him to-morrow about this time. you may go now." chapter thirty two. in which the tinker makes love. joey made his obeisance, and departed as if he was frightened, miss melissa watched him: at last she thought, "tinker or no tinker? that is the question. no tinker, for a cool hundred, as my father would say; for, no tinker's boy, no tinker; and that is no tinker's boy. how clever of him to say that the letter was given him by a gentleman! now i can send to him to interrogate him, and have an interview without any offence to my feelings; and if he is disguised, as i feel confident that he is, i shall soon discover it." miss melissa mathews did not sleep that night; and at the time appointed she was sitting on the bench, with all the assumed dignity of a newly-made magistrate. spikeman and joey were not long before they made their appearance. spikeman was particularly clean and neat, although he took care to wear the outward appearance of a tinker; his hands were, by continual washing in hot water, very white, and he had paid every attention to his person, except in wearing his rough and sullied clothes. "my boy tells me, miss, that you wish to speak to me," said spikeman, assuming the air of a vulgar man. "i did, friend," said melissa, after looking at spikeman for a few minutes; "a letter has been brought here clandestinely, and your boy confesses that he received it from you; now, i wish to know how you came by it." "boy, go away to a distance," said spikeman, very angrily; "if you can't keep one secret, at all events you shall not hear any more." joey retreated, as had been arranged between them. "well, madam, or miss (i suppose miss)," said spikeman, "that letter was written by a gentleman that loves the very ground you tread upon." "and he requested it to be delivered to me?" "he did, miss; and if you knew, as i do, how he loves you, you would not be surprised at his taking so bold a step." "i am surprised at your taking so bold a step, tinker, as to send it by your boy." "it was a long while before i would venture, miss; but when he had told me what he did, i really could not help doing so; for i pitied him, and so would you, if you knew all." "and pray what did he tell you?" "he told me, miss," said spikeman, who had gradually assumed his own manner of speaking, "that he had ever rejected the thoughts of matrimony--that he rose up every morning thanking heaven that he was free and independent--that he had scorned the idea of ever being captivated with the charms of a woman; but that one day he had by chance passed down this road, and had heard you singing as you were coming down to repose on this bench. captivated by your voice, curiosity induced him to conceal himself in the copse behind us, and from thence he had a view of your person: nay, miss he told me more, that he had played the eaves-dropper, and heard all your conversation, free and unconstrained as it was from the supposition that you were alone; he heard you express your sentiments and opinions, and finding that there was on this earth what, in his scepticism, he thought never to exist--youth, beauty, talent, principle, and family, all united in one person--he had bowed at the shrine, and had become a silent and unseen worshipper." spikeman stopped speaking. "then it appears that this gentleman, as you style him, has been guilty of the ungentlemanly practice of listening to private conversation--no very great recommendation." "such was not his intention at first; he was seduced to it by you. do not blame him for that--now that i have seen you, i cannot; but, miss, he told me more. he said that he felt that he was unworthy of you, and had not a competence to offer you, even if he could obtain your favour; that he discovered that there was a cause which prevented his gaining an introduction to your family; in fact, that he was hopeless and despairing. he had hovered near you for a long time, for he could not leave the air you breathed; and, at last, that he had resolved to set his life upon the die and stake the hazard. could i refuse him, miss? he is of an old family, but not wealthy; he is a gentleman by birth and education, and therefore i did not think i was doing so very wrong in giving him the chance, trifling as it might be. i beg your pardon, madam, if i have offended; and any message you may have to deliver to him, harsh as it may be--nay, even if it should be his death--it shall be faithfully and truly delivered." "when shall you see him, master tinker?" said melissa, very gravely. "in a week he will be here, he said, not before." "considering he is so much in love, he takes his time," replied melissa. "well, master tinker, you may tell him from me, that i've no answer to give him. it is quite ridiculous, as well as highly improper, that i should receive a letter or answer one from a person whom i never saw. i admit his letter to be respectful, or i should have sent a much harsher message." "your commands shall be obeyed, miss; that is, if you cannot be persuaded to see him for one minute." "most certainly not; i see no gentleman who is not received at my father's house, and properly presented to me. it may be the custom among people in your station of life, master tinker, but not in mine; and as for yourself, i recommend you not to attempt to bring another letter." "i must request your pardon for my fault, miss; may i ask, after i have seen the poor young gentleman, am i to report to you what takes place?" "yes, if it is to assure me that i shall be no more troubled with his addresses." "you shall be obeyed, miss," continued spikeman; then, changing his tone and air, he said, "i beg your pardon, have you any knives or scissors to grind?" "no," replied melissa, jumping up from her seat, and walking towards the house to conceal her mirth. shortly afterwards she turned round to look if spikeman was gone; he had remained near the seat, with his eyes following her footsteps. "i could love that man," thought melissa, as she walked on. "what an eye he has, and what eloquence; i shall run away with a tinker i do believe; but it is my destiny. why does he say a week--a whole week? but how easy to see through his disguise! he had the stamp of a gentleman upon him. dear me, i wonder how this is to end! i must not tell araminta yet; she would be fidgeted out of her wits! how foolish of me! i quite forgot to ask the name of this _gentleman_. i'll not forget it next time." chapter thirty three. well done tinker. "it is beyond my hopes, joey," said spikeman, as they went back to the cottage; "she knows well enough that i was pleading for myself, and not for another, and she has said quite as much as my most sanguine wishes could desire; in fact, she has given me permission to come again, and report the result of her message to the non-existent gentleman, which is equal to an assignation. i have no doubt now i shall ultimately succeed, and i must make my preparations; i told her that i should not be able to deliver her message for a week, and she did not like the delay, that was clear; it will all work in my favour; a week's expectation will ripen the fruit more than daily meetings. i must leave this to-night; but you may as well stay here, for you can be of no use to me." "where are you going, then?" "first to dudstone, to take my money out of the bank; i have a good sum, sufficient to carry me on for many months after her marriage, if i do marry her. i shall change my dress at dudstone, of course, and then start for london, by mail, and fit myself out with a most fashionable wardrobe and etceteras, come down again to cobhurst, the town we were in the other day, with my portmanteau, and from thence return here in my tinker's clothes to resume operations. you must not go near her during my absence." "certainly not; shall i go out at all?" "no, not with the wheel; you might meet her on the road, and she would be putting questions to you." that evening spikeman set off; and was absent for five days, when he again made his appearance early in the morning. joey had remained almost altogether indoors, and had taken that opportunity of writing to mary. he wrote on the day after spikeman's departure, as it would give ample time for an answer before his return; but joey received no reply to his letter. "i am all prepared now, my boy," said spikeman, whose appearance was considerably improved by the various little personal arrangements which he had gone through during the time he was in london. "i have my money in my pockets, my portmanteau at cobhurst, and now it depends upon the rapidity of my success when the day is to come that i make the knife-grinder's wheel over to you. i will go down now, but without you this time." spikeman set off with his wheel, and soon arrived at the usual place of meeting; miss mathews, from the window, had perceived him coming down the road; she waited a quarter of an hour before she made her appearance; had not she had her eyes on the hands of the time-piece, and knew that it was only a quarter of an hour, she could have sworn that it had been two hours at least. poor girl! she had, during this week, run over every circumstance connected with the meeting at least a thousand times; every word that had been exchanged had been engraven on her memory, and, without her knowledge almost, her heart had imperceptibly received the impression. she walked down, reading her book very attentively, until she arrived at the bench. "any knives or scissors to grind, ma'am?" asked spikeman, respectfully coming forward. "you here again, master tinker! why, i had quite forgot all about you." (heaven preserve us! how innocent girls will sometimes tell fibs out of modesty.) "it were well for others, miss mathews, if their memory were equally treacherous," rejoined spikeman. "and why so, pray?" "i speak of the gentleman to whom you sent the message." "and what was his reply to you?" "he acknowledged, miss mathews, the madness of his communication to you, of the impossibility of your giving him an answer, and of your admitting him to your presence. he admired the prudence of your conduct, but, unfortunately, his admiration only increased his love. he requested me to say that he will write no more." "he has done wisely, and i am satisfied." "i would i could say as much for him, miss mathews; for it is my opinion, that his very existence is now so bound up with the possession of you, that if he does not succeed he cannot exist." "that's not my fault," replied melissa, with her eyes cast down. "no, it is not. still, miss mathews, when it is considered that this man had abjured, i may say, had almost despised women, it is no small triumph to you, or homage from him, that you have made him feel the power of your sex." "it is his just punishment for having despised us." "perhaps so; yet if we were all punished for our misdeeds, as shakespeare says, who should escape whipping?" "pray, master tinker, where did you learn to quote shakespeare?" "where i learnt much more. i was not always a travelling tinker." "so i presumed before this. and pray how came you to be one?" "miss mathews, if the truth must be told, it arose from an unfortunate attachment." "i have read in the olden poets that love would turn a god into a man; but i never heard of its making him a tinker," replied melissa, smiling. "the immortal jove did not hesitate to conceal his thunderbolts when he deigned to love; and cupid but too often has recourse to the aid of proteus to secure success. we have, therefore, no mean warranty." "and who was the lady of thy love, good master tinker?" "she was, miss mathews, like you in everything. she was as beautiful, as intelligent, as honest, as proud, and, unfortunately, she was, like you, as obdurate, which reminds me of the unfortunate gentleman whose emissary i now am. in his madness he requested me--yes, miss mathews, me a poor tinker--to woo you for him--to say to you all that he would have said had he been admitted to your presence--to plead for him--to kneel for him at your feet, and entreat you to have some compassion for one whose only misfortune was to love--whose only fault was to be poor. what could i say, miss mathews--what could i reply to a person in his state of desperation? to reason with him, to argue with him, had been useless; i could only soothe him by making such a promise, provided that i was permitted to do it. tell me, miss mathews, have i your permission to make the attempt?" "first, mr tinker, i should wish to know the name of this gentleman." "i promised not to mention it, miss mathews; but i can evade the promise. i have a book which belongs to him in my pocket, on the inside of which are the arms of his family, with his father's name underneath them." spikeman presented the book. melissa read the name, and then laid it on the bench, without saying a word. "and now, miss mathews, as i have shown you that the gentleman has no wish to conceal who he is, may i venture to hope that you will permit me to plead occasionally, when i may see you, in his behalf." "i know not what to say, master tinker. i consider it a measure fraught with some danger, both to the gentleman and to myself. you have quoted shakespeare--allow me now to do the same:- "`friendship is constant in all other things save in the affairs and offices of love, therefore all hearts use your own tongues.' "you observe, master tinker, that there is the danger of your pleading for yourself, and not for your client; and there is also the danger of my being insensibly moved to listen to the addresses of a tinker. now, only reflect upon the awful consequences," continued melissa, smiling. "i pledge you my honour, miss mathews, that i will only plead for the person whose name you have read in the book, and that you shall never be humiliated by the importunities of a mender of pots and pans." "you pledge the honour of a tinker; what may that be worth?" "a tinker that has the honour of conversing with miss mathews, has an honour that cannot be too highly appreciated." "well, that is very polite for a mender of old kettles; but the schoolmaster is abroad, which, i presume, accounts for such strange anomalies as our present conversation. i must now wish you good morning." "when may i have the honour of again presenting myself in behalf of the poor gentleman?" "i can really make no appointments with tinkers," replied melissa; "if you personate that young man, you must be content to wait for days or months to catch a glimpse of the hem of my garment; to bay the moon and bless the stars, and i do not know what else. it is, in short, catch me when you can; and now farewell, good master tinker," replied melissa, leaving her own book, and taking the one spikeman had put into her hand, which she carried with her to the house. it was all up with miss melissa mathews, that was clear. we shall pass over a fortnight, during which spikeman, at first every other day, and subsequently every day or evening, had a meeting with melissa, in every one of which he pleaded his cause in the third person. joey began to be very tired of this affair, as he remained idle during the whole time, when one morning spikeman told him that he must go down to the meeting-place without the wheel, and tell miss mathews his uncle the tinker was ill, and not able to come that evening. joey received his instructions, and went down immediately. miss mathews was not to be seen, and joey, to avoid observation, hid himself in the copse, awaiting her arrival. at last she came, accompanied by araminta, her cousin. as soon as they had taken their seats on the bench, araminta commenced: "my dear melissa, i could not speak to you in the house, on account of your father; but simpson has told me this morning that she thought it her duty to state to me that you have been seen, not only in the day time, but late in the evening, walking and talking with a strange-looking man. i have thought it very odd that you should not have mentioned this mysterious person to me lately; but i do think it most strange that you should have been so imprudent. now, tell me everything that has happened, or i must really make it known to your father." "and have me locked up for months,--that's very kind of you, araminta," replied melissa. "but consider what you have been doing, melissa. who is this man?" "a travelling tinker, who brought me a letter from a gentleman, who has been so silly as to fall in love with me." "and what steps have you taken, cousin?" "positively refused to receive a letter, or to see the gentleman." "then why does the man come again?" "to know if we have any knives or scissors to grind." "come, come, melissa, this is ridiculous. all the servants are talking about it; and you know how servants talk. why do you continue to see this fellow?" "because he amuses me, and it is so stupid of him." "if that is your only reason, you can have no objection to see him no more, now that scandal is abroad. will you promise me that you will not? recollect, dear melissa, how imprudent and how unmaidenly it is." "why, you don't think that i am going to elope with a tinker, do you, cousin?" "i should think not; nevertheless, a tinker is no companion for miss mathews, dear cousin. melissa, you have been most imprudent. how far you have told me the truth i know not; but this i must tell you, if you do not promise me to give up this disgraceful acquaintance, i will immediately acquaint my uncle." "i will not be forced into any promise, araminta," replied melissa, indignantly. "well, then, i will not hurry you into it. i will give you forty-eight hours to reply, and if by that time your own good sense does not point out your indiscretion, i certainly will make it known to your father; that is decided." so saying. araminta rose from the bench and walked towards the house. "eight-and-forty hours," said melissa, thoughtfully; "it must be decided by that time." joey, who had wit enough to perceive how matters stood, made up his mind not to deliver his message. he knew that spikeman was well, and presumed that his staying away was to make miss mathews more impatient to see him. melissa remained on the bench in deep thought; at last joey went up to her. "you here, my boy! what have you come for?" said melissa. "i was strolling this way, madam." "come here; i want you to tell me the truth; indeed, it is useless to attempt to deceive me. is that person your uncle?" "no, miss, he is not." "i knew that. is he not the person who wrote the letter, and a gentleman in disguise? answer me that question, and then i have a message to him which will make him happy." "he is a gentleman, miss." "and his name is spikeman, is it not?" "yes, miss, it is." "will he be here this evening? this is no time for trifling." "if you want him, miss, i am sure he will." "tell him to be sure and come, and not in disguise," said melissa, bursting into tears. "that's no use, my die is cast," continued she, talking to herself. joey remained by her side until she removed her hands from her face. "why do you wait?" "at what hour, miss, shall he come?" said joey. "as soon as it is dusk. leave me, boy, and do not forget." joey hastened to spikeman, and narrated what he had seen and heard, with the message of melissa. "my dear boy, you have helped me to happiness," said spikeman. "she shed tears, did she? poor thing! i trust they will be the last she shall shed. i must be off to cobhurst at once. meet me at dark at the copse, for i shall want to speak to you." spikeman set off for the town as fast as he could, with his bundle on his head. when half way he went into a field and changed his clothes, discarding his tinker's dress for ever, throwing it into a ditch for the benefit of the finder. he then went into the town to his rooms, dressed himself in a fashionable suit, arranged his portmanteau, and ordered a chaise to be ready at the door at a certain time, so as to arrive at the village before dusk. after he had passed through the village, he ordered the postboy to stop about fifty yards on the other side of the copse, and getting out desired him to remain till he returned. joey was already there, and soon afterwards miss m made her appearance, coming down the walk in a hurried manner, in her shawl and bonnet. as soon as she gained the bench, spikeman was at her feet; he told her he knew what had passed between her and her cousin; that he could not, would not part with her--he now came without disguise to repeat what he had so often said to her, that he loved and adored her, and that his life should be devoted to make her happy. melissa wept, entreated, refused, and half consented; spikeman led her away from the bench towards the road, she still refusing, yet still advancing, until they came to the door of the chaise. joey let down the steps; melissa, half fainting and half resisting, was put in; spikeman followed, and the door was closed by joey. "stop a moment, boy," said spikeman. "here, joey, take this." as spikeman put a packet into our hero's hand, melissa clasped her hands and cried, "yes--yes! stop, do stop, and let me out; i cannot go, indeed i cannot." "there's lights coming down the gravel walk," said joey; "they are running fast." "drive on, boy, as fast as you can," said spikeman. "oh, yes! drive on," cried melissa, sinking into her lover's arms. off went the chaise, leaving joey on the road with the packet in his hand; our hero turned round and perceived the lights close to him, and, not exactly wishing to be interrogated, he set off as fast as he could, and never checked his speed until he arrived at the cottage where he and spikeman had taken up their quarters. chapter thirty four. a very long chapter, necessary to fetch up the remainder of the convoy. as it was late that night, joey did not open the packet delivered to him from spikeman until he arose the next morning, which he did very early, as he thought it very likely that he might be apprehended, if he was not off in good time. the packet contained a key, 20 pounds in money, and a paper, with the following letter:- "my dear boy,--as we must now part, at least for some time, i have left you money sufficient to set you up for the present; i have inclosed a memorandum, by which i make over to you the knife-grinder's wheel, and all the furniture, books, etcetera, that are in my rooms at dudstone, the key of which is also inclosed. i should recommend you going there and taking immediate possession, and as soon as i have time, i shall write to the woman of the house, to inform her of the contents of the memorandum; and i will also write to you, and let you know how i get on. of course you will now do as you please; at all events, i have taught you a profession, and have given you the means of following it. i only hope, if you do, that some day you may be able to retire from business as successfully as i have done. you will, of course, write to me occasionally, after you know where i am. depend upon it, there is no profession so near to that of a gentleman as that of a travelling tinker. "yours ever truly, augustus spikeman. "nb. there is some money in the old place to pay the bill at the cottage." our hero considered that he could not do better than follow the advice of spikeman. he first wrote a few lines to mary, requesting that she would send her answer to dudstone; and then, having settled with the hostess, he set off with his knife-grinder's wheel on his return home to what were now his apartments. as he was not anxious to make money, he did not delay on his road, and on the fifth day he found himself at the door of the alehouse near to dudstone, where he had before left the wheel. joey thought it advisable to do so now, telling the landlord that spikeman had requested him so to do; and as soon as it was dusk, our hero proceeded to the town, and knocked at the door of the house in which were spikeman's apartments. he informed the landlady that spikeman would not in all probability return, and had sent him to take possession, showing her the key. the dame was satisfied, and joey went upstairs. as soon as he had lighted the candle, and fairly installed himself, our hero threw himself down on the sofa and began to reflect. it is pleasant to have property of our own, and joey never had had any before; it was satisfactory to look at the furniture, bed, and books, and say, "all this is _mine_." joey felt this, as it is to be presumed everybody would in the same position, and for some time he continued looking round and round at his property. having satisfied himself with a review of it externally, he next proceeded to open all the drawers, the chests, etcetera. there were many articles in them which joey did not expect to find, such as a store of sheets, table linen, and all spikeman's clothes, which he had discarded when he went up to london, some silver spoons, and a variety of little odds and ends; in short, spikeman had left our hero everything as it stood. joey put his money away, and then went to bed, and slept as serenely as the largest landed proprietor in the kingdom. when he awoke next morning, our hero began to reflect upon what he should do. he was not of spikeman's opinion that a travelling tinker was the next thing to a gentleman, nor did he much like the idea of rolling the wheel about all his life; nevertheless, he agreed with spikeman that it was a trade by which he could earn his livelihood, and if he could do no better, it would always be a resource. as soon as he had taken his breakfast, he sat down and wrote to mary, acquainting her with all that had taken place, and stating what his own feelings were upon his future prospects. having finished his letter, he dressed himself neatly, and went out to call upon the widow james. miss ophelia and miss amelia were both at home. "well, master atherton, how do you do? and pray where is mr spikeman?" said both the girls in a breath. "he is a long way from this!" replied joey. "a long way from this! why, has he not come back with you?" "no! and i believe he will not come back any more. i am come, as his agent, to take possession of his property." "why, what has happened?" "a very sad accident," replied our hero, shaking his head; "he fell--" "fell!" exclaimed the two girls in a breath. "yes, fell in love, and is married." "well now!" exclaimed miss ophelia, "only to think!" miss amelia said nothing. "and so he is really married?" "yes; and he has given up business." "he did seem in a great hurry when he last came here," observed amelia. "and what are you going to do?" "i am not going to follow his example just yet," replied joey. "i suppose not; but what are you going to do?" replied ophelia. "i shall wait here for his orders; i expect to hear from him. whether i am to remain in this part of the country, or sell off and join him, or look out for some other business, i hardly know; i think myself i shall look out for something else; i don't like the cutlery line and travelling for orders. how is your mamma, miss ophelia?" "she is very well, and has gone to market. well, i never did expect to hear of mr spikeman being married! who is he married to, joseph?" "to a very beautiful young lady, daughter of squire mathews, with a large fortune." "yes; men always look for money nowadays," said amelia. "i must go now," said joey, getting up; "i have some calls and some inquiries to make. good morning, young ladies." it must be acknowledged that the two misses james were not quite so cordial towards joey as they were formerly; but unmarried girls do not like to hear of their old acquaintances marrying anybody save themselves. there is not only a flirt the less, but a chance the less in consequence; and it should be remarked, that there were very few _beaux_ at dudstone. our hero was some days at dudstone before he received a letter from spikeman, who informed him that he had arrived safely at gretna (indeed, there was no male relation of the family to pursue him), and the silken bands of hymen had been made more secure by the iron rivets of the blacksmith; that three days after he had written a letter to his wife's father, informing him that he had _done him the honour_ of marrying his daughter; that he could not exactly say when he could find time to come to the mansion and pay him a visit, but that he would as soon as he conveniently could; that he begged that the room prepared for them upon their arrival might have a _large_ dressing-room attached to it, as he could not dispense with that convenience; that he was not aware whether mr mathews was inclined to part with the mansion and property, but, as his wife had declared that she would prefer living there to anywhere else, he had not any objection to purchase it of mr mathews, if they could come to terms; hoped his gout was better, and was his "very faithfully, augustus spikeman." melissa wrote a few lines to araminta, begging her, as a favour, not to attempt to palliate her conduct, but to rail against her incessantly, as it would be the surest method of bringing affairs to an amicable settlement. to her father she wrote only these few words:- "my dear papa,--you will be glad to hear that i am married. augustus says that, if i behave well, he will come and see you soon. dear papa, your dutiful child, melissa spikeman." that the letters of spikeman and melissa put the old gentleman in no small degree of rage, may be conceived; but nothing could be more judicious than the plan spikeman had acted upon. it is useless to plead to a man who is irritated with constant gout; he only becomes more despotic and more unyielding. had araminta attempted to soften his indignation, it would have been equally fruitless; but the compliance with the request of her cousin of continually railing against her, had the effect intended. the vituperation of araminta left him nothing to say; there was no opposition to direct his anathemas against; there was no coaxing or wheedling on the part of the offenders for him to repulse; and when araminta pressed the old gentleman to vow that melissa should never enter the doors again, he accused her of being influenced by interested motives, threw a basin at her head, and wrote an epistle requesting melissa to come and take his blessing. araminta refused to attend her uncle after this insult, and the old gentleman became still more anxious for the return of his daughter, as he was now left entirely to the caprice of his servants. araminta gave melissa an account of what had passed, and entreated her to come at once. she did so, and a general reconciliation took place. mr mathews, finding his new son-in-law very indifferent to pecuniary matters, insisted upon making over to his wife an estate in herefordshire, which, with melissa's own fortune, rendered them in most affluent circumstances. spikeman requested joey to write to him now and then, and that, if he required assistance, he would apply for it; but still advised him to follow up the profession of travelling tinker as being the most independent. our hero had hardly time to digest the contents of spikeman's letter when he received a large packet from mary, accounting for her not having replied to him before, in consequence of her absence from the hall. she had, three weeks before, received a letter written for mrs chopper, acquainting her that mrs chopper was so very ill that it was not thought possible that she could recover, having an abscess in the liver which threatened to break internally, and requesting mary to obtain leave to come to gravesend, if she possibly could, as mrs chopper wished to see her before she died. great as was mary's repugnance to revisit gravesend, she felt that the obligations she was under to mrs chopper were too great for her to hesitate; and showing the letter to mrs austin, and stating at the same time that she considered mrs chopper as more than a mother to her, she obtained the leave which she requested, and set off for gravesend. it was with feelings of deep shame and humiliation that poor mary walked down the main street of the town, casting her eyes up fearfully to the scenes of her former life. she was very plainly attired, and had a thick veil over her face, so that nobody recognised her; she arrived at the door of mrs chopper's abode, ascended the stairs, and was once more in the room out of which she had quitted gravesend to lead a new life; and most conscientiously had she fulfilled her resolution, as the reader must be aware. mrs chopper was in bed and slumbering when mary softly opened the door; the signs of approaching death were on her countenance--her large, round form had wasted away--her fingers were now taper and bloodless; mary would not have recognised her had she fallen in with her under other circumstances. an old woman was in attendance; she rose up when mary entered, imagining that it was some kind lady come to visit the sick woman. mary sat down by the side of the bed, and motioned to the old woman that she might go out, and then she raised her veil and waited till the sufferer roused. mary had snuffed the candle twice that she might see sufficiently to read the prayer book which she had taken up, when mrs chopper opened her eyes. "how very kind of you, ma'am!" said mrs chopper; "and where is miss ---? my eyes are dimmer every day." "it is me, mary--nancy that was!" "and so it is! o, nancy, now i shall die in peace! i thought at first it was the kind lady who comes every day to read and to pray with me. dear nancy, how glad i am to see you! and how do you do? and how is poor peter?" "quite well when i heard from him last, my dear mrs chopper." "you don't know, nancy, what a comfort it is to me to see you looking as you do, so good and so innocent; and when i think it was by my humble means that you were put in the way of becoming so, i feel as if i had done one good act, and that perhaps my sins may be forgiven me." "god will reward you, mrs chopper; i said so at the time, and i feel it now," replied mary, the tears rolling down her cheeks; "i trust by your means, and with strength from above, i shall continue in the same path, so that one sinner may be saved." "bless you, nancy!--you never were a bad girl in heart; i always said so. and where is peter now?" "going about the country earning his bread; poor, but happy." "well, nancy, it will soon be over with me; i may die in a second, they tell me, or i may live for three or four days; but i sent for you that i might put my house in order. there are only two people that i care for upon earth--that is you and my poor peter; and all i have i mean to leave between you. i have signed a paper already, in case you could not come, but now that you are come, i will tell you all i wish; but give me some of that drink first." mary having read the directions on the label, poured out a wine-glass of the mixture, and gave it to mrs chopper, who swallowed it, and then proceeded, taking a paper from under her pillow-"nancy! this is the paper i told you of. i have about 700 pounds in the bank, which is all that i have saved in twenty-two years; but it has been honestly made. i have, perhaps, much more owing to me, but i do not want it to be collected. poor sailors have no money to spare, and i release them all. you will see me buried, nancy, and tell poor peter how i loved him, and i have left my account books, with my bad debts and good debts, to him. i am sure he would like to have them, for he knows the history of every sum-total, and he will look over them and think of me. you can sell this furniture; but the wherry you must give to william; he is not very honest, but he has a large family to keep. do what you like, dearest, about what is here; perhaps my clothes would be useful to his wife; they are not fit for you. there's a good deal of money in the upper drawer; it will pay for my funeral and the doctor. i believe that is all now; but do tell poor peter how i loved him. poor fellow, i have been cheated ever since he left; but that's no matter. now, nancy, dear, read to me a little. i have so longed to have you by my bedside to read to me, and pray for me! i want to hear you pray before i die. it will make me happy to hear you pray, and see that kind face looking up to heaven, as it was always meant to do." poor mary burst into tears. after a few minutes she became more composed, and, dropping down on her knees by the side of the bed, she opened the prayer book, and complied with the request of mrs chopper; and as she fervently poured forth her supplication, occasionally her voice faltered, and she would stop to brush away the tears which dimmed her sight. she was still so occupied when the door of the room was gently opened, and a lady, with a girl about fourteen or fifteen years old, quietly entered the room. mary did not perceive them until they also had knelt down. she finished the prayer, rose, and, with a short curtsey, retired from the side of the bed. although not recognised herself by the lady, mary, immediately remembered mrs phillips and her daughter emma, having as we have before observed, been at one time in mrs phillips's service. "this is the young woman whom you so wished to see, mrs chopper, is it not?" said mrs phillips. "i am not surprised at your longing for her, for she appears well suited for a companion in such an hour; and, alas! how, few there are! sit down, i request," continued mrs phillips, turning to mary. "how do you find yourself to-day, mrs chopper?" "sinking fast, dear madam, but not unwilling to go, since i have seen nancy, and heard of my poor peter; he wrote to nancy a short time ago. nancy, don't forget my love to peter." emma phillips, who had now grown tall and thin, immediately went up to mary, and said, "peter was the little boy who was with mrs chopper; i met him on the road when he first came to gravesend, did i not?" "yes, miss you did," replied mary. "he used to come to our house sometimes, and very often to meet me as i walked home from school. i never could imagine what became of him, for he disappeared all at once without saying good-bye." "he was obliged to go away, miss. it was not his fault; he was a very good boy, and is so still." "then pray remember me to him, and tell him that i often think of him." "i will, miss phillips, and he will be very happy to hear that you have said so." "how did you know that my name was phillips? o, i suppose poor mrs chopper told you before we came." mrs phillips had now read some time to mrs chopper, and this put an end to the conversation between mary and emma phillips. it was not resumed. as soon as the reading was over, mrs phillips and her daughter took their leave. mary made up a bed for herself by the side of mrs chopper's. about the middle of the night, she was roused by a gurgling kind of noise; she hastened to the bedside, and found that mrs chopper was suffocating. mary called in the old woman to her aid, but it was useless, the abscess had burst, and in a few seconds all was over; and mary, struggling with emotion, closed the eyes of her old friend, and offered up a prayer for her departed spirit. the remainder of the night was passed in solemn meditation and a renewal of those vows which the poor girl had hitherto so scrupulously adhered to, and which the death-bed scene was so well fitted to encourage; but mary felt that she had her duties towards others to discharge, and did not give way to useless and unavailing sorrow. it was her duty to return as soon as possible to her indulgent mistress, and the next morning she was busy in making the necessary arrangements. on the third day mary attended the funeral of her old friend, the bills were all paid, and having selected some articles which she wished to retain as a remembrance, she resolved to make over to william, the waterman, not only the wherry, but all the stock in hand, furniture and clothes of mrs chopper. this would enable him and his wife to set up in business themselves and provide for their family. mary knew that she had no right to do so without joey's consent, but of this she felt she was sure; having so done, she had nothing more to do but to see the lawyer who had drawn up the will, and having gone through the necessary forms, she received an order on the county bank nearest to the hall for the money, which, with what was left in the drawers, after paying every demand, amounted to more than 700 pounds. she thought it was her duty to call upon mrs phillips, before she went away, out of gratitude for her kindness to mrs chopper; and as she had not been recognised, she had no scruple in so doing. she was kindly received, and blushed at the praise bestowed upon her. as she was going away, emma phillips followed her out, and putting into her hand a silver pencil-case, requested she would "give it to peter as a remembrance of his little friend, emma." the next day mary arrived at the hall, first communicated to mrs austin what had occurred, and then, having received our hero's two last epistles, sat down to write the packet containing all the intelligence we have made known, and ended by requesting joey to set off with his knife-grinder's wheel, and come to the village near to the hall, that he might receive his share of mrs chopper's money, the silver pencil-case, and the warm greeting of his adopted sister. joey was not long in deciding. he resolved that he would go to mary; and, having locked up his apartments, he once more resumed his wheel, and was soon on his way to hampshire. chapter thirty five. a retrospect that the parties may all start fair again. we must now leave our hero on his way to the hall, while we acquaint our readers with the movements of other parties connected with our history. a correspondence had been kept up between o'donahue and mcshane. o'donahue had succeeded in obtaining the pardon of the emperor, and employment in the russian army, in which he had rapidly risen to the rank of general. five or six years had elapsed since he had married, and both o'donahue and his wife were anxious to visit england; a letter at last came, announcing that he had obtained leave of absence from the emperor, and would in all probability arrive in the ensuing spring. during this period mcshane had continued at his old quarters, mrs mcshane still carrying on the business, which every year became more lucrative; so much so, indeed, that her husband had for some time thought very seriously of retiring altogether, as they had already amassed a large sum, when mcshane received the letter from o'donahue, announcing that in a few months he would arrive in england. major mcshane, who was very far from being satisfied with his negative position in society, pressed the matter more earnestly to his wife, who, although she was perfectly content with her own position, did not oppose his entreaties. mcshane found that after disposing of the goodwill of the business, and of the house, they would have a clear 30,000 pounds, which he considered more than enough for their wants, uncumbered as they were with children. let it not be supposed that mcshane had ceased in his inquiries after our hero; on the contrary, he had resorted to all that his invention could suggest to trace him out, but, as the reader must be aware, without success. both mcshane and his wife mourned his loss, as if they had been bereaved of their own child; they still indulged the idea that some day he would reappear, but when, they could not surmise. mcshane had not only searched for our hero, but had traced his father with as little success, and he had now made up his mind that he should see no more of joey, if he ever did see him again, until after the death of his father, when there would no longer be any occasion for secrecy. our hero and his fate were a continual source of conversation between mcshane and his wife; but latterly, after not having heard of him for more than five years, the subject had not been so often renewed. as soon as mcshane had wound up his affairs, and taken his leave of the eating-house, he looked out for an estate in the country, resolving to lay out two-thirds of his money in land, and leave the remainder in the funds. after about three months' search he found a property which suited him, and, as it so happened, about six miles from the domains held by mr austin. he had taken possession and furnished it. as a retired officer in the army he was well received; and if mrs mcshane was sometimes laughed at for her housekeeper-like appearance, still her sweetness of temper and unassuming behaviour soon won her friends, and mcshane found himself in a very short time comfortable and happy. the o'donahues were expected to arrive very shortly, and mcshane had now a domicile fit for the reception of his old friend, who had promised to pay him a visit as soon as he arrived. of the austins little more can be said that has not been said already. austin was a miserable, unhappy man; his cup of bliss--for he had every means of procuring all that this world considers as bliss, being in possession of station, wealth, and respect--was poisoned by the one heavy crime which passion had urged him to commit, and which was now a source of hourly and unavailing repentance. his son, who should have inherited his wealth, was lost to him, and he dared not mention that he was in existence. every day austin became more nervous and irritable, more exclusive and averse to society; he trembled at shadows, and his strong constitution was rapidly giving way to the heavy weight on his conscience. he could not sleep without opiates, and he dreaded to sleep lest he should reveal everything of the past in his slumbers. each year added to the irascibility of his temper, and the harshness with which he treated his servants and his unhappy wife. his chief amusement was hunting, and he rode in so reckless a manner that people often thought that he was anxious to break his neck. perhaps he was. mrs austin was much to be pitied; she knew how much her husband suffered; how the worm gnawed within; and, having that knowledge, she submitted to all his harshness, pitying him instead of condemning him; but her life was still more embittered by the loss of her child, and many were the bitter tears which she would shed when alone, for she dared not in her husband's presence, as he would have taken them as a reproof to himself. her whole soul yearned after our hero, and that one feeling rendered her indifferent, not only to all the worldly advantages by which she was surrounded, but to the unkindness and hard-heartedness of her husband. mary, who had entered her service as kitchen-maid, was very soon a favourite, and had been advanced to the situation of mrs austin's own attendant mrs austin considered her a treasure, and she daily became more partial to and more confidential with her. such was the state of affairs, when one morning, as austin was riding to cover, a gentleman of the neighbourhood said to him, in the course of conversation-"by-the-bye, austin, have you heard that you have a new neighbour?" "what!--on the frampton estate, i suppose; i heard that it had been sold." "yes; i have seen him. he is one of your profession--a lively, amusing sort of irish major; gentlemanlike, nevertheless. the wife not very high-bred, but very fat, and very good-humoured, and amusing from her downright simpleness of heart. you will call upon them, i presume?" "oh, of course," replied austin. "what is his name did you say?" "major mcshane, formerly of the 53rd regiment, i believe." had a bullet passed through the heart of austin, he could not have received a more sudden shock, and the start which he made from his saddle attracted the notice of his companion. "what's the matter, austin, you look pale; you are not well." "no," replied austin, recollecting himself; "i am not; one of those twinges from an old wound in the breast came on. i shall be better directly." austin stopped his horse, and put his hand to his heart. his companion rode up, and remained near him. "it is worse than usual; i thought it was coming on last night; i fear that i must go home." "shall i go with you?" "o, no; i must not spoil your sport. i am better now a great deal; it is going off fast. come, let us proceed, or we shall be too late at cover." austin had resolved to conquer his feelings. his friend had no suspicion, it is true; but when we are guilty we imagine that everybody suspects us. they rode a few minutes in silence. "well i am glad that you did not go home," observed his friend; "for you will meet your new neighbour; he has subscribed to the pack, and they say he is well mounted; we shall see how he rides." austin made no reply; but, after riding on a few yards farther, he pulled up, saying that the pain was coming on again, and that he could not proceed. his companion expressed his sorrow at austin's indisposition, and they separated. austin immediately returned home, dismounted his horse, and hastened to his private sitting-room. mrs austin, who had seen him return, and could not imagine the cause, went in to her husband. "what is the matter, my dear?" said mrs austin. "matter!" replied austin, bitterly, pacing up and down the room; "heaven and hell conspire against us!" "dear austin, don't talk in that way. what has happened?" "something which will compel me, i expect, to remain a prisoner in my own house, or lead to something unpleasant. we must not stay here." austin then threw himself down on the sofa, and was silent. at last the persuasions and endearments of his wife overcame his humour. he told her that mcshane was the major of his regiment when he was a private; that he would inevitably recognise him; and that, if nothing else occurred from mcshane's knowledge of his former name, at all events, the general supposition of his having been an officer in the army would be contradicted, and it would lower him in the estimation of the county gentlemen. "it is indeed a very annoying circumstance, my dear austin; but are you sure that he would, after so long a period, recognise the private soldier in the gentleman of fortune?" "as sure as i sit here," replied austin, gloomily; "i wish i were dead." "don't say so, dear austin, it makes me miserable." "i never am otherwise," replied austin, clasping his hands. "god forgive me! i have sinned, but have i not been punished?" "you have, indeed; and as repentance is availing, my dear husband, you will receive god's mercy." "the greatest boon, the greatest mercy, would be death," replied the unhappy man; "i envy the pedlar." mrs austin wept. her husband, irritated at tears which, to him, seemed to imply reproach, sternly ordered her to leave the room. that austin repented bitterly of the crime which he had committed is not to be doubted; but it was not with the subdued soul of a christian. his pride was continually struggling within him, and was not yet conquered; this it was that made him alternately self-condemning and irascible, and it was the continual warfare in his soul which was undermining his constitution. austin sent for medical advice for his supposed complaint. the country practitioner, who could discover nothing, pronounced it to be an affection of the heart. he was not far wrong; and mr austin's illness was generally promulgated. cards and calls were the consequence, and austin kept himself a close but impatient prisoner in his own house. his hunters remained in the stables, his dogs in the kennel, and every one intimated that mr austin was labouring under a disease from which he would not recover. at first this was extremely irksome to austin, and he was very impatient; but gradually he became reconciled, and even preferred his sedentary and solitary existence. books were his chief amusement, but nothing could minister to a mind diseased, or drive out the rooted memory of the brain. austin became more morose and misanthropic every day, and at last would permit no one to come near him but his valet and his wife. such was the position of his parents, when joey was proceeding to their abode. chapter thirty six. our hero falls in with an old acquaintance, and is not very much delighted. we left our hero rolling his knife-grinder's wheel towards his father's house. it must be confessed that he did it very unwillingly. he was never very fond of it at any time; but, since he had taken possession of spikeman's property, and had received from mary the intelligence that he was worth 350 pounds more, he had taken a positive aversion to it. it retarded his movements, and it was hard work when he had not to get his livelihood by it. more than once he thought of rolling it into a horsepond, and leaving it below low-water mark; but then he thought it a sort of protection against inquiry, and against assault, for it told of poverty and honest employment; so joey rolled on, but not with any feelings of regard towards his companion. how many castles did our hero build as he went along the road! the sum of money left to him appeared to be enormous. he planned and planned again; and, like most people, at the close of the day, he was just as undetermined as at the commencement. nevertheless, he was very happy, as people always are, in anticipation; unfortunately, more so than when they grasp what they have been seeking. time rolled on, as well as the grindstone, and at last joey found himself at the ale-house where he and mary had put up previously to her obtaining a situation at the hall. he immediately wrote a letter to her, acquainting her with his arrival. he would have taken the letter himself, only he recollected the treatment he had received, and found another messenger in the butcher's boy, who was going up to the hall for orders. the answer returned by the same party was, that mary would come down and see him that evening. when mary came down joey was astonished at the improvement in her appearance. she looked much younger than she did when they had parted, and her dress was so very different that our hero could with difficulty imagine that it was the same person who had been his companion from gravesend. the careless air and manner had disappeared; there was a _retenue_--a dignity about her which astonished him and he felt a sort of respect, mingled with his regard, for her, of which he could not divest himself. but, if she looked younger (as may well be imagined) from her change of life, she also looked more sedate, except when she smiled, or when occasionally, but very rarely, her merry laughter reminded him of the careless, good-tempered nancy of former times. that the greeting was warm need hardly be said. it was the greeting of a sister and younger brother who loved each other dearly. "you are very much grown, joey," said mary. "dear boy, how happy i am to see you!" "and you, mary, you're younger in the face, but older in your manners. are you as happy in your situation as you have told me in your letters?" "quite happy; more happy than ever i deserve to be, my dear boy; and now tell me, joey, what do you think of doing? you have now the means of establishing yourself." "yes, i have been thinking of it; but i don't know what to do." "well, you must look out, and do not be in too great a hurry. recollect, joey, that if anything offers which you have any reason to believe will suit you, you shall have my money as well as your own." "nay, mary, why should i take that?" "because, as it is of no use to me, it must be idle; besides, you know, if you succeed, you will be able to pay me interest for it; so i shall gain as well as you. you must not refuse your sister, my dear boy." "dear mary, how i wish we could live in the same house!" "that cannot be now, joey; you are above my situation at the hall, even allowing that you would ever enter it." "that i never will, if i can help it; not that i feel angry now, but i like to be independent." "of course you do." "and as for that grindstone, i hate the sight of it; it has made spikeman's fortune, but it never shall make mine." "you don't agree then with your former companion," rejoined mary, "that a tinker's is the nearest profession to that of a gentleman which you know of." "i certainly do not," replied our hero; "and as soon as i can get rid of it i will; i have rolled it here, but i will not roll it much farther. i only wish i knew where to go." "i have something in my pocket which puts me in mind of a piece of news which i received the other day, since my return. first let me give you what i have in my pocket,"--and mary pulled out the pencil-case sent to joey by emma phillips. "there you know already who that is from." "yes, and i shall value it very much, for she was a dear, kind little creature; and when i was very, very miserable, she comforted me." "well, joey, miss phillips requested me to write when i came back, as she wished to hear that i had arrived safe at the hall. it was very kind of her, and i did so, of course. since that i have received a letter from her, stating that her grandmother is dead, and that her mother is going to quit gravesend for portsmouth, to reside with her brother, who is now a widower." "i will go to portsmouth," replied our hero. "i was thinking that, as her brother is a navy agent, and mrs phillips is interested about you, you could not do better. if anything turns up, then you will have good advice, and your money is not so likely to be thrown away. i think, therefore, you had better go to portsmouth, and try your fortune." "i am very glad you have mentioned this, mary, for, till now, one place was as indifferent to me as another; but now it is otherwise, and to portsmouth i will certainly go." our hero remained two or three days longer at the village, during which time mary was with him every evening, and once she obtained leave to go to the banker's about her money. she then turned over to joey's account the sum due to him, and arrangements were made with the bank so that joey could draw his capital out whenever he pleased. after which our hero took leave of mary, promising to correspond more freely than before; and once more putting the strap of his knife-grinder's wheel over his shoulders, he set off on his journey to portsmouth. joey had not gained two miles from the village when he asked himself the question, "what shall i do with my grindstone?" he did not like to leave it on the road; he did not know to whom he could give it away. he rolled it on for about six miles farther, and then, quite tired, he resolved to follow the plan formerly adopted by spikeman, and repose a little upon the turf on the road-side. the sun was very warm, and after a time joey retreated to the other side of the hedge, which was shaded; and having taken his bundle from the side of the wheel where it hung, he first made his dinner of the provender he had brought with him, and then, laying his head on the bundle, was soon in a sound sleep, from which he was awakened by hearing voices on the other side of the hedge. he turned round, and perceived two men on the side of the road, close to his knife-grinder's wheel. they were in their shirts and trousers only and sitting down on the turf. "it would be a very good plan," observed one of them; "we should then travel without suspicion." "yes; if we could get off with it without being discovered. where can the owner of it be." "well, i dare say he is away upon some business or another, and has left the wheel here till he comes back. now, suppose we were to take it--how should we manage?" "why, we cannot go along this road with it. we must get over the gates and hedges till we get across the country into another road; and then by travelling all night, we might be quite clear." "yes, and then we should do well; for even if our description as deserters was sent out from portsmouth, we should be considered as travelling tinkers and there would be no suspicion." "well, i'm ready for it. if we can only get it off the road, and conceal it till night, we may then easily manage it. but first let's see if the fellow it belongs to may not be somewhere about here." as the man said this, he rose up and turned his face towards the hedge, and our hero immediately perceived that it was his old acquaintance, furness, the schoolmaster and marine. what to do he hardly knew. at last he perceived furness advancing towards the gate of the field, which was close to where he was lying, and, as escape was impossible, our hero covered his face with his arms, and pretended to be fast asleep. he soon heard a "hush!" given, as a signal to the other man, and, after a while, footsteps close to him. joey pretended to snore loudly, and a whispering then took place. at last he heard furness say-"do you watch by him while i wheel away the grindstone." "but if he wakes, what shall i do?" "brain him with that big stone. if he does not wake up when i am past the second field, follow me." that our hero had no inclination to wake after this notice may be easily imagined; he heard the gate opened, and the wheel trundled away, much to his delight, as furness was the party who had it in charge; and joey continued to snore hard, until at last he heard the departing footsteps of furness's comrade, who had watched him. he thought it prudent to continue motionless for some time longer, to give them time to be well away from him, and then he gradually turned round and looked in the direction in which they had gone; he could see nothing of them, and it was not until he had risen up, and climbed up on the gate, that he perceived them two or three fields off running away at a rapid pace. thanking heaven that he had escaped the danger that he was in, and delighted with the loss of his property, our hero recommenced his journey with his bundle over his shoulder, and before night he was safe outside one of the stages which took him to a town, from which there was another which would carry him to portsmouth, at which sea-port he arrived the next evening without further adventure. as our hero sat on the outside of the coach and reflected upon his last adventure, the more he felt he had reason to congratulate himself. that furness had deserted from the marine barracks at portsmouth was evident; and if he had not, that he would have recognised joey some time or other was almost certain. now, he felt sure that he was safe at portsmouth, as it would be the last place at which furness would make his appearance; and he also felt that his knife-grinder's wheel, in supplying furness with the ostensible means of livelihood, and thereby preventing his being taken up as a deserter, had proved the best friend to him, and could not have been disposed of better. another piece of good fortune was his having secured his bundle and money; for had he left it with the wheel, it would have, of course, shared its fate. "besides," thought joey, "if i should chance to fall, in with furness again, and he attempts to approach me, i can threaten to have him taken as a deserter, and this may deter him from so doing." it was with a grateful heart that our hero laid his head upon his pillow, in the humble inn at which he had taken up his quarters. chapter thirty seven. in which our hero returns to his former employment, but on a grander scale of operation. our hero had received from mary the name and address of mrs phillips's brother, and, on inquiry, found that he was known by everybody. joey dressed himself in his best suit, and presented himself at the door about ten o'clock in the morning, as joseph o'donahue, the name which he had taken when he went to gravesend, and by which name he had been known to mrs phillips and her daughter emma, when he made occasional visits to their house. he was admitted, and found himself once more in company with his friend emma, who was now fast growing up into womanhood. after the first congratulations and inquiries, he stated his intentions in coming down to portsmouth, and their assistance was immediately promised. they then requested a detail of his adventures since he quitted gravesend, of which joey told everything that he safely could; passing over his meeting with furness, by simply stating that, while he was asleep, his knife-grinder's wheel had been stolen by two men, and that when he awoke he dared not offer an opposition. mrs phillips and her daughter both knew that there was some mystery about our hero, which had induced him to come to, and also to leave gravesend; but, being assured by mary and himself; that he was not to blame, they did not press him to say more than he wished; and, as soon as he finished his history, they proposed introducing him to mr small, the brother of mrs phillips, in whose house they were then residing, and who was then in his office. "but, perhaps, mamma, it will be better to wait till tomorrow, and in the meantime you will be able to tell my uncle all about joey," observed emma. "i think it will be better, my dear," replied mrs phillips; "but there is marianne's tap at the door, for the second time; she wants me downstairs, so i must leave you for a little while; but you need not go away, o'donahue; i will be back soon." mrs phillips left the room, and our hero found himself alone with emma. "you have grown very much, joey," said emma; "and so have i, too, they tell me." "yes, you have indeed," replied joey; "you are no longer the little girl who comforted me when i was so unhappy. do you recollect that day?" "yes, indeed i do, as if it were but yesterday. but you have never told me why you lead so wandering a life; you won't trust me." "i would trust you with anything but that which is not mine to trust, as i told you four years ago; it is not my secret; as soon as i can i will tell you everything; but i hope not to lead a wandering life any longer, for i have come down here to settle, if i can." "what made you think of coming down here?" asked emma. "because you were here; mary told me so. i have not yet thanked you for your present, but i have not forgotten your kindness in thinking of a poor boy like me, when he was far away; here it is," continued joey, taking out the pencil-case, "and i have loved it dearly," added he, kissing it, "ever since i have had it in my possession. i very often have taken it out and thought of you." "now you are so rich a man, you should give me something to keep for your sake," replied emma; "and i will be very careful of it, for old acquaintance' sake." "what can i offer to you? you are a young lady; i would give you all i had in the world, if i dared, but--" "when i first saw you," rejoined emma, "you were dressed as a young gentleman." "yes, i was," replied joey, with a sigh; and as the observation of emma recalled to his mind the kindness of the mcshanes, he passed his hand across his eyes to brush away a tear or two that started. "i did not mean to make you unhappy," said emma, taking our hero's hand. "i am sure you did not," replied joey, smiling. "yes, i was then as you say; but recollect that lately i have been a knife-grinder." "well, you know, your friend said, that it was the nearest thing to a gentleman; and now i hope you will be quite a gentleman again." "not a gentleman, for i must turn to some business or another," replied joey. "i did not mean an idle gentleman; i meant a respectable profession," said emma. "my uncle is a very odd man, but very good-hearted; you must not mind his way towards you. he is very fond of mamma and me, and i have no doubt will interest himself about you, and see that your money is not thrown away. perhaps you would like to set up a bumboat on your own account?" added emma, laughing. "no, i thank you; i had enough of that. poor mrs chopper! what a kind creature she was! i'm sure i ought to be very grateful to her for thinking of me as she did." "i believe," said emma, "that she was a very good woman, and so does mamma. recollect joey, when you speak to my uncle, you must not contradict him." "i am sure i shall not," replied joey; "why should i contradict a person so far my superior in years and everything else?" "certainly not; and as he is fond of argument, you had better give up to him at once; and, indeed," continued emma, laughing, "everybody else does in the end. i hope you will find a nice situation, and that we shall see a great deal of you." "i am sure i do," replied joey, "for i have no friends that i may see, except you. how i wish that you did know everything!" a silence ensued between the young people, which was not interrupted until by the appearance of mrs phillips, who had seen mr small, and had made an engagement for our hero to present himself at nine o'clock on the following morning, after which communication our hero took his leave. he amused himself during the remainder of that day in walking over the town, which at that time presented a most bustling appearance, as an expedition was fitting out; the streets were crowded with officers of the army, navy, and marines, in their uniforms; soldiers and sailors, more or less tipsy; flaunting ribbons and gaudy colours, and every variety of noise was to be heard that could be well imagined, from the quacking of a duck, with its head out of the basket in which it was confined to be taken on board, to the martial music, the rolling of the drums, and the occasional salutes of artillery, to let the world know that some great man had put his foot on board of a ship, or had again deigned to tread upon _terra firma_. all was bustle and excitement, hurrying, jostling, cursing, and swearing; and joey found himself, by the manner in which he was shoved about right and left, to be in the way of everybody. at the time appointed our hero made his appearance at the door, and, having given his name, was asked into the counting-house of the establishment, where sat mr small and his factotum, mr sleek. it may be as well here to describe the persons and peculiarities of these two gentlemen. mr small certainly did not accord with his name, for he was a man full six feet high, and stout in proportion; he was in face extremely plain, with a turned-up nose; but, at the same time, there was a lurking good-humour in his countenance, and a twinkle in his eye, which immediately prepossessed you, and in a few minutes you forgot that he was not well-favoured. mr small was very fond of an argument and a joke, and he had such a forcible way of maintaining his argument when he happened to be near you, that, as emma had told our hero, few people after a time ventured to contradict him. this mode of argument was nothing more than digging the hard knuckles of his large hand into the ribs of his opponent--we should rather say gradually gimleting, as it were, a hole in your side--as he heated in his illustrations. he was the last person in the world in his disposition to inflict pain, even upon an insect--and yet, from this habit, no one perhaps gave more, or appeared to do so with more malice, as his countenance was radiant with good-humour, at the very time when his knuckles were taking away your breath. what made it worse, was, that he had a knack of seizing the coat lappet with the other hand, so that escape was difficult; and when he had exhausted all his reasoning, he would follow it up with a pressure of his knuckles under the fifth rib, saying, "now you feel the force of my argument, don't you?" everybody did, and no one would oppose him unless the table was between them. it was much the same with his jokes: he would utter them, and then with a loud laugh, and the insidious insertion of his knuckles, say, "do you take that, eh?" mr sleek had also his peculiarity, and was not an agreeable person to argue with, for he had learnt to argue from his many years' constant companionship with the head of the firm. mr sleek was a spare man, deeply pock-marked in the face, and with a very large mouth; and, when speaking, he sputtered to such a degree, that a quarter of an hour's conversation with him was as good as a shower-bath. at long range mr sleek could heat his superior out of the field; but if mr small approached once to close quarters, mr sleek gave in immediately. the captains of the navy used to assert that this fibbing enforcement of his _truths_, on the part of small, was quite contrary to all the rules of modern warfare, and never would stand it, unless they required an advance of money; and then, by submitting to a certain quantity of digs in the ribs in proportion to the unreasonableness of their demand, they usually obtained their object; as they said he "knuckled down" in the end. as for mr sleek, although the best man in the world, he was their abhorrence; he was nothing but a watering-pot, and they were not plants which required his aid to add to their vigour. mr sleek, even in the largest company, invariably found himself alone, and could never imagine why. still he was an important personage; and when stock is to be got on board in a hurry, officers in his majesty's service do not care about a little spray. mr small was, as we have observed, a navy agent--that is to say, he was a general provider of the officers and captains of his majesty's service. he obtained their agency on any captures which they might send in, or he cashed their bills, advanced them money, supplied them with their wine, and every variety of stock which might be required; and in consequence was reported to be accumulating a fortune. as is usually the case, he kept open house for the captains who were his clients, and occasionally invited the junior officers to the hospitalities of his table, so that mrs phillips and emma were of great use to him, and had quite sufficient to do in superintending such an establishment. having thus made our readers better acquainted with our new characters, we shall proceed. "well, young man, i've heard all about you from my sister. so you wish to leave off vagabondising, do you?" "yes, sir," replied joey. "how old are you? can you keep books?" "i am seventeen, and have kept books," replied our hero, in innocence; for he considered mrs chopper's day-books to come under that denomination. "and you have some money--how much?" joey replied that he had so much of his own, and that his sister had so much more. "seven hundred pounds; eh, youngster? i began business with 100 pounds less; and here i am. money breeds money; do you understand that?" and here joey received a knuckle in his ribs, which almost took his breath away, but which he bore without flinching, as he presumed it was a mark of good will. "what can we do with this lad, sleek?" said mr small; "and what can we do with his money?" "let him stay in the counting-house here for a week," replied mr sleek, "and we shall see what he can do; and, as for his money, it will be as safe here as in a country bank, until we know how to employ it, and we can allow five per cent for it." all this was said in a shower of spray, which induced joey to wipe his face with his pocket-handkerchief. "yes, i think that will do for the present," rejoined mr small; "but you observe, sleek, that this young lad has very powerful interest, and we shall be expected to do something for him, or we shall have the worst of it. you understand that?" continued he, giving joey a knuckle again. "the ladies! no standing against them!" joey thought there was no standing such digs in the ribs, but he said nothing. "i leave him to you, sleek. i must be off to call upon captain james. see to the lad's food and lodging. there's an order from the gun-room of the _hecate_." so saying, mr small departed. mr sleek asked our hero where he was stopping; recommended him another lodging close to the house, with directions how to proceed, and what arrangements to make; told him to haste as much as he could, and then come back to the counting-house. in a couple of hours our hero was back again. "look on this list; do you understand it?" said mr sleek to joey; "it is sea-stock for the _hecate_ which sails in a day or two. if i send a porter with you to the people we deal with, would you be able to get all these things which are marked with a cross? the wine and the others we have here." joey looked over it, and was quite at home; it was only bumboating on a large scale. "o, yes; and i know the prices of all these things," replied he; "i have been used to the supplying of ships at gravesend." "why then," said mr sleek, "you are the very person i want; for i have no time to attend to out-door work now." the porter was sent for, and our hero soon executed his task, not only with a precision but with a rapidity that was highly satisfactory to mr sleek. as soon as the articles were all collected, joey asked whether he should take them on board--"i understand the work, mr sleek, and not even an egg shall be broke, i promise you." the second part of the commission was executed with the same precision by our hero, who returned with a receipt of every article having been delivered safe and in good condition. mr sleek was delighted with our hero, and told mr small so when they met in the evening. mr sleek's opinion was given in the presence of mrs phillips and emma, who exchanged glances of satisfaction at joey's fortunate _debut_. chapter thirty eight. in which the wheel of fortune turns a spoke or two in favour of our hero. if we were to analyse the feelings of our hero towards emma phillips, we should hardly be warranted in saying that he was in love with her, although at seventeen years young men are very apt to be, or so to fancy themselves. the difference in their positions was so great, that, although our hero would, in his dreams, often fancy himself on most intimate terms with his kind little patroness, in his waking thoughts she was more an object of adoration and respect,--a being to whom he was most ardently and devotedly attached,--one whose friendship and kindness had so wrought upon his best feelings, that he would have thought it no sacrifice to die for her; but the idea of ever being closer allied to her than he now was had not yet entered into his imagination; all he ever thought was that, if ever he united himself to any female for life, the party selected must be like emma phillips; or, if not, he would remain single. all his endeavours were to prove himself worthy of her patronage, and to be rewarded by her smiles of encouragement when they met. she was the lodestar which guided him on to his path of duty, and, stimulated by his wishes to find favour in her sight, joey never relaxed in his exertions; naturally active and methodical, he was indefatigable, and gave the greatest satisfaction to mr sleek, who found more than half the labour taken off his hands; and, further, that if joey once said a thing should be done, it was not only well done, but done to the very time that was stipulated for its completion. joey cared not for meals, or anything of that kind, and often went without his dinner. "sleek," said small, one day, "that poor boy will be starved." "it's not my fault, sir; he won't go to his dinner if there is anything to do; and, as there is always something to do, it's as clear as the day that he can get no dinner. i wish he was living in the house altogether, and came to his meals with us after the work was done; it would be very advantageous, and much time saved." "time is money, sleek. time saved is money saved; and therefore he is worthy of his food. it shall be so. do you see to it." thus, in about two months after his arrival, joey found himself installed in a nice little bedroom, and living at the table of his patron, not only constantly in company with the naval officers, but, what was of more value to him, in the company of mrs phillips and emma. we must pass over more than a year, during which time our hero had become a person of some importance. he was a great favourite with the naval captains, as his punctuality and rapidity corresponded with their ideas of doing business; and it was constantly said to mr sleek or to mr small, "let o'donahue and i settle the matter, and all will go right." mr small had already established him at a salary of 150 pounds per annum, besides his living in the house, and our hero was comfortable and happy. he was well known to all the officers, from his being constantly on board of their ships, and was a great favourite: joey soon discovered that emma had a fancy for natural curiosities; and as he boarded almost every man-of-war which came into the port, he soon filled her room with a variety of shells and of birds, which he procured her. these were presents which he could make, and which she could accept, and not a week passed without our hero adding something to her museum of live and dead objects. indeed, emma was now grown up, and was paid such attention to by the officers who frequented her uncle's house (not only on account of her beauty, but on account of the expectation that her uncle, who was without children, would give her a handsome fortune), that some emotions of jealousy, of which he was hardly conscious, would occasionally give severe pain to our hero. perhaps as his fortunes rose, so did his hopes; certain it is, that sometimes he was very grave. emma was too clear-sighted not to perceive the cause, and hastened, by her little attentions, to remove the feeling: not that she had any definite ideas upon the subject any more than joey; but she could not bear to see him look unhappy. such was the state of things, when one day mr small said to joey, as he was busy copying an order into the books, "o'donahue, i have been laying out some of your money for you." "indeed, sir! i'm very much obliged to you." "yes; there was a large stock of claret sold at auction to-day: it was good, and went cheap. i have purchased to the amount of 600 pounds on your account. you may bottle and bin it here, and sell it as you can. if you don't like the bargain, i'll take it off your hands." "i am very grateful to you, sir," replied joey, who knew the kindness of the act, which in two months more than doubled his capital; and, as he was permitted to continue the business on his own account, he was very soon in a position amounting to independence, the french wine business being ever afterwards considered as exclusively belonging to our hero. one morning, as joey happened to be in the counting-house by himself-which was rather an unusual occurrence,--a midshipman came in. joey remembered him very well, as he had been often there before. "good morning, mr o'donahue," said the midshipman; "is mr small within?" "no, he is not; can i do anything for you?" "yes, if you can tell me how i am to persuade mr small to advance me a little money upon my pay, you can do something for me." "i never heard of such an application before," replied joey, smiling. "no, that i venture you did not, and it requires all the impudence of a midshipman to make such a one; but the fact is, mr o'donahue, i am a mate with 40 pounds a year, and upon that i have continued to assist my poor old mother up to the present. she now requires 10 pounds in consequence of illness, and i have not a farthing. i will repay it if i live, that is certain; but i have little hopes of obtaining it, and nothing but my affection for the old lady would induce me to risk the mortification of a refusal. it's true enough that `he who goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing.'" "i fear it is; but i will so far assist you as to let you know what your only chance is. state your case to mr small as you have to me to-day, and then stand close to him while he answers; if he puts his knuckles into your ribs to enforce his arguments, don't shrink, and then wait the result without interrupting him." "well, i'd do more than that for the old lady," replied the poor midshipman, as mr small made his appearance. the midshipman told his story in very few words, and mr small heard him without interruption. when he had finished, mr small commenced, "you see my man, you ask me to do what no navy-agent ever did before--to lend upon a promise to pay, and that promise to pay from a midshipman. in the first place, i have only the promise without the security; that's one point, do you observe? (a punch with the knuckles.) and then the promise to pay depends whether you are in the country or not. again, if you have the money, you may not have the inclination to pay; that's another point. (then came another sharp impression into the ribs of the middy.) then, again, it is not even personal security, as you may be drowned, shot, blown up, or taken out of the world before any pay is due to you; and by your death you would be unable to pay, if so inclined; there's a third point. (and there was a third dig, which the middy stood boldly up against.) insure your life you cannot, for you have no money; you therefore require me to lend my money upon no security whatever; for even allowing that you would pay if you could, yet your death might prevent it; there's another point, (and the knuckles again penetrated into the midshipman's side who felt the torture increasing as hope was departing.) but," continued mr small, who was evidently much pleased with his own ratiocination, "there is another point not yet touched upon, which is, that as good christians, we must sometimes lend money upon no security, or even give it away, for so are we commanded; and therefore, mr o'donahue, you will tell mr sleek to let him have the money; there's the last and best point of all, eh?" wound up mr small, with a thumping blow upon the ribs of the middy, that almost took away his breath. we give this as a specimen of mr small's style of practical and theoretical logic combined. "the admiral, sir, is coming down the street," said sleek, entering, "and i think he is coming here." mr small, who did not venture to chop logic with admirals, but was excessively polite to such great people, went out to receive the admiral, hat in hand. "now, mr small," said the admiral, "the counting-house for business, if you please. i have very unexpected orders to leave portsmouth. i must save the next tide, if possible. the ships will be ready, for you know what our navy can do when required: but as you know, i have not one atom of stock on board. the flood-tide has made almost an hour, and we must sail at the first of the ebb, as twelve hours' delay may be most serious. now, tell me--here is the list of what is required; boats will be ready and men in plenty to get it on board;--can you get it ready by that time?" "by that time, sir william?" replied small, looking over the tremendous catalogue. "it is now eleven o'clock; can it all be down by four o'clock--that is the latest i can give you?" "impossible, sir william." "it is of the greatest importance that we sail at five o'clock; the fact is, i must and will; but it's hard that i must starve for a whole cruise." "indeed, sir william," said mr small, "if it were possible; but two cows, so many sheep, hay, and everything to be got from the country; we never could manage it. to-morrow morning, perhaps." "well, mr small, i have appointed no prize-agent yet; had you obliged me--" our hero now stepped forward and ran over the list. "can you inform me, sir," said he to the flag-captain, "whether the _zenobia_ or _orestes_ sail with the squadron?" "no, they do not," was the reply. "i beg your pardon, mr small," said joey, "but i do think we can accomplish this with a little arrangement." "indeed!" cried sir william. "yes, sir william; if you would immediately make the signals for two boats to come on shore, with steady crews to assist me, i promise it shall be done." "well said, o'donahue!" cried the captain; "we are all right now, admiral; if he says it shall be done, it will be done." "may i depend upon you, mr o'donahue." "yes, sir william; everything shall be as you wish." "well, mr small, if your young man keeps his word, you shall be my prize-agent. good morning to you." "how could you promise?" cried small, addressing our hero, when the admiral and suite had left the counting-house. "because i can perform, sir," replied joey; "i have the cows and sheep for the _zenobia_ and _orestes_, as well as the fodder, all ready in the town; we can get others for them to-morrow, and i know where to lay my hands on everything else." "well, that's lucky! but there is no time to be lost." our hero, with his usual promptitude and activity, kept his promise; and, as mr small said, it was lucky, for the prize-agency, in a few months afterwards, proved worth to him nearly 5,000 pounds. it is not to be supposed that joey neglected his correspondence either with mary or spikeman, although with the latter it was not so frequent. mary wrote to him every month; she had not many subjects to enter upon, chiefly replying to joey's communications, and congratulating him upon his success. indeed, now that our hero had been nearly four years with mr small, he might be said to be a very rising and independent person. his capital, which had increased very considerably, had been thrown into the business, and he was now a junior partner, instead of a clerk, and had long enjoyed the full confidence both of his superior and of mr sleek, who now entrusted him with almost everything. in short, joey was in the fair way to competence and distinction. chapter thirty nine. chapter of infinite variety, containing agony, law, love, quarrelling, and suicide. it may be a subject of interest on the part of the reader to inquire what were the relative positions of emma phillips and our hero, now that four years had passed, during which time he had been continually in her company, and gradually, as he rose in importance, removing the distance that was between them. we have only to reply that the consequences natural to such a case did ensue. every year their intimacy increased-every year added to the hopes of our hero, who now no longer looked upon an alliance with emma as impossible; yet he still never felt sufficient confidence in himself or his fortunes to intimate such a thought to her; indeed, from a long habit of veneration and respect, he was in the position of a subject before a queen who feels a partiality towards him; he dared not give vent to his thoughts, and it remained for her to have the unfeminine task of intimating to him that he might venture. but, although to outward appearance there was nothing but respect and feelings of gratitude on his part, and condescension and amiability on hers, there was a rapid adhesion going on within. their interviews were more restrained, their words more selected; for both parties felt how strong were the feelings which they would repress; they were both pensive, silent, and distant--would talk unconnectedly, running from one subject to another, attempting to be lively and unconcerned when they were most inclined to be otherwise, and not daring to scrutinise too minutely their own feelings when they found themselves alone; but what they would fain conceal from themselves their very attempts to conceal made known to other people who were standing by. both mrs phillips and mr small perceived how matters stood, and, had they any objections, would have immediately no longer permitted them to be in contact; but they had no objections, for our hero had long won the hearts of both mother and uncle, and they awaited quietly the time which should arrive when the young parties should no longer conceal their feelings for each other. it was when affairs were between our hero and emma phillips as we have just stated, that a circumstance took place which for a time embittered all our hero's happiness. he was walking down high street, when he perceived a file of marines marching towards him, with two men between them, handcuffed, evidently deserters who had been taken up. a feeling of alarm pervaded our hero; he had a presentiment which induced him to go into a perfumer's shop, and to remain there, so as to have a view of the faces of the deserters as they passed along, without their being able to see him. his forebodings were correct: one of them was his old enemy and persecutor, furness, the schoolmaster. had a dagger been plunged into joey's bosom, the sensation could not have been more painful than what he felt when he once more found himself so near to his dreaded denouncer. for a short time he remained so transfixed, that the woman who was attending in the shop asked whether she should bring him a glass of water. this inquiry made him recollect himself, and, complaining of a sudden pain in the side, he sat down, and took the water when it was brought; but he went home in despair, quite forgetting the business which brought him out, and retired to his own room, that he might collect his thoughts. what was he to do? this man had been brought back to the barracks; he would be tried and punished, and afterwards be set at liberty. how was it possible that he could always avoid him, or escape being recognised? and how little chance had he of escape from furness's searching eye! could he bribe him? yes, he could now; he was rich enough; but, if he did, one bribe would only be followed up by a demand for another, and a threat of denouncement if he refused. flight appeared his only chance; but to leave his present position--to leave emma--it was impossible. our hero did not leave his room for the remainder of the day, but retired early to bed, that he might cogitate, for sleep he could not. after a night of misery, the effects of which were too visibly marked in his countenance on the ensuing morning, joey determined to make some inquiries relative to what the fate of furness might be; and, having made up his mind, he accosted a sergeant of marines, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and whom he fell in with in the streets. he observed to him that he perceived they had deserters brought in yesterday, and inquired from what ship they had deserted, or from the barracks. the sergeant replied that they had deserted from the _niobe_ frigate, and had committed theft previous to desertion; that they would remain in confinement at the barracks till the _niobe_ arrived; and that then they would be tried by a court-martial, and, without doubt, for the double offence, would go through the fleet. joey wished the sergeant good morning, and passed on in his way home. his altered appearance had attracted the notice of not only his partners, but of mrs phillips, and had caused much distress to the latter. our hero remained the whole day in the counting-house, apparently unconcerned, but in reality thinking and rethinking, over and over again, his former thoughts. at last he made up his mind that he would wait the issue of the court-martial before he took any decided steps; indeed, what to do he knew not. we leave the reader to guess the state of mind in which joey remained for a fortnight previous to the return of the _niobe_ frigate from a channel cruise. two days after her arrival, the signal was made for a court-martial. the sentence was well known before night; it was, that the culprits were to go through the fleet on the ensuing day. this was, however, no consolation to our hero; he did not feel animosity against furness so much as he did dread of him; he did not want his punishment, but his absence, and security against future annoyance. it was about nine o'clock on the next morning, when the punishment was to take place, that joey came down from his own room. he had been thinking all night, and had decided that he had no other resource but to quit portsmouth, emma, and his fair prospects for ever; he had resolved so to do, to make this sacrifice; it was a bitter conclusion to arrive at, but it had been come to. his haggard countenance when he made his appearance at the breakfast-table, shocked mrs phillips and emma; but they made no remarks. the breakfast was passed over in silence, and soon afterwards our hero found himself alone with emma, who immediately went to him, and, with tears in her eyes, said, "what is the matter with you?--you look so ill, you alarm us all, and you make me quite miserable." "i am afraid, miss phillips--" "miss phillips!" replied emma. "i beg your pardon; but, emma, i am afraid that i must leave you." "leave us!" "yes, leave you and portsmouth for ever, perhaps." "why, what has occurred?" "i cannot, dare not tell. will you so far oblige me to say nothing at present; but you recollect that i was obliged to leave gravesend on a sudden." "i recollect you did, but why i know not; only mary said that it was not your fault." "i trust it was not so; but it was my misfortune. emma, i am almost distracted; i have not slept for weeks; but pray believe me, when i say that i have done no wrong; indeed--" "we are interrupted," said emma, hurriedly; "there is somebody coming upstairs." she had hardly time to remove a few feet from our hero, when captain b---, of the _niobe_, entered the room. "good morning, miss phillips, i hope you are well; i just looked in for a moment before i go to the admiral's office; we have had a catastrophe on board the _niobe_, which i must report immediately." "indeed," replied emma; "nothing very serious, i hope." "why, no, only rid of a blackguard not worth hanging; one of the marines, who was to have gone round the fleet this morning, when he went to the forepart of the ship under the sentry's charge, leaped overboard, and drowned himself." "what was his name, captain b---?" inquired joey, seizing him by the arm. "his name--why, how can that interest you, o'donahue? well, if you wish to know, it was furness." "i am very sorry for him," replied our hero; "i knew him once when he was in better circumstances, that is all;" and joey, no longer daring to trust himself with others, quitted the room, and went to his own apartment. as soon as he was there, he knelt down and returned thanks, not for the death of furness, but for the removal of the load which had so oppressed his mind. in an hour his relief was so great that he felt himself sufficiently composed to go downstairs; he went into the drawing-room to find emma, but she was not there. he longed to have some explanation with her, but it was not until the next day that he had an opportunity. "i hardly know what to say to you," said our hero, "or how to explain my conduct of yesterday." "it certainly appeared very strange, especially to captain b---, who told me that he thought you were mad." "i care little what he thinks, but i care much what you think, emma; and i must now tell you what, perhaps, this man's death may permit me to do. that he has been most strangely connected with my life is most true; he it was who knew me, and who would, if he could, have put me in a situation in which i must either have suffered myself to be thought guilty of a crime which i am incapable of; or, let it suffice to say, have done, to exculpate myself, what, i trust, i never would have done, or ever will do. i can say no more than that, without betraying a secret which i am bound to keep, and the keeping of which may still prove my own destruction. when you first saw me on the wayside, emma, it was this man who forced me from a happy home to wander about the world; it was the reappearance of this man, and his recognition of me that induced me to quit gravesend so suddenly. i again met him, and avoided him when he was deserting; and i trusted that, as he had deserted, i could be certain of living safely in this town without meeting with him. it was his reappearance here, as a deserter taken up, which put me in that state of agony which you have seen me in for these last three weeks; and it was the knowledge that, after his punishment, he would be again free, and likely to meet with me when walking about here, which resolved me to quit portsmouth, as i said to you yesterday morning. can you, therefore, be surprised at my emotion when i heard that he was removed, and that there was now no necessity for my quitting my kind patrons and you?" "certainly, after this explanation, i cannot be surprised at your emotion; but what does surprise me, mr o'donahue, is that you should have a secret of such importance that it cannot be revealed, and which has made you tremble at the recognition of that man, when at the same time you declare your innocence. did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?" "your addressing me as mr o'donahue, miss phillips, has pointed out to me the impropriety i have been guilty of in making use of your christian name. i thought that that confidence which you placed in me when, as a mere boy, i told you exactly what i now repeat, that the secret was not my own, would not have been now so cruelly withdrawn. i have never varied in my tale, and i can honestly say that i have never felt degraded when i have admitted that i have a mystery connected with me; nay, if it should please heaven that i have the option given me to suffer in my own person, or reveal the secret in question, i trust that i shall submit to my fate with constancy, and be supported in my misfortune by the conviction of my innocence. i feel that i was not wrong in the communication that i made to you yesterday morning that i must leave this place. i came here because you were living here--you to whom i felt so devoted for your kindness and sympathy when i was poor and friendless; now that i am otherwise, you are pleased to withdraw not only your good will, but your confidence in me; and as the spell is broken which has drawn me to this spot, i repeat, that as soon as i can, with justice to my patrons, i shall withdraw myself from your presence." our hero's voice faltered before he had finished speaking; and then turning away slowly, without looking up, he quitted the room. chapter forty. in which our hero tries change of air. the reader will observe that there has been a little altercation at the end of the last chapter. emma phillips was guilty of letting drop a received truism, or rather a metaphor, which offended our hero. "did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?" if emma had put that question to us, we, from our knowledge of the world, should have replied, "yes, very often, my dear miss phillips." but emma was wrong, not only in her metaphor, but in the time of her making it. why did she do so? ah! that is a puzzling question to answer; we can only say, at our imminent risk, when this narrative shall be perused by the other sex, that we have made the discovery that women are not perfect; that the very best of the sex are full of contradiction, and that emma was a woman. that women very often are more endowed than the generality of men we are ready to admit; and their cause has been taken up by lady morgan, mrs jamieson, and many others who can write much better than we can. when we say their cause, we mean the right of equality they would claim with our sex and not subjection to it. reading my lady morgan the other day, which, next to conversing with her, is one of the greatest treats we know of we began to speculate upon what were the causes which had subjected woman to man; in other words, how was it that man had got the upper hand, and kept it? that women's minds were not inferior to men's we were forced to admit; that their aptitude for cultivation is often greater, was not to be denied. as to the assertion that man makes laws, or that his frame is of more robust material, it is no argument, as a revolt on the part of the other sex would soon do away with such advantage; and men, brought up as nursery-maids, would soon succumb to women who were accustomed to athletic sports from their youth upwards. after a great deal of cogitation we came to the conclusion, that there is a great difference between the action in the minds of men and women; the machinery of the latter being more complex than that of our own sex. a man's mind is his despot: it works but by one single action; it has one ruling principle--one propelling power to which all is subservient. this power or passion (disguised and dormant as it may be in feeble minds) is the only one which propels him on; this _primum mobile_, as it may be termed, is ambition, or, in other words, self-love; everything is sacrificed to it. now, as in proportion as a machine is simple so is it strong in its action--so in proportion that a machine is complex, it becomes weak; and if we analyse a woman's mind, we shall find that her inferiority arises from the simple fact, that there are so many wheels within wheels working in it, so many compensating balances (if we may use the term, and we use it to her honour), that although usually more right-minded than man, her strength of action is lost, and has become feeble by the time that her decision has been made. what will a man allow to stand in the way of his ambition--love? no--friendship? no--he will sacrifice the best qualities, and, which is more difficult, make the worst that are in his disposition subservient to it. he moves only one great principle, one propelling power--and the action being single, it is strong in proportion. but will a woman's mind decide in this way? will she sacrifice to ambition, love, or friendship, or natural ties? no; in her mind the claims of each are, generally speaking, fairly balanced--and the quotient, after the calculation has been worked out, although correct, is small. our argument, after all, only goes to prove that women, abstractedly taken, have more principle, more conscience, and better regulated minds than men--which is true if--if they could always go correct as timekeepers; but the more complex the machine, the more difficult it is to keep it in order, the more likely it is to be out of repair, and its movements to be disarranged by a trifling shock, which would have no effect upon one of such simple and powerful construction as that in our own sex. not only do they often go wrong, but sometimes the serious shocks which they are liable to in this world will put them in a state which is past all repair. we have no doubt that by this time the reader will say, "never mind women's minds, but mind your own business." we left emma in the drawing-room, rather astonished at our hero's long speech, and still more by his (for the first time during their acquaintance) venturing to breathe a contrary opinion to her own sweet self. emma phillips, although she pouted a little, and the colour had mounted to her temples, nevertheless looked very lovely as she pensively reclined on the sofa. rebuked by him who had always been so attentive, so submissive--her creature as it were--she was mortified, as every pretty woman is, at any loss of power--any symptoms of rebellion on the part of a liege vassal; and then she taxed herself; had she done wrong? she had said, "innocence and mystery did not walk hand in hand." was not that true? she felt that it was true, and her own opinion was corroborated by others, for she had read it in some book, either in burke, or rochefoucault, or some great author. miss phillips bit the tip of her nail and thought again. yes, she saw how it was; our hero had risen in the world, was independent, and was well received in society; he was no longer the little joey of gravesend; he was now a person of some consequence, and he was a very ungrateful fellow; but the world was full of ingratitude; still she did think better of our hero; she certainly did. well; at all events she could prove to him that-what?--she did not exactly know. thus ended cogitation the second, after which came another series. what had our hero said--what had he accused her of? that she no longer bestowed on him her confidence placed in him for many years. this was true; but were not the relative positions, was not the case different? should he now retain any secret from her?--there should be no secrets between them. there again there was a full stop before the sentence was complete. after a little more reflection, her own generous mind pointed out to her that she had been in the wrong; and that our hero had cause to be offended with her; and she made up her mind to make reparation the first time that they should be alone. having come to this resolution, she dismissed the previous question, and began to think about the secret itself, and what it possibly could be, and how she wished she knew what it was; all of which was very natural. in the meantime our hero had made up his mind to leave portsmouth, for a time at all events. this quarrel with emma, if such it might be considered, had made him very miserable, and the anxiety he had lately suffered had seriously affected his health. we believe that there never was anybody in this world who had grown to man's or woman's estate and had mixed with the world, who could afterwards say that they were at any time perfectly happy; or who, having said so, did not find that the reverse was the case a moment or two after the words were out of their mouth. "there is always something," as a good lady said to us; and so there always is, and always will be. the removal of furness was naturally a great relief to the mind of our hero; he then felt as if all his difficulties were surmounted, and that he had no longer any fear of the consequences which might ensue from his father's crime. he would now, he thought, be able to walk boldly through the world without recognition, and he had built castles enough to form a metropolis when his rupture with emma broke the magic mirror through which he had scanned futurity. when most buoyant with hope, he found the truth of the good lady's saying--"there is always something." after remaining in his room for an hour, joey went down to the counting-house, where he found mr small and mr sleek both at work, for their labours had increased since joey had so much neglected business. "well, my good friend, how do you find yourself?" said mr small. "very far from well, sir. i feel that i cannot attend to business," replied joey, "and i am quite ashamed of myself; i was thinking that, if you had no objection to allow me a couple of months' leave of absence, change of air would be very serviceable to me. i have something to do at dudstone, which i have put off ever since i came to portsmouth." "i think change of air would be very serviceable to you, my dear fellow," replied mr small; "but what business you can have at dudstone i cannot imagine." "simply this--i locked up my apartments, leaving my furniture, books, and linen, when i went away, more than four years ago, and have never found time to look after them." "well, they must want dusting by this time, o'donahue, so look after them if you please; but i think looking after your health is of more consequence, so you have my full consent to take a holiday, and remain away three months, if necessary, till you are perfectly re-established." "and you have mine," added mr sleek, "and i will do your work while you are away." our hero thanked his senior partners for their kind compliance with his wishes, and stated his intention of starting the next morning by the early coach, and then left the counting-house to make preparations for his journey. joey joined the party, which was numerous, at dinner. it was not until they were in the drawing-room after dinner, that mr small had an opportunity of communicating to mrs phillips what were our hero's intentions. mrs phillips considered it a very advisable measure, as joey had evidently suffered very much lately: probably over-exertion might have been the cause, and relaxation would effect the cure. emma, who was sitting by her mother, turned pale; she had not imagined that our hero would have followed up his expressed intentions of the morning, and she asked mr small if he knew when o'donahue would leave portsmouth. the reply was, that he had taken his place on the early coach of the next morning: and emma fell back on the sofa, and did not say anything more. when the company had all left, mrs phillips rose and lighted a chamber candlestick to go to bed, and emma followed the motions of her mother. mrs phillips shook hands with our hero, wishing him a great deal of pleasure, and that he would return quite restored in health. emma, who found that all chance of an interview with our hero was gone, mustered up courage enough to extend her hand and say,--"i hope your absence will be productive of health and happiness to you, mr o'donahue," and then followed her mother. joey, who, was in no humour for conversation, then bade farewell to mr small and mr sleek, and, before emma had risen from not a very refreshing night's rest, he was two stages on his way from portsmouth. chapter forty one. in which our hero has his head turned the wrong way. although it may be very proper, when an offence has been offered us, to show that we feel the injury, it often happens that we act too much upon impulse and carry measures to extremities; and this our hero felt as the coach wheeled him along, every second increasing his distance from emma phillips; twenty times he was inclined to take a postchaise and return, but the inconsistency would have been so glaring, that shame prevented him; so he went on until he reached the metropolis, and on arriving there, having nothing better to do, he went to bed. the next day he booked himself for the following day's coach to manstone, and having so done, he thought he would reconnoitre the domicile of major and mrs mcshane, and, now that furness was no longer to be dreaded, make his existence known to them. he went to holborn accordingly, and found the shop in the same place, with the usual enticing odour sent forth from the grating which gave light and air to the kitchen; but he perceived that there was no longer the name of mcshane on the private door, and entering the coffee-room, and looking towards the spot where mrs mcshane usually stood carving the joint, he discovered a person similarly employed whose face was unknown to him; in fact, it could not be mrs mcshane, as it was a man. our hero went up to him, and inquired if the mcshanes still carried on the business, and was told that they had sold it some time back. his next inquiry, as to what had become of them, produced an "i don't know," with some symptoms of impatience at being interrupted. under such circumstances, our hero had nothing more to do but either to sit down and eat beef or to quit the premises. he preferred the latter, and was once more at the hotel, where he dedicated the remainder of the day to thinking of his old friends, as fate had debarred him from seeing them. the next morning joey set off by the coach, and arrived at manstone a little before dusk. he remained at the principal inn of the village, called the austin arms, in honour of the property in the immediate vicinity; and, having looked at the various quarterings of arms that the signboard contained, without the slightest idea that they appertained to himself, he ordered supper, and looking out of the window of the first floor, discovered, at no great distance down the one street which composed the village, the small ale-house where he had before met mary. our hero no longer felt the pride of poverty; he had resented the treatment he had received at the hall when friendless, but, now that he was otherwise, he had overcome the feeling, and had resolved to go up to the hall on the following day, and ask for mary. he was now well dressed and with all the appearance and manners of a gentleman: and, moreover, he had been so accustomed to respect from servants, that he had no idea of being treated otherwise. the next morning, therefore, he walked up to the hall, and, knocking at the door, as soon as it was opened, he told the well-powdered domestics that he wished to speak a few words to miss atherton, if she still lived with mrs austin. his appearance was considered by these gentlemen in waiting as sufficient to induce them to show him into a parlour, and to send for mary, who in a few minutes came down to him, and embraced him tenderly. "i should hardly have known you, my dear boy," said she, as the tears glistened in her eyes; "you have grown quite a man. i cannot imagine, as you now stand before me, that you could have been the little joey that was living at mrs chopper's." "we are indebted to that good woman for our prosperity," replied joey. "do you know, mary, that your money has multiplied so fast that i almost wish that you would take it away, lest by some accident it should be lost? i have brought you an account." "let me have an account of yourself, my dear brother," replied mary; "i have no want of money; i am here well and happy." "so you must have been, for you look as young and handsome as when i last saw you, mary. how is your mistress?" "she is well, and would, i think, be happy, if it were not for the strange disease of mr austin, who secludes himself entirely, and will not even go outside of the park gates. he has become more overbearing and haughty than ever, and several of the servants have quitted within the last few months." "i have no wish to meet him, dear mary, after what passed when i was here before? i will not put up with insolence from any man, even in his own house," replied our hero. "do not speak so loud, his study is next to us, and that door leads to it," replied mary; "he would not say anything to you, but he would find fault with me." "then you had better come to see me at the austin arms, where i am stopping." "i will come this evening," replied mary. at this moment the door which led to the study was opened, and a voice was heard-"mary, i wish you would take your sweethearts to a more convenient distance." joey heard the harsh, hollow voice, but recognised it not; he would not turn round to look at mr austin, but remained with his back to him, and the door closed again with a bang. "well," observed joey, "that is a pretty fair specimen of what he is, at all events. why did you not say i was your brother?" "because it was better to say nothing," replied mary; "he will not come in again." "well, i shall leave you now," said joey, "and wait till the evening; you will be certain to come?" "o yes, i certainly shall," replied mary. "hush! i hear my mistress with mr austin. i wish you could see her, you would like her very much." the outer door of the study was closed to, and then the door of the room in which they were conversing was opened, but it was shut again immediately. "who was that?" said our hero, who had not turned round to ascertain. "mrs austin; she just looked in, and seeing i was engaged, she only nodded to me to say that she wanted me, i presume, and then went away again," replied mary. "you had better go now, and i will be sure to come in the evening." our hero quitted the hall; he had evidently been in the presence of his father and mother without knowing it, and all because he happened on both occasions to have his face turned in a wrong direction, and he left the house as unconscious as he went in. as soon as our hero had left the hall, mary repaired to her mistress. "do you want me, madam?" said mary, as she went to her mistress. "no, mary, not particular, but mr austin sent for me; he was annoyed at your having a strange person in the house, and desired me to send him away." "it was my brother, madam," replied mary. "your brother! i am very sorry, mary, but you know how nervous mr austin is, and there is no reasoning against nerves. i should have liked to have seen your brother very much; if i recollect rightly, you told me he was doing well at portsmouth, is he not?" "yes, madam; he is now a partner in one of the first houses there." "why, mary, he will soon have you to keep his own house, i presume, and i shall lose you; indeed, your are more fit for such a situation than your present one, so i must not regret it if you do." "he has no idea of taking a house, madam," replied mary, "nor have i any of quitting you; your place is quite good enough for me. i promised to go down and meet him this evening, with your permission, at the austin arms." "certainly," replied mrs austin; and then the conversation dropped. our hero remained at the inn two days, a portion of which mary passed with him, and then he set off for dudstone; he did not make mary a confident of his attachment to emma phillips, although he imparted to her the death of furness, and the relief it had afforded him, promising to return to see her before he went back to portsmouth. joey once more set off on his travels, and without incident arrived at the good old town of dudstone, where he put up at the commercial hotel; his only object was, to ascertain the condition of his lodgings: for the first two years he had sent the rent of the room to the old woman to whom the house belonged, but latterly no application had been made for it, although his address had been given; and, occupied by other business more important, our hero had quite forgotten the affair, or if he did occasionally recall it to his memory, it was soon dismissed again. his key he had brought with him, and he now proceeded to the house and knocked at the door, surmising that the old woman was possibly dead, and his property probably disposed of; the first part of the surmise was disproved by the old woman coming to the door; she did not recognise our hero, and it was not until he produced the key of his room that she was convinced that he was the lawful owner of its contents. she told him she could not write herself, and that the party who had written to portsmouth for her was dead, and that she felt sure he would come back at some time and settle with her; and, moreover, she was afraid that the furniture would be much injured by having been shut up so long, which was not only very likely, but proved to be the case when the door was opened; she also said that she could have made money for him, had he allowed her to let the lodgings furnished, as she had had several applications. our hero walked into his apartment, which certainly had a very mothy and mouldy appearance. as soon as a fire had been lighted, he collected all that he wanted to retain for himself, the books, plate, and some other articles, which he valued for spikeman's sake, and as old reminiscences, and putting them up in a chest, requested that it might be sent to the inn; and then, upon reflection, he thought he could do no better with the remainder than to make them a present to the old woman, which he did, after paying up her arrears of rent, and by so doing made one person, for the time, superlatively happy, which is something worth doing in this chequered world of ours. joey, as soon as he had returned to the inn, sat down to write to spikeman, and also to mr small, at portsmouth, and having posted his letters, as he did not quit dudstone until the next morning, he resolved to pay a visit to his former acquaintances, miss amelia and miss ophelia. his knock at the door was answered by miss amelia, as usual, but with only one arm unoccupied, a baby being in the other, and the squalling in the little parlour gave further evidence of matrimony. our hero was obliged to introduce himself, as he was stared at as an utter stranger; he was then immediately welcomed, and requested to walk into the parlour. in a few minutes the whole of the family history was communicated. the old lady had been dead three years, and at her death the young ladies found themselves in possession of one thousand pounds each. this thousand pounds proved to them that husbands were to be had, even at dudstone and its vicinity. miss amelia had been married more than two years to a master builder, who had plenty of occupation, not so much in building new houses at dudstone as in repairing the old ones, and they were doing well, and had two children. her sister had married a young farmer, and she could see her money every day in the shape of bullocks and sheep upon the farm; they also were doing well. joey remained an hour: mrs potts was very anxious that he should remain longer, and give her his opinion of her husband; but this, joey declined, and, desiring to be kindly remembered to her sister, took his leave, and the next morning was on his way to london. chapter forty two. very pleasant correspondence. as soon as joey arrived at the metropolis, he went to the correspondent of the house at portsmouth to inquire for letters. he found one of the greatest interest from mr small, who, after some preliminaries relative to the business and certain commissions for him to transact in town, proceeded as follows:- "your health has been a source of great anxiety to us all, not only in the counting-house, but in the drawing-room; the cause of your illness was ascribed to over-exertion in your duties, and it must be admitted, that until you were ill there was no relaxation on your part; but we have reason to suppose that there have been other causes which may have occasioned your rapid change from activity and cheerfulness to such a total prostration of body and mind. you may feel grieved when i tell you that emma has been very unwell since you left, and the cause of her illness is beyond the skill of mr taylor, our medical man. she has, however, confided so much to her mother as to let us know that you are the party who has been the chief occasion of it. she has acknowledged that she has not behaved well to you, and has not done you justice; and i really believe that it is this conviction which is the chief ground of her altered state of health. i certainly have been too much in the counting-house to know what has been going on in the parlour, but i think that you ought to know us better than to suppose that we should not in every point be most anxious for your happiness, and your being constantly with us. that emma blames herself is certain; that she is very amiable, is equally so; your return would give us the greatest satisfaction. i hardly need say i love my niece, and am anxious for her happiness; i love you, my dear friend, and am equally anxious for yours; and i do trust that any trifling disagreement between you (for surely you must be on intimate terms to quarrel, and for her to feel the quarrel so severely) will be speedily overcome. from what her mother says, i think that her affections are seriously engaged (i treat you with the confidence i am sure you deserve), and i am sure that there is no one upon whom i would so willingly bestow my niece; or as i find by questioning, no one to whom mrs phillips would so willingly entrust her daughter. if; then, i am right in my supposition, you will be received with open arms by all, not even excepting emma--she has no coquetry in her composition. like all the rest of us, she has her faults; but if she has her faults, she is not too proud to acknowledge them, and that you will allow when you read the enclosed, which she has requested me to send to you, and at the same time desired me to read it first. i trust this communication will accelerate your recovery, and that we shall soon see you again. at all events, answer my letter, and if i am in error, let me know, that i may undeceive others." the enclosure from emma was then opened by our hero; it was in few words:- "my dear friend,--on reflection, i consider that i have treated you unjustly; i intended to tell you so, if i had had an opportunity, before you quitted us so hastily. my fault has preyed upon my mind ever since, and i cannot lose this first opportunity of requesting your forgiveness, and hoping that when we meet we shall be on the same friendly terms that we always had been previous to my unfortunate ebullition of temper.--yours truly, emma." that this letter was a source of unqualified delight to our hero, may be easily imagined. he was at once told by the uncle, and certainly emma did not leave him to suppose the contrary, that he might aspire and obtain her hand. our hero could not reply to it by return of post. if distress had occasioned his illness, joy now prostrated him still more; and he was compelled to return to his bed; but he was happy, almost too happy, and he slept at last, and he dreamt such visions as only can be conjured up by those who have in anticipation every wish of their heart gratified. the next day he replied to mr small's, acknowledging, with frankness, his feelings towards his niece, which a sense of his own humble origin and unworthiness had prevented him from venturing to disclose, and requesting him to use his influence in his favour, as he dared not speak himself; until he had received such assurance of his unmerited good fortune as might encourage him so to do. to emma, his reply was in a few words; he thanked her for her continued good opinion of him, the idea of having lost which had made him very miserable, assuring her that he was ashamed of the petulance which he had shown, and that it was for him to have asked pardon, and not one who had behaved so kindly, and protected him for so long a period; that he felt much better already, and hoped to be able to shorten the time of absence which had been demanded by him and kindly granted by his patrons. having concluded and despatched these epistles, our hero determined that he would take a stroll about the metropolis. chapter forty three. a very long chapter, with a very long story, which could not well be cut in half. a man may walk a long while in the city of london without having any definite object, and yet be amused, for there are few occupations more pleasant, more instructive, or more contemplative, than looking into the shop windows; you pay a shilling to see an exhibition, whereas in this instance you have the advantage of seeing many without paying a farthing, provided that you look after your pocket-handkerchief. thus was our hero amused: at one shop he discovered that very gay shawls were to be purchased for one pound, bandanas at 3 shillings 9 pence, and soiled irish linen remarkably cheap; at another he saw a row of watches, from humble silver at 2 pounds 10 shillings, to gold and enamelled at twelve or fourteen guineas, all warranted to go well; at another he discovered that furs were at half price, because nobody wore them in the summer. he proceeded further, and came to where there was a quantity of oil-paintings exposed for sale, pointing out to the passer-by that pictures of that description were those which he ought not to buy. a print-shop gave him an idea of the merits of composition and design shown by the various masters; and as he could not transport himself to the vatican, it was quite as well to see what the vatican contained; his thoughts were on rome and her former glories. a tobacconist's transported him to the state of virginia, where many had been transported in former days. a grocer's wafted him still farther to the west indies and the negroes, and from these, as if by magic, to the spice islands and their aromatic groves. but an old curiosity-shop, with bronzes, china, marqueterie, point-lace, and armour, embraced at once a few centuries; and he thought of the feudal times, the fifteenth century, the belle of former days, the amber-headed cane and snuff box of the beaux who sought her smiles, all gone, all dust; the workmanship of the time, even portions of their dresses, still existing--everything less perishable than man. our hero proceeded on, his thoughts wandering as he wandered himself, when his attention was attracted by one of those placards, the breed of which appears to have been very much improved of late, as they get larger and larger every day; what they will end in there is no saying, unless it be in placards without end. this placard intimated that there was a masquerade at vauxhall on that evening, besides tire-works, water-works, and anything but good works. our hero had heard of vauxhall, and his curiosity was excited, and he resolved that he would pass away the evening in what was at that time a rather fashionable resort. it was half past six, and time to go, so he directed his steps over westminster-bridge, and, having only lost three minutes in peeping through the balustrades at the barges and wherries proceeding up and down the river, after asking his way three times, he found himself at the entrance, and, paying his admission, walked in. there was a goodly sprinkling of company, but not many masks; there was a man clad in brass armour, who stood quite motionless, for the armour was so heavy that he could hardly bear the weight of it. he must have suffered a very great inconvenience on such a warm night, but people stared at him as they passed by, and he was more than repaid by the attention which he attracted; so he stood and suffered on. there were about twenty-five clowns in their motley dresses, seven or eight pantaloons, three devils, and perhaps forty or fifty dominoes. joey soon found himself close to the orchestra, which was a blaze of light, and he listened very attentively to a lady in ostrich feathers, who was pouring out a bravura, which was quite unintelligible to the audience, while the gentlemen behind her, in their cocked hats, accompanied her voice. he was leaning against one of the trees, and receiving, without knowing it, the drippings of a leaky lamp upon his coat, when two men came up and stopped on the other side of the trunk of the tree, and one said to the other--"i tell you, joseph, she is here, and with the christian. manasseh traced her by the driver of the coach. she will never return to her father's house if we do not discover her this night." "what! will she become a _meshumed_--an apostate!" exclaimed the other; "i would see her in her grave first. holy father! the daughter of a rabbi to bring such disgrace upon her family! truly our sins, and the sins of our forefathers, have brought this evil upon our house. if i meet him here i will stab him to the heart!" "_leemaan hashem_! for the sake of the holy name, my son, think of what you say; you must not be so rash. alas! alas! but we are mixed with the heathens. she must be concealed in one of the moabitish garments," continued the elder of the two personages, whom our hero had of course ascertained to be of the house of israel. "manasseh tells me that he has discovered from another quarter, that the christian had procured a domino, black, with the sleeves slashed with white. that will be a distinguishing mark; and if we see that dress we must then follow, and if a female is with it, it must be thy sister miriam." "i will search now, and meet you here in half an hour," replied the younger of the two. "joseph, my son, we do not part; i cannot trust you in your anger, and you have weapons with you, i know; we must go together. rooch hakodesh! may the holy spirit guide us, and the daughter of our house be restored, for she is now my heart's bitterness, and my soul's sorrow!" "let me but discover the _gaw_--the infidel!" replied the son, following the father; and our hero observed him put his hand into his breast and half unsheath a poniard. joey easily comprehended how the matter stood: a jewish maiden had met by assignation or had been run away with by some young man, and the father and son were in pursuit to recover the daughter. "that is all very well," thought our hero; "but although they may very properly wish to prevent the marriage, i do not much like the cold steel which the young israelite had in his hand. if i do meet with the party, at all events i will give him warning;" and joey, having made this resolution, turned away from the orchestra and went down the covered way, which led to what are usually termed the dark walks he had just arrived at the commencement of them, when he perceived coming towards him two dominoes, the shorter hanging on the arm of the taller so as to assure him that they were male and female. when they came to within ten yards of the lighted walk, they turned abruptly, and then joey perceived that the taller had white slashed sleeves to his domino. "there they are," thought our hero; "well, it's not safe for them to walk here, for a murder might be committed without much chance of the party being found out. i will give them a hint, at all events;" and joey followed the couple so as to overtake them by degrees. as he walked softly, and they were in earnest conversation, his approach was not heeded until within a few feet of them, when the taller domino turned impatiently round, as if to inquire what the intruder meant. "you are watched, and in danger, sir, if you are the party i think you are," said joey, going up to him, and speaking in a low voice. "who are you," replied the domino, "that gives this notice?" "a perfect stranger to you, even if your mask was removed, sir; but i happened to overhear a conversation relative to a person in a domino such as you wear. i may be mistaken, and if so, there is no harm done;" and our hero turned away. "stop him, dear henry," said a soft female voice. "i fear that there is danger: he can have told you but from kindness." the person in the domino immediately followed joey, and accosted him, apologising for his apparent rudeness at receiving his communication, which he ascribed to the suddenness with which it was given, and requested, as a favour, that our hero would inform him why he had thought it necessary. "i will tell you, certainly; not that i interfere with other people's concerns; but when i saw that one of them had a poniard--" "a poniard!" exclaimed the female, who had now joined them. "yes," replied joey; "and appeared determined to use it. in one word, madam, is your name, miriam? if so, what i heard concerns you; if not, it does not, and i need say no more." "sir, it does concern her," replied the domino; "and i will thank you to proceed." our hero then stated briefly what he had overheard, and that the parties were then in pursuit of them. "we are lost!" exclaimed the young woman. "we shall never escape from the gardens! what must we do? my brother in his wrath is as a lion's whelp." "i care little for myself," replied the domino. "i could defend myself; but, if we meet, i shall lose you. your father would tear you away while i was engaged with your brother." "at all events, sir, i should recommend your not remaining in these dark walks," replied our hero, "now that you are aware of what may take place." "and yet, if we go into the lighted part of the gardens, they will soon discover us, now that they have, as it appears, gained a knowledge of my dress." "then put it off," said joey. "but they know my person even better," rejoined the domino. "your conduct, sir, has been so kind, that perhaps you would be inclined to assist us?" our hero was in love himself, and, of course, felt sympathy for others in the same predicament; so he replied that, if he could be of service, they might command him. "then, miriam, dear, what i propose is this; will you put yourself under the protection of this stranger? i think you risk nothing, for he has proved that he is kind. you may then, without fear of detection, pass through the gardens, and be conducted by him to a place of safety. i will remain here for half an hour; should your father and brother meet me, although they may recognise my dress, yet not having you with me, there will be no grounds for any attack being made, and i will, after a time, return home." "and what is to become of me?" exclaimed the terrified girl. "you must send this gentleman to my address to-morrow morning, and he will acquaint me where you are. i am giving you a great deal of trouble, sir; but at the same time i show my confidence; i trust it will not interfere with your other engagements." "your confidence is, i trust, not misplaced, sir," replied our hero; "and i am just now an idle man. i promise you, if this young lady will venture to trust herself with a perfect stranger, that i will do your request. i have no mask on, madam; do you think you can trust me?" "i think i can, sir; indeed, i must do so, or there will be shedding of blood; but henry, they are coming; i know them; see--right up the walk." joey turned round, and perceived the two persons whose conversation he had overheard. "it is they, sir," said he to the gentleman in the domino; "leave us and walk back farther into the dark part. i must take her away on my arm and pass them boldly. come, sir, quick!" our hero immediately took the young jewess on his arm and walked towards the father and brother. he felt her trembling like an aspen as they came close to them, and was fearful that her legs would fail her. as they passed, the face of our hero was severely scrutinised by the dark eyes of the israelites. joey returned their stare, and proceeded on his way; and after they had separated some paces from the father and brother, he whispered to the maiden, "you are safe now." joey conducted his charge through the gardens, and when he arrived at the entrance, he called a coach, and put the lady in. "where shall we drive to?" inquired our hero. "i don't know; say anywhere, so that we are away from this!" joey ordered the man to drive to the hotel where he had taken up his abode, for he knew not where else to go. on his arrival he left the young lady in the coach, while he went in to prepare the landlady for her appearance. he stated that he had rescued her from a very perilous situation, and that he would feel much obliged to his hostess if she would take charge of the young person until she could be restored to her friends on the ensuing morning. people like to be consulted, and to appear of importance. the fat old lady, who had bridled up at the very mention of the introduction of a lady in a domino, as soon as she heard that the party was to be placed under her protection, relaxed her compressed features, and graciously consented. our hero having consigned over his charge, whose face he had not yet seen, immediately retired to his own apartment. the next morning, about nine o'clock, he sent to inquire after the health of his protegee and was answered by a request that he would pay her a visit. when he entered the room he found her alone. she was dressed somewhat in the oriental style, and he was not a little surprised at her extreme beauty. her stature was rather above the middle size: she was exquisitely formed; and her hands, ankles, and feet, were models of perfection. she was indeed one of the most exquisite specimens of the jewish nation, and that is quite sufficient for her portrait. she rose as he entered, and coloured deeply as she saluted him. our hero, who perceived her confusion, hastened to assure her that he was ready to obey any order she might be pleased to give him, and trusted that she had not been too much annoyed with her very unpleasant position. "i am more obliged to you, sir, than i can well express," replied she, "by your kind consideration in putting me into the charge of the landlady of the house: that one act assured me that i was in the hands of a gentleman and man of honour. all i have to request of you now is, that you will call at number --berkeley square, and inform mr s--of what you have kindly done for me. you will probably hear from him the cause of the strange position in which you found us and relieved us from." as our hero had nothing to reply, he wrote down the address and took his leave, immediately proceeding to the house of mr s---; but, as he was walking up berkeley street, he was encountered by two men, whom he immediately recognised as the father and brother of the young israelite. the brother fixed his keen eye upon our hero, and appeared to recognise him; at all events, as our hero passed them they turned round and followed him, and he heard the brother say, "he was with her," or something to that purport. our hero did not, however, consider that it was advisable to wait until they were away before he knocked at the door, as he felt convinced they were on the watch, and that any delay would not obtain the end. he knocked, and was immediately admitted. he found mr s--pacing the room up and down in great anxiety, the breakfast remaining on the table untouched. he warmly greeted the arrival of our hero. joey, as soon as he had informed him of what he had done, and in whose hands he had placed the young lady, stated the circumstance of the father and brother being outside on the watch, and that he thought that they had recognised him. "that is nothing more than what i expected," replied mr s---; "but i trust easily to evade them; they are not aware that the back of this house communicates with the stables belonging to it in the mews, and we can go out by that way without their perceiving us. i've so many thanks to offer you, sir, for your kind interference in our behalf, that i hardly know how to express them. to one thing you are most certainly entitled, and i should prove but little my sincerity if i did not immediately give it you; that is my confidence, and a knowledge of the parties whom you have assisted, and the circumstances attending this strange affair. the young lady, sir, is, as you know, a jewess by birth, and the daughter of a rabbi, a man of great wealth and high ancestry, for certainly jews can claim the latter higher than any other nation upon earth. i am myself a man of fortune, as it is usually termed,--at all events, with sufficient to indulge any woman i should take as my wife with every luxury that can be reasonably demanded. i mention this to corroborate my assertion, that it was not her father's wealth which has been my inducement. i made the acquaintance of the father and daughter when i was travelling on the continent; he was on his way to england, when his carriage broke down, in a difficult pass on the mountains, and they would have been left on the road for the night, if i had not fortunately come up in time, and, being alone, was able to convey them to the next town. i have always had a great respect for the jewish nation. i consider that every true christian should have; but i will not enter upon that point now. it was probably my showing such a feeling, and my being well versed in their history, which was the occasion of an intercourse of two days ripening into a regard for one another; and we parted with sincere wishes that we might meet again in this country. at the time i speak of, which was about three years ago, his daughter miriam was, comparatively speaking, a child, and certainly not at that period, or indeed for some time after our meeting again in england, did it ever come into my ideas that i should ever feel anything for her but good-will; but circumstances, and her father's confidence in me, threw us much together. she has no mother. after a time i found myself growing attached to her, and i taxed myself, and reflected on the consequences. i was aware how very severe the jewish laws were upon the subject of any of their family uniting themselves to a christian. that it was not only considered that the party concerned was dishonoured before the nation, but that the whole family became vile, and were denied the usual burial rites. perhaps you are aware that if a jew embraces christianity, the same disgrace is heaped upon the relations. with this knowledge, i determined to conquer my feelings for miriam, and of course i no longer went to her father's house; it would have been cruel to put my friend (for such he certainly was) in such a position the more so as, being a rabbi, he would have to denounce himself and his own children. "my absence was, however, the cause of great annoyance to the father. he sought me, and i was so pressed by him to return, that i had no choice, unless i confessed my reasons, which i did not like to do. i therefore visited the house as before, although not so frequently, and continually found myself in company with miriam, and, her father being constantly summoned away to the duties of his office, but too often alone. i therefore resolved that i would once more set off on my travels, as the only means by which i could act honourably, and get rid of the feeling which was obtaining such a mastery over me. i went to the house to state my intention, and at the same time bid them farewell; when, ascending the stairs, i slipped and sprained my ankle so severely, that i could not put my foot to the ground. this decided our fate; and i was not only domiciled for a week in the house, but, as i lay on the sofa, was continually attended by miriam. her father would not hear of my removal, but declared that my accident was a judgment against me for my rash intention. "that miriam showed her regard for me in every way that a modest maiden could do, is certain. i did, however, make one last struggle; i did not deny my feelings towards her, but i pointed out to her the consequences which would ensue, which it was my duty as a friend, and her duty as a daughter, to prevent. she heard me in silence and in tears, and then quitted the room. "the next day she appeared to have recovered her composure, and entered freely into general conversation, and, after a time, referred to the rites of their church. by degrees she brought up the subject of christianity; she demanded the reasons and authority for our belief; in short, she induced me to enter warmly into the subject, and to prove, to the best of my ability, that the true messiah had already come. this conversation she took a pleasure in renewing, during my stay in the house; and as i considered that the subject was one that diverted our attention from the one i wished to avoid, i was not sorry to enter upon it, although i had not the least idea of converting her to our faith. "such was the state of affairs when i quitted the house, and again seriously thought of removing myself from so much temptation, when her brother joseph arrived from madrid, where he had been staying with an uncle for some years, and his return was the occasion of a jubilee, at which i could not refuse to appear. he is a fine young man, very intelligent and well informed, but of a very irascible disposition; and his long residence in spain has probably given him those ideas of retaliation which are almost unknown in this country. he conceived a very strong friendship for me, and i certainly was equally pleased with him; for he is full of talent, although he is revengeful, proud of his lineage, and holding to the tenets of his faith with all the obstinacy of a pharisee. indeed, it is strange that he could ever become so partial to a christian, respecting as he does the rabbinical doctrines held forth to the jewish people, and which it must be admitted have been inculcated, in consequence of the unwearied and unjustifiable persecution of the tribes for centuries, by those who call themselves christians, but whose practice has been at open variance with the precepts of the founder of their faith. however, so it was. joseph conceived a great regard for me, was continually at my house, and compelled me but too often to visit at his father's. at last i made up my mind that i would leave the country for a time, and was actively preparing, intending to go without saying a word to them, when i found myself one morning alone with miriam. she walked up to me as i was sitting on the couch i motioned to her to sit by me, but she stood before me with a stately air, fixing upon me her dark gazelle-like eyes. "`do you,' said she, in a slow and solemn tone of voice, `do you remember the conversation which we had upon our respective creeds? do you recollect how you pointed out to me your authorities and your reasons for your faith, and your sincere belief that the messiah had already come?' "`i do, miriam,' replied i; `but not with any view to interfere with your non-belief; it was only to uphold by argument my own.' "`i do not say nay to that; i believe you,' said miriam, `nevertheless, i have that in my vest which, if it was known to my father or brother, would cause them to dash me to the earth, and to curse me in the name of the great jehovah;' and she pulled out of her vest a small copy of the new testament. `this is the book of your creed; i have searched and compared it with our own; i have found the authorities; i have read the words of the jews who have narrated the history and the deeds of jesus of nazareth, and--i am a _christian_.' "it may appear strange, but i assure you, sir, you cannot imagine the pain i felt when miriam thus acknowledged herself a convert to our faith: to say to her that i was sorry for it would have argued little for my christian belief; but when i reflected upon the pain and disgrace it would bring upon her family, and that i should be the cause, i was dreadfully shocked. i could only reply, `miriam, i wish that we had never met!' "`i know what your feelings are but too well,' replied she; `but we have met, and what is done cannot be undone. i, too, when i think of my relations, am torn with anxiety and distress; but what is now my duty? if i am, and i declare, not only by the great jehovah, but by the crucified messiah, that i am a sincere believer in your creed, must i shrink--must i conceal it on account of my father and my brother? does not he say, "leave all and follow me!" must i not add my feeble voice in acknowledgement of the truth, if i am to consider myself a christian? must not my avowal be public? yes, it must be, and it shall be! can you blame me?' "`oh, no! i dare not blame you,' replied i; `i only regret that religious differences should so mar the little happiness permitted to us in this world, and that neither jew nor christian will admit what our saviour has distinctly declared--that there is no difference between the jew and the greek, or gentile. i see much misery in this, and i cannot help regretting deeply that i shall be considered as the cause of it, and be upbraided with ingratitude.' "`you did your duty,' replied miriam. `i have been converted by your having so done. now i have my duty to do. i am aware of the pain it will occasion my father, my relations, and the whole of our tribe; but if they suffer, shall i not suffer more? thrust out from my father's door; loaded with curses and execration; not one jew permitted to offer me an asylum, not even to give me a morsel of bread, or a drop of water; a wanderer and an outcast! such must be my fate.' "`not so, miriam; if your tribe desert you--' "`stop one moment,' interrupted miriam; `do you recollect the conversation you had with me before we entered into the subject of our relative creeds? do you remember what you then said; and was it true, or was it merely as an excuse?' "`it was as true, miriam, as i stand here. i have loved you long and devotedly. i have tried to conquer the passion, on account of the misery your marriage with a christian would have occasioned your relations; but if you persist in avowing your new faith, the misery will be equally incurred; and, therefore, i am doubly bound, not only by my love, but because i have, by converting you, put you in such a dreadful position, to offer you not only an asylum, but, if you will accept them, my heart and hand.' "miriam folded her arms across her breast, and knelt down, with her eyes fixed upon the floor. `i can only answer in the words of ruth,' replied she, in a low voice and with trembling lips. i hardly need observe, that after this interview the affair was decided,--the great difficulty was to get her out of the house; for you must have been inside of one of the houses of a jew of rank to be aware of their arrangements. it was impossible that miriam could be absent an hour without being missed; and to go out by herself without being seen was equally difficult. her cousin is married to a jew, who keeps the masquerade paraphernalia and costumes in tavistock street, and she sometimes accompanies her father and brother there, and, as usual, goes up to her cousin in the women's apartment, while her male relations remain below. we therefore hit upon this plan: that on the first masquerade-night at vauxhall she should persuade her father and brother to go with her to her cousin's; that i should be close by in a coach, and, after she had gone in, i was to drive up as the other customers do, and obtain two dominoes, and then wait while she escaped from the women's apartment, and came down-stairs to the street door, where i was to put her in the coach, and drive off to vauxhall. you may inquire why we went to vauxhall. because as but few minutes would elapse before she would be missed, it would have been almost impossible to have removed her without being discovered, for i was well known to the people. you recollect that manasseh, who was in the shop, informed them that my domino was slashed with white in my sleeves; he knew me when i obtained the dominoes. had i not been aware of the violence of the brother, i should have cared little had he followed me to my house, or any other place he might have traced me to; but his temper is such that his sister would certainly have been sacrificed to his rage and fury, as you may imagine from what you have seen and heard. i considered, therefore, that if we once became mixed with the crowd of masks and dominoes at vauxhall, i should elude them, and all trace of us be lost. i believe, now, that i have made you acquainted with every circumstance, and trust that you will still afford me your valuable assistance." "most certainly," replied our hero; "i am in duty bound. i cannot help thinking that they have recognised me as the party conducting her out of the dark walk. did you meet them afterwards?" "no," rejoined mr s---; "i allowed them to walk about without coming up to me for some time, and then when they were down at the farthest end, i made all haste and took a coach home, before they could possibly come up with me, allowing that they did recognise me, which i do not think they did until they perceived me hastening away at a distance." "what, then, are your present intentions?" inquired our hero. "i wish you to return with me to your hotel," replied mr s---; "i will then take a chaise, and leave for scotland as fast as four horses can carry us, and unite myself to miriam, and, as soon as i can, i shall leave the country, which will be the best step to allow their rage and indignation to cool." "i think your plan is good," replied joey, "and i am at your service." in a few minutes mr s--and our hero went out by the back way into the mews, and, as soon as they came to a stand, took a coach and drove to the hotel. they had not, however, been in company with miriam more than five minutes, when the waiter entered the room in great alarm, stating that two gentlemen were forcing their way upstairs in spite of the landlord and others, who were endeavouring to prevent them. the fact was, that our hero and mr s--had been perceived by joseph and his father as they came out of the mews, and they had immediately followed them, taking a coach at the same stand, and desiring the coachman to follow the one our hero and mr s--had gone into. the waiter had hardly time to make the communication before the door was forced open, and the man was so terrified, that he retreated behind our hero and mr s---, into whose arms miriam had thrown herself for protection. the father and brother did not, however, enter without resistance on the part of the landlord and waiters, who followed, remonstrating and checking them; but joseph broke from them with his dagger drawn: it was wrenched from him by our hero, who dashed forward. the enraged israelite then caught up a heavy bronze clock which was on the sideboard, and crying out, "this for the gaw and the meshumed!" (the infidel and the apostate), he hurled it at them with all his strength: it missed the parties it was intended for, but striking the waiter who had retreated behind them, fractured his skull, and he fell senseless upon the floor. upon this outrage the landlord and his assistants rushed upon joseph and his father; the police were sent for, and after a desperate resistance, the israelites were taken away to the police office, leaving mr s--and miriam at liberty. our hero was, however, requested by the police to attend at the examination, and, of course, could not refuse. the whole party had been a quarter of an hour waiting until another case was disposed of, before the magistrate could attend to them, when the surgeon came in and acquainted them that the unfortunate waiter had expired. the depositions were taken down, and both father and son were committed, and joey, and some others bound over to appear as witnesses. in about two hours our hero was enabled to return to the hotel, where he found that mr s--had left a note for him, stating that he considered it advisable to start immediately, lest they should require his attendance at the police-court, and he should be delayed, which would give time to the relations of miriam to take up the question: he had, therefore, set off, and would write to him as soon as he possibly could. this affair made some noise, and appeared in all the newspapers, and our hero therefore sat down and wrote a detailed account of the whole transaction (as communicated to him by mr s---), which he despatched to portsmouth. he made inquiries, and found that the sessions would come on in a fortnight, and that the grand jury would sit in a few days. he therefore made up his mind that he would not think of returning to portsmouth until the trial was over, and in his next letter he made known his intentions, and then set off for richmond, where he had been advised to remain for a short time, as being more favourable to an invalid than the confined atmosphere of london. our hero found amusement in rowing about in a wherry, up and down the river, and replying to the letters received from mary and from portsmouth. he also received a letter from mr s---, informing him of his marriage, and requesting that as soon as the trial was over he would write to him. our hero's health also was nearly re-established, when he was informed that his attendance was required at the court to give his evidence in the case of manslaughter found by the grand jury against joseph, the brother of miriam. he arrived in town, and attended the court on the following day, when the trial was to take place. a short time after the cause came on he was placed in the witness-box. at the time that he gave his depositions before the magistrate he had not thought about his name having been changed; but now that he was sworn, and had declared he would tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, when the counsel asked him if his name was not joseph o'donahue, our hero replied that it was joseph rushbrook. "your deposition says joseph o'donahue. how is this? have you an _alias_, like many others, sir?" inquired the counsel. "my real name is rushbrook, but i have been called o'donahue for some time," replied our hero. this reply was the occasion of the opposite counsel making some very severe remarks; but the evidence of our hero was taken, and was indeed considered very favourable to the prisoner, as joey stated that he was convinced the blow was never intended for the unfortunate waiter, but for mr s---. after about an hour's examination our hero was dismissed, and in case that he might be recalled, returned as directed to the room where the witnesses were assembled. chapter forty four. in which the tide of fortune turns against our hero. as soon as joey had been dismissed from the witness-box he returned to the room in which the other witnesses were assembled, with melancholy forebodings that his real name having been given in open court would lead to some disaster. he had not been there long before a peace-officer came in, and said to him,--"step this way, if you please, sir; i have something to say to you." joey went with him outside the door, when the peace-officer, looking at him full in the face, said, "your name is joseph rushbrook; you said so in the witness-box?" "yes," replied joey, "that is my true name." "why did you change it?" demanded the officer. "i had reasons," replied our hero. "yes, and i'll tell you the reasons," rejoined the other. "you were concerned in a murder some years ago; a reward was offered for your apprehension, and you absconded from justice. i see that you are the person; your face tells me so. you are my prisoner. now, come away quietly, sir; it is of no use for you to resist, and you will only be worse treated." joey's heart had almost ceased to beat when the constable addressed him; he felt that denial was useless, and that the time was now come when either he or his father must suffer; he, therefore, made no reply, but quietly followed the peace officer, who, holding him by the arm, called a coach, into which he ordered joey to enter, and following him, directed the coachman to drive to the police-office. as soon as the magistrate had been acquainted by the officer who the party was whom he had taken into custody, he first pointed out to our hero that he had better not say any thing which might criminate himself, and then asked him if his name was joseph rushbrook. joey replied that it was. "have you anything to say that might prevent my committing you on the charge of murder?" demanded the magistrate. "nothing, except that i am not guilty," replied joey. "i have had the warrant out against him these seven years, or thereabouts, but he escaped me," observed the peace-officer; "he was but a lad then." "he must have been a child, to judge by his present appearance," observed the magistrate, who was making out the committal. "i now perfectly recollect the affair." the officer received the committal, and in half an hour our hero was locked up with felons of every description. his blood ran cold when he found himself enclosed within the massive walls; and as soon as the gaoler had left him alone, he shuddered and covered his face with his hands. our hero had, however, the greatest of all consolations to support him--the consciousness of his innocence; but when he called to mind how happy and prosperous he had lately been, when he thought of emma--and that now all his fair prospects and fondest anticipations were thrown to the ground, it is not surprising that for a short time he wept in his solitude and silence. to whom should he make known his situation? alas! it would too soon be known; and would not every one, even emma, shrink from a supposed murderer? no! there was one who would not--one on whose truth he could depend; mary would not desert him, even now; he would write to her, and acquaint her with his situation. our hero, having made up his mind so to do, obtained paper and ink from the gaoler when he came into his cell, which he did in about two hours after he had been locked up. joey wrote to mary, stating his position in few words, and that the next morning he was to be taken down to exeter to await his trial; and expressed a wish, if possible, that she would come there to see him; and giving a guinea to the turnkey, requested him to forward the letter. "it shall go safe enough, young master," replied the man. "now, do you know, yours is one of the strangest cases which ever came to my knowledge?" continued the man; "we've been talking about it among ourselves: why the first warrant for your apprehension was out more than eight years ago; and, to look at you now, you cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen." "yes, i am," replied joey; "i am twenty-two." "then don't you tell anybody else that, and i will forget it. you see youth goes a great way in court; and they will see that you must have been quite a child when the deed was done--for i suppose by the evidence there is no doubt of that--and it won't be a hanging matter, that you may be certain of; you'll cross the water, that's all: so keep up your spirits, and look as young as you can." mary received the letter on the following day, and was in the deepest distress at its contents. she was still weeping over it, her work had been thrown down at her feet, when mrs austin came into the dressing-room where she was sitting. "what is the matter, mary?" said mrs austin. "i have received a letter from my brother, madam," replied mary; "he is in the greatest distress; and i must beg you to let me go to him immediately." "your brother, mary! what difficulty is he in?" asked mrs austin. mary did not reply, but wept more. "mary, if your brother is in distress, i certainly will not refuse your going to him; but you should tell me what his distress is, or how shall i be able to advise or help you? is it very serious?" "he is in prison, madam." "in prison for debt, i suppose?" "no, madam; on a charge of murder, which he is not guilty of." "murder!" exclaimed mrs austin, "and not guilty! why--when--and where did this murder take place?" "many years ago, madam, when he was quite a child." "how very strange!" thought mrs austin, panting, for breath, and dropping into a chair. "but where, mary?" "down in devonshire, madam, at grassford." mrs austin fell senseless from her chair. mary, very much surprised, hastened to her assistance, and, after a time succeeded in restoring her, and leading her to the sofa. for some time mrs austin remained with her face buried in the cushions, while mary stood over her. at last mrs austin looked up, and laying her head upon mary's arm, said in a solemn tone-"mary, do not deceive me; you say that that boy is _your_ brother--tell me, is not that false? i am sure that it is. answer me, mary." "he is not my born brother, madam, but i love him as one," replied mary. "again answer me truly, mary, if you have any regard for me. you know his real name; what is it?" "joseph rushbrook, madam," replied mary, weeping. "i was certain of it!" replied mrs austin, bursting into tears; "i knew it! the blow has come at last! god have mercy on me! what can be done?" and again mrs austin abandoned herself to bitter grief. mary was in amazement: how mrs austin should know any thing of joey's history, and why she should be in such distress, was to her a complete mystery: she remained for some time at the side of her mistress, who gradually became more composed. mary at last said,--"may i go to him, madam?" "yes," replied mrs austin, "most certainly. mary, i must have no secrets now; you must tell me everything. you see that i am deeply interested about this young man as well as yourself: it is quite sufficient for you at present to know that; before i say anything more, you must be candid with me, and tell me how you became acquainted with him, and all that you know relative to his life; that i will assist you and him in every way in my power; that neither money nor interest shall be spared, you may be assured; and i think, mary, that, after this promise, you will not conceal anything from me." "indeed i will not, madam," replied mary, "for i love him as much as i can love." mary then commenced by stating that she was living at gravesend when she first met with joey. there was a little hesitation at the commencement of her narrative, which mrs austin pretended not to observe; she then continued, winding up with the information which she had obtained from furness, the marine, their escape, and her admission into mrs austin's family. "and it was joseph rushbrook that came with you to this house?" "yes, madam," replied mary; "but one of the men was quite rude to me, and joey took it up. mr austin, hearing a noise, sent down to inquire the cause; the servants threw all the blame upon joey, and he was ordered out of the house immediately. he refused even to come back to the hall, after the treatment he had received, for a long while; but it was he who was in the parlour when you opened the door, if you recollect, a few weeks ago." mrs austin clasped her hands, and then pressed them to her forehead; after a while she said-"and what has he been doing since he came here?" mary then informed her mistress of all she knew of joey's subsequent career. "well, mary," said mrs austin, "you must go to him directly. you will want money; but, mary, promise me that you will not say a word to him about what has passed between us,--that is, for the present; by-and-bye i may trust you more." "you may trust me, madam," replied mary, looking her mistress in the face; "but it is too late for me to go this afternoon; i will, if you please, now wait till to-morrow morning." "do so, mary; i am glad that you do not go to-night, for i wish you to stay with me; i have many questions to ask of you. at present i wish to be alone, my good girl. tell mr austin that i am very unwell, and do not dine below." "shall i bring your dinner up here, madam?" asked mary. "yes, you may _bring_ it, mary," replied mrs austin, with a faint smile. never did two people leave one another both so much wishing to be alone as mary and mrs austin. the former quitted the room, and, having first executed her commission, returned to her own apartment, that she might reflect without being disturbed. what could be the reason of mrs austin's behaviour? what could she know of joey rushbrook? and why so interested and moved? she had heard among the servants that mr and mrs austin were formerly in a humbler sphere of life; that he was a half-pay officer; but there was still no clue to such interest about joey rushbrook. mary thought and thought over and over again, revolved all that had passed in her mind, but could make nothing of it; and she was still trying to solve the mystery when the housemaid came into the room, and informed her that mrs austin's bell had rung twice. mrs austin, on her part, was still more bewildered; she could not regain sufficient calmness to enable her to decide how to act. her son in prison, to be tried for his life for a crime he had not committed! would he divulge the truth, and sacrifice the father? she thought not. if he did not, would he not be condemned? and if he were, could she remain away from him? or ought she not to divulge what the boy would conceal? and if he did confess the truth, would they find out that mr austin and joseph rushbrook were one and the same person? would there be any chance of his escape? would he not, sooner or later, be recognised? how dreadful was her situation! then, again, should she acquaint her husband with the position of his son? if so, would he come forward? yes, most certainly he would never let joey suffer for his crime. ought she to tell her husband? and then mary, who knew so much already, who had witnessed her distress and anguish, who was so fond of her son, could she trust her? could she do without trusting her? such were the various and conflicting ideas which passed in the mind of mrs austin. at last she resolved that she would say nothing to her husband; that she would send mary to her son, and that she would that evening have more conversation with the girl, and decide, after she had talked with her, whether she would make her a confidant or not. having made up her mind so far, she rang the bell for mary. "are you better, madam?" asked mary, who had entered the room, very quietly. "yes, i thank you, mary; take your work and sit down; i wish to have some more conversation with you about this young person, joseph rushbrook; you must have seen that i am much interested about him." "yes, madam." "there were some portions of your story, mary, which i do not quite understand. you have now lived with me for five years, and i have had every reason to be satisfied with your behaviour. you have conducted yourself as a well-behaved, modest, and attentive young woman." "i am much obliged to you, madam, for your good opinion." "and i hope that you will admit that i have not been a hard mistress to you, mary, but, on the contrary, have shown you that i have been pleased with your conduct." "certainly, madam, you have; and i trust i am grateful." "i believe so," replied mrs austin. "now, mary, i wish you to confide in me altogether. what i wish to know is how did you in so short a time become acquainted with this furness, so as to obtain this secret from him? i may say, whom did you live with, and how did you live, when at gravesend? for you have not mentioned that to me. it seems so odd to me that this man should have told to a person whom he had seen but for a few hours a secret of such moment." mary's tears fell fast, but she made no reply. "cannot you answer me, mary?" "i can, madam," said she, at last; "but if i tell the truth--and i cannot tell a lie now--you will despise me, and perhaps order me to leave the house immediately; and if you do what will become of me?" "mary, if you think i intend to take advantage of a confession extorted from you, you do me wrong i ask the question because it is necessary that i should know the truth--because i cannot confide in you without you first confide in me; tell me, mary, and do not be afraid." "madam, i will; but pray do not forget that i have been under your roof for five years, and that i have been during that time an honest and modest girl. i was not so once, i confess it," and mary's cheeks were red with shame, and she hung down her head. "we are all sinful creatures, mary," replied mrs austin; "and who is there that has not fallen into error? the scriptures say, `let him who is without sin cast the first stone;' nay more, mary, `there is more joy over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine who need no repentance.' shall i then be harsh to you, my poor girl? no, no. by trusting me you have made me your friend; you must be mine, mary, for i want a friend now." poor mary fell on her knees before mrs austin, and wept over her hand as she kissed it repeatedly. mrs austin was much affected, and as the contrite girl recovered herself, mrs austin leaned on her elbow, and putting her arm round mary's neck, drew her head towards her, and gently kissed her on the brow. "you are, indeed, a kind friend, madam," said mary, after a pause, "and may the almighty reward you! you are unhappy; i know not why, but i would die to serve you. i only wish that you would let me prove it." "first, mary, tell me as much of your own history as you choose to tell; i wish to know it." mary then entered into the details of her marriage, her husband's conduct, her subsequent career, and her determination to lead a new life, which she had so sincerely proved by her late conduct. mary having concluded her narrative, mrs austin addressed her thus:-"mary, if you imagine that you have fallen in my good opinion, after what you have confessed to me, you are much mistaken; you have, on the contrary, been raised. there have been few, very few, that have had the courage and fortitude that you have shown, or who could have succeeded as you have done. i was afraid to trust you before, but now i am not. i will not ask you not to betray me, for i am sure you will not. on two points only my lips are sealed; and the reason why they are sealed is that the secret is not mine alone, and i have not permission to divulge it. that i am deeply interested in that boy is certain; nay, that he is a near and very dear connection is also the case; but what his exact relationship is towards me i must not at present say. you have asserted your belief of his innocence, and i tell you that you are right; he did not do the deed; i know who did, but i dare not reveal the name." "that is exactly what joey said to me, madam," observed mary, "and, moreover, that he never would reveal it, even if he were on his trial." "i do not think that he ever will, mary," rejoined mrs austin, bursting into tears. "poor boy! it is horrible that he should suffer for an offence that he has not committed." "surely, madam, if he is found guilty they will not hang him, he was such a child." "i scarcely know." "it's very odd that his father and mother have disappeared in the manner they did; i think it is very suspicious," observed mary. "you must, of course, have your own ideas from what you have already heard," replied mrs austin, in a calm tone; "but, as i have already said, my lips on that subject are sealed. what i wish you to do, mary, is not at first to let him know that i am interested about him, or even that i know anything about him. make all the inquiries you can as to what is likely to be the issue of the affair, and, when you have seen him, you must then come back and tell me all that he says, and all that has taken place." "i will, madam." "you had better go away early tomorrow; one of the grooms shall drive you over to meet the coach which runs to exeter. while i think of it, take my purse, and do not spare it, mary; for money must not be thought of now. i am very unwell, and must go to bed." "i had better bring up the tray, madam; a mouthful and a glass of wine will be of service to you." "do so, dear mary; i feel very faint." as soon as mrs austin had taken some refreshment, she entered again into conversation with mary, asking her a hundred questions about her son. mary, who had now nothing to conceal, answered freely; and when mary wished her good night, mrs austin was more than ever convinced that her boy's rectitude of principle would have made him an ornament to society. then came the bitter feeling that he was about to sacrifice himself; that he would be condemned as a felon, disgraced, and perhaps executed; and as she turned on her restless pillow, she exclaimed, "thank god that he is innocent--his poor father suffers more." chapter forty five. in which mary makes a discovery of what has been long known to the reader. it was hardly ten o'clock on the second morning when mary arrived at exeter, and proceeded to the gaol. her eyes were directed to the outside of the massive building, and her cheeks blanched when she viewed the chains and fetters over the entrance, so truly designating the purport of the structure. there were several people at the steps and in the passage, making inquiries, and demanding permission of the turnkey to visit the prisoners; and mary had to wait some minutes before she could make her request. her appearance was so different to the usual class of applicants, that the turnkey looked at her with some surprise. "whom do you wish to see?" inquired the man, for mary's voice had faltered. "joseph rushbrook, my brother," repeated mary. at this moment the head gaoler came to the wicket. "she wishes to see her brother, young rushbrook," said the turnkey. "yes, certainly," replied the gaoler; "walk in, and sit down in the parlour for a little while, till i can send a man with you." there was a gentleness and kindness of manner shown by both the men towards mary, for they were moved with her beauty and evident distress. mary took a seat in the gaoler's room; the gaoler's wife was there, and she was more than kind. the turnkey came to show her to the cell; and when mary rose, the gaoler's wife said to her, "after you have seen your brother, my dear child, you had better come back again, and sit down here a little while, and then, perhaps, i can be of some use to you, in letting you know what can be done, and what is not allowed." mary could not speak, but she looked at the gaoler's wife, her eyes brimming over with tears. the kind woman understood her. "go now," said she, "and mind you come back to me." the turnkey, without speaking, led her to the cell, fitted the key to the ponderous lock, pushed back the door, and remained outside. mary entered, and in a second was in the arms of our hero, kissing him, and bedewing his cheeks with her tears. "i was sure that you would come, mary," said joey; "now sit down, and i will tell you how this has happened, while you compose yourself; you will be better able to talk to me after a while." they sat down on the stretchers upon which the bed had been laid during the night, their hands still clasped, and as joey entered into a narrative of all that had passed, mary's sobs gradually diminished, and she was restored to something like composure. "and what do you intend to do when you are brought to trial, my dear boy?" said mary at last. "i shall say nothing, except `not guilty,' which is the truth, mary; i shall make no defence whatever." "but why will you not confess the truth?" replied mary. "i have often thought of this, and have long made up my mind, joey, that no one could act as you do if a parent's life were not concerned; you, or anybody else, would be mad to sacrifice himself in this way, unless it were to save a father." joey's eyes were cast down on the stone pavement; he made no reply. "why, then, if i am right in my supposition," continued mary--"i do not ask you to say yes or no on that point--why should you not tell the truth? furness told me that your father and mother had left the village, and that he had attempted to trace them, but could not; and he expressed himself sure that they were gone to america. why, then, supposing i am right, should you sacrifice yourself for nothing?" "supposing you are right, mary," replied joey, with his eyes still cast down, "what proof is there that my parents have left the country? it was only the supposition of furness, and it is my conviction that they have not. where they may be, i know not; but i feel positive that my mother would not leave the country without having first found out where i was, and have taken me with her. no, mary, my father and mother, if alive, are still in this country." "recollect again, my dear boy, that your father may be dead." "and if so, my mother would have by this time found me out; she would have advertised for me--done everything--i feel that she would have--she would have returned to grassford, and--" "and what, joey?" "i must not say what, mary," replied our hero; "i have thought a great deal since i have been shut up here, and i have taken my resolution, which is not to be changed; so let us say no more upon the subject, dear mary. tell me all about yourself." mary remained another hour with joey, and then bade him farewell; she was anxious to return to mrs austin, and acquaint her with the result of her interview; with a heavy heart she walked away from the cell, and went down into the parlour of the gaoler. "would you like to take anything?" said the gaoler's wife, after mary had sat down. "a little water," replied mary. "and how is your brother?" "he is innocent," replied mary: "he is indeed; but he won't tell anything, and they will condemn him." "well, well; but do not be afraid; he must have been very young at the time, innocent or guilty, and he won't suffer, that i know; but he will be sent out of the country." "then i will go with him," replied mary. "perhaps he will be pardoned, dear; keep your spirits up, and, if you have money, get a good lawyer." "can you tell me who would be a good lawyer to apply to?" "yes; mr trevor; he is a very clever man, and comes the western circuit; if any one can save him, he can." "i will take his name down, if you please," said mary. the gaoler's wife gave mary a piece of paper and pen and ink; mary wrote down the name and address of mr trevor, and then with many thanks took her leave. on her return to the hall, mary communicated to mrs austin what had passed. mrs austin perceived that joey would not swerve from his resolution, and that all that could be done was to procure the best legal assistance. "mary, my poor girl," said mrs austin, "here is money, which you will find necessary for your adopted brother's assistance. you say that you have obtained the name of the best legal person to be employed in his behalf. to-morrow you must go to london, and call upon that gentleman. it may be as well not to mention my name. as his sister, you of course seek the best legal advice. you must manage all this as if from yourself." "i will, madam." "and, mary, if you think it advisable, you can remain in town for two or three days; but pray write to me every day." "i will, madam." "let me know your address, as i may wish to say something to you when i know what has been done." "i will, madam." "and now you had better go to bed, mary, for you must be tired; indeed, you look very fatigued, my poor girl; i need not caution you not to say anything to any of the servants; good night." mary threw herself on the bed, she was indeed worn out with anxiety and grief; at last she slept. the next morning she was on her way to town, having, in reply to the curiosity of the servants, stated that the cause of her journey was the dangerous illness of her brother. as soon as she arrived in london, mary drove to the chambers of the lawyer, whose direction she had obtained from the exeter gaoler's wife; he was at home, and after waiting a short time, she was ushered by the clerk into his presence. "what can i do for you, young lady?" inquired mr trevor, with some surprise: "it is not often that the den of a lawyer has such a bright vision to cheer it. do me the favour to take a chair." "i am not a young lady, sir," replied mary; "i have come to you to request that you will be so kind as to defend my brother, who is about to be tried." "your brother! what is he charged with?" "murder," replied mary; "but indeed, sir, he is not guilty," she continued, as she burst into tears. mr trevor was not only a clever, but also a kind and considerate man. he remained silent for some minutes to allow mary time to recover herself. when she was more composed, he said-"what is your brother's name?" "joseph rushbrook." "rushbrook! rushbrook! i well remember that name," remarked mr trevor; "strange, the christian name also the same! it is singular certainly. the last time i was concerned for a person of that name, i was the means of his coming into a large landed property; now i am requested to defend one of the same name accused of murder." mary was astonished at this observation of mr trevor's, but made no reply. "have you the indictment? where did the murder take place?" "in devonshire, sir, many years ago." "and he is now in exeter gaol? come, tell me all the particulars." mary told all that she knew, in a very clear and concise manner. "now, my good girl," said mr trevor, "i must see your brother. in two days i shall be down at exeter. if you write to him, or see him before i do, you must tell him he must trust in his lawyer, and have no reservation, or i shall not be able to do him so much service. allow me to ask you have you any relations in yorkshire?" "no, sir, none." "and yet the name and christian name are exactly the same. it's an odd coincidence! they, however, changed their name, when they came into the property." "changed the name of rushbrook, sir!" said mary, who now thought that she had a clue to joey's parents. "yes, changed it to austin; they live now in dorsetshire. i mention it because, if interest is required for your brother, and he could prove any relationship, it might be valuable. but, bless me! what is the matter? smithers," cried mr trevor, as he ran and supported mary, "some water! quick! the girl has fainted!" it was surprise at this astounding intelligence, her regard for mrs austin, and the light now thrown upon the interest she had shown for our hero, and the conviction of what must be her suffering, which had overcome the poor girl. in a short time she recovered. "i thank you, sir, but i have suffered so much anxiety about my poor brother," said mary, faltering, and almost gasping for breath. "he cannot be a very bad boy, since you are so fond of him," said mr trevor. "no, indeed; i wish i was half as good," murmured mary. "i will do all i possibly can, and that immediately; indeed, as soon as i have the documents, and have perused them, i will go to your brother a day sooner than i intended. do you feel yourself well enough to go now? if you do, my clerk shall procure you a coach. do you stay in london? if so, you must leave your address." mary replied that she intended to set off to exeter that evening by the mail, and would meet him there. mr trevor handed her out, put her into the coach, and she ordered the man to drive to the inn where she was stopping. mary's senses were quite bewildered. it was late, and the mail was to start in an hour or two. she secured her place, and during her long journey she hardly knew how time passed away. on her arrival, in the morning, she hastened to the prison. she was received kindly, as before, by the gaoler and his wife, and then attended the turnkey into joey's cell. as soon as the door was closed she threw herself down on the bedstead, and wept bitterly, quite heedless of our hero's remonstrance or attempts to soothe her. "oh! it is horrible--too horrible!" cried the almost fainting girl. "what can--what must be done! either way, misery--disgrace! lord, forgive me! but my head is turned. that you should be here! that you should be in this strait! why was it not me? i--i have deserved all and more! prison, death, everything is not too bad for me; but you, my dear, dear boy!" "mary, what is the reason of this? i cannot understand. are matters worse than they were before?" said joey. "and why should you talk in such a way about yourself? if you ever did wrong, you were driven to it by the conduct of others; but your reformation is all your own." "ah, joey!" replied mary; "i should think little of my repentance if i held myself absolved by a few years' good conduct. no, no; a whole life of repentance is not sufficient for me; i must live on, ever repenting, and must die full of penitence, and imploring for pardon. but why do i talk of myself?" "what has made you thus, mary?" "joey, i cannot keep it a secret from you; it is useless to attempt it. i have discovered your father and mother!" "where are they? and do they know anything of my position?" "yes; your mother does, but not your father." "tell me all, mary, and tell me quickly." "your father and mother are mr and mrs austin." joey's utterance failed him from astonishment; he stared at mary, but he could not utter a word. mary again wept; and joey for some minutes remained by her side in silence. "come, mary," said joey at last, "you can now tell me everything." joey sat down by her side, and mary then communicated what had passed between herself and mrs austin; her acknowledgement that he was her relation; the interest she took in him; the money she had lavished; her sufferings, which she had witnessed; and then she wound up with the conversation between her and mr trevor. "you see, my dear boy, there is no doubt of the fact. i believe i did promise mrs austin to say nothing to you about it; but i forgot my promise all just this minute. now, joey, what is to be done?" "tell me something about my father, mary," said joey; "i wish to know how he is estimated, and how he behaves in his new position." mary told him all she knew, which was not a great deal; he was respected; but he was a strange man, kept himself very much aloof from others and preferred seclusion. "mary," said joey, "you know what were my intentions before; they are now still more fixed. i will take my chance; but i never will say one word. you already know and have guessed more than i could wish; i will not say that you are right, for it is not my secret." "i thought as much," replied mary, "and i feel how much my arguments must be weakened by the disclosures i have made. before, i only felt for you; now i feel for all. oh, joey! why are you, so innocent, to be punished this way, and i, so guilty, to be spared?" "it is the will of god that i should be in this strait, mary; and now let us not renew the subject." "but, joey, mr trevor is coming here to-morrow; and he told me to tell you that you must have no reservation with your lawyer, if you wish him to be of service to you." "you have given your message, mary; and now you must leave me to deal with him." "my heart is breaking," said mary, solemnly. "i wish i were in my grave if that wish is not wicked." "mary, recollect one thing;--recollect it supports me, and let it support you;--i am innocent." "you are, i'm sure; would to heaven that i could say the same for another! but tell me, joey, what shall i do when i meet your mother? i loved her before; but, oh! how much i love her now! what shall i do? shall i tell her that i have discovered all? i do not know how i can keep it from her." "mary, i see no objection to your telling her, but tell her also that i will not see her till after my trial; whatever my fate may be, i should like to see her after that is decided." "i will take your message the day after to-morrow," replied mary; "now i must go and look out for lodgings, and then write to your mother. bless you!" mary quitted the cell; she had suffered so much that she could hardly gain the gaoler's parlour, where she sat down to recover herself. she inquired of the gaoler's wife if she could procure apartments near the prison, and the woman requested one of the turnkeys to take her to a lodging which would be suitable. as soon as mary was located, she wrote a letter to mrs austin, informing her of her having seen the lawyer, and that his services were secured; and then, worn out with the anxiety and excitement of the three last days, she retired to bed, and in her sleep forgot her sufferings. chapter forty six. in which our hero makes up his mind to be hanged. our hero was not sorry to be left alone; for the first time he felt the absence of mary a relief. he was almost as much bewildered as poor mary with the strange discovery; his father a great landed proprietor, one of the first men in the county, universally respected--in the first society! his mother, as he knew by mary's letters written long ago, courted and sought after, loved and admired! if he had made a resolution--a promise he might say--when a mere child that he would take the onus of the deed upon his own shoulders, to protect his father, then a poacher and in humble life, how much more was it his duty, now that his father would so feel any degradation--now that, being raised so high, his fall would be so bitter, his disgrace so deeply felt, and the stigma so doubly severe! "no, no," thought joey, "were i to impeach my father now--to accuse him of a deed which would bring him to the scaffold--i should not only be considered his murderer, but it would be said i had done it to inherit his possessions; i should be considered one who had sacrificed his father to obtain his property. i should be scouted, shunned, and deservedly despised; the disgrace of my father having been hanged would be a trifle compared with the reproach of a son having condemned a parent to the gallows. now i am doubly bound to keep to my resolution; and come what may the secret shall die with me:" and joey slept soundly that night. the next morning mr trevor came into his cell. "i have seen your sister, rushbrook," said he, "and at her request, have come to assist you, if it is in my power. she has been here since, i have been informed, and if so, i have no doubt that she has told you that you must have no secrets with your lawyer: your legal friend and adviser in this case is your true friend: he is bound in honour to secrecy, and were you to declare now that you were guilty of this murder, the very confidence would only make me more earnest in your defence. i have here all the evidence at the coroner's inquest, and the verdict against you; tell me honestly what did take place, and then i shall know better how to convince the jury that it did not." "you are very kind, sir; but i can say nothing even to you, except that, on my honour, i am not guilty." "but, tell me, then, how did it happen." "i have nothing more to say, and, with my thanks to you, sir, i will say nothing more." "this is very strange: the evidence was strong against you, was the evidence correct?" "the parties were correct in their evidence, as it appeared to them." "and yet you are not guilty!" "i am not; i shall plead not guilty, and leave my fate to the jury." "are you mad? your sister is a sweet young woman, and has interested me greatly; but, if innocent, you are throwing away your life." "i am doing my duty, sir; whatever you may think of my conduct, the secret dies with me." "and for whom do you sacrifice yourself in this way, if as, you say, and as your sister declares, you are not guilty?" joey made no reply, but sat down on the bedstead. "if the deed was not done by you, by whom was it done?" urged mr trevor. "if you make no reply to that, i must throw up my brief." "you said just now," returned joey, "that if i declared myself guilty of the murder, you would still defend me; now, because i say i am not, and will not say who is, you must throw up your brief. surely you are inconsistent." "i must have your confidence, my good lad." "you never will have more than you have now. i have not requested you to defend me. i care nothing about defence." "then, you wish to be hanged?" "no, i do not; but, rather than say anything, i will take my chance of it." "this is very strange," said mr trevor: after a pause, he continued, "i observe that you are supposed to have killed this man, byres, when nobody else was present; you were known to go out with your father's gun, and the keeper's evidence proved that you poached. now, as there is no evidence of intentional murder on your part, it is not impossible that the gun went off by accident, and that, mere boy as you must have been at that age, you were so frightened at what had taken place, that you absconded from fear. it appears to me that that should be our line of defence." "i never fired at the man at all," said joey. "who fired the gun, then?" asked mr trevor. joey made no reply. "rushbrook," said mr trevor, "i am afraid i can be of little use to you; indeed, were it not that your sister's tears have interested me, i would not take up your cause. i cannot understand your conduct, which appears to me to be absurd; your motives are inexplicable, and all i can believe is, that you have committed the crime, and will not divulge the secret to any one, not even to those who would befriend you." "think of me what you please, sir," rejoined our hero; "see me condemned, and, if it should be so, executed; and, after all _that_ has taken place, believe me, when i assert to you--as i hope for salvation-i am not guilty. i thank you, sir, thank you sincerely, for the interest you have shown for me; i feel grateful, excessively grateful, and the more so for what you have said of mary; but if you were to remain here for a month, you could gain no more from me than you have already." "after such an avowal, it is useless my stopping here," said mr trevor; "i must make what defence i can, for your sister's sake." "many, many thanks, sir, for your kindness; i am really grateful to you," replied joey. mr trevor remained for a minute scanning the countenance or our hero. there was something in it so clear and bright, so unflinching, so proclaiming innocence, and high feeling, that he sighed deeply as he left the cell. his subsequent interview with mary was short; he explained to her the difficulties arising from the obstinacy of her brother; but at the same time expressed his determination to do his best to save him. mary, as soon as she had seen mr trevor, set off on her return to the hall. as soon as she went to mrs austin, mary apprised her of mr trevor's having consented to act as counsel for our hero, and also of joey's resolute determination not to divulge the secret. "madam," said mary, after some hesitation, "it is my duty to have no secret from you: and i hope you will not be angry when i tell you that i have discovered that which you would have concealed." "what have you discovered, mary?" asked mrs austin, looking at her with alarm. "that joseph rushbrook is your own son," said mary, kneeling down and kissing the hand of her mistress. "the secret is safe with me, depend upon it," she continued. "and how have you made the discovery, mary; for i will not attempt to deny it?" mary then entered into a detail of her conversation with mr trevor. "he asked me," said she, "as the sister of joey, if we had any relatives, and i replied, `no;' so that he has no suspicion of the fact. i beg your pardon, madam, but i could not keep it from joey; i quite forgot my promise to you at the time." "and what did my poor child say?" "that he would not see you until after his trial; but, when his fate was decided, he should like to see you once more. oh, madam, what a painful sacrifice! and yet, now, i do not blame him; for it is his duty." "my dread is not for my son, mary; he is innocent; and that to me is everything; but if my husband was to hear of his being about to be tried, i know not what would be the consequence. if it can only be kept from his knowledge! god knows that he has suffered enough! but what am i saying? i was talking nonsense." "oh, madam! i know the whole; i cannot be blinded either by joey or you. i beg your pardon, madam; but although joey would not reply, i told him that his father did the deed. but do not answer me, madam; be silent, as your son has been: and believe me when i say that my suspicion could not be wrenched from me even by torture." "i do trust you, mary; and perhaps the knowledge that you have obtained is advantageous. when does the trial come on?" "the assizes commence to-morrow forenoon, madam, they say." "oh! how i long to have him in these arms!" exclaimed mrs austin. "it is indeed a sad trial to a mother, madam," replied mary; "but still it must not be until after he is--" "yes; until he is condemned! god have mercy on me; mary, you had better return to exeter; but write to me every day. stay by him and comfort him; and may the god of comfort listen to the prayers of an unhappy and distracted mother! leave me now. god bless you, my dear girl! you have indeed proved a comfort. leave me now." chapter forty seven. in which our hero proves game to the very last. mary returned to exeter. the trial of our hero was expected to come on on the following day. she preferred being with joey to witnessing the agony and distress of mrs austin, to whom she could offer no comfort; indeed, her own state of suspense was so wearing, that she almost felt relief when the day of trial came on. mr trevor had once more attempted to reason with joey, but our hero continued firm in his resolution, and mr trevor, when he made his appearance in the court, wore upon his countenance the marks of sorrow and discontent; he did not, nevertheless, fail in his duty. joey was brought to the bar, and his appearance was so different from that which was to be expected in one charged with the crime of murder, that strong interest was immediately excited; the spectators anticipated a low-bred ruffian, and they beheld a fair, handsome young man, with an open brow and intelligent countenance, whose eye quailed not when it met their own, and whose demeanour was bold without being offensive. true that there were traces of sorrow on his countenance, and that his cheeks were pale; but no one who had any knowledge of human nature, or any feeling of charity in his disposition, could say that there was the least appearance of guilt. the jury were empannelled, the counts of the indictment read over, and the trial commenced, and, as the indictment was preferred, the judge caught the date of the supposed offence. "what is the date?" said the judge; "the year, i mean?" upon the reply of the clerk, his lordship observed, "eight years ago!" and then looking at the prisoner, added, "why, he must have been a child." "as is too often the case," replied the prosecuting counsel; "a child in years, but not in guilt, as we shall soon bring evidence to substantiate." as the evidence brought forward was the same, as we have already mentioned, as given on the inquest over the body, we shall pass it over; that of furness, as he was not to be found, was read to the court. as the trial proceeded, and as each fact came forth more condemning, people began to look with less compassion on the prisoner: they shook their heads, and compressed their lips. as soon as the evidence for the crown was closed, mr trevor rose in our hero's defence. he commenced by ridiculing the idea of trying a mere child upon so grave a charge, for a child the prisoner must have been at the time the offence was committed. "look at him now, gentlemen of the jury; eight years ago the murder of the pedlar, byres, took place; why, you may judge for yourselves whether he is now more than seventeen years of age; he could scarcely have held a gun at the time referred to." "the prisoner's age does not appear in the indictment," observed the judge. "may we ask his age, my lord?" demanded one of the jury. "the prisoner may answer the question if he pleases," replied the judge, "not otherwise; perhaps he may not yet be seventeen years, of age. do you wish to state your age to the jury, prisoner?" "i have no objection, my lord," replied joey, not regarding the shakes of the head of his counsel: "i was twenty-two last month." mr trevor bit his lips at this unfortunate regard for truth in our hero, and, after a time, proceeded, observing that the very candour of the prisoner, in not taking advantage of his youthful appearance to deceive the jury, ought to be a strong argument in his favour. mr trevor then continued to address the jury upon the vagueness of the evidence, and, as he proceeded, observed--"now, gentlemen of the jury, if this case had been offered to me to give an opinion upon, i should, without any previous knowledge of the prisoner, have just come to the following conclusion--i should have said (and your intelligence and good sense will, i have no doubt, bear me out in this supposition), that, allowing that the pedlar, byres, did receive his death by the prisoner's hand--i say, gentlemen, that _allowing_ such to have been the case, for i deny that it is borne out by the evidence--that it must have been _that_, at the sudden meeting with the pedlar, when the lad's conscience told him that what he was doing was wrong, that the gun of the prisoner was discharged unintentionally, and the consequence was fatal; i should then surmise, further, that the prisoner, frightened at the deed which he had unintentionally committed, had absconded upon the first impulse. that, gentlemen i believe to be the real state of the case; and what was more natural than that a child under such circumstances should have been frightened, and have attempted to evade the inquiry which must have eventually ensued?" "you state such to be your opinion, mr trevor; do you wish me to infer that the prisoner pleads such as his defence?" asked the judge. "my lord," replied mr trevor, in a hesitating way, "the prisoner has pleaded not guilty to the crime imputed to him." "that i am aware of, but i wish to know whether you mean to say that the prisoner's defence is, not having anything to do with the death of the pedlar, or upon the plea of his gun going off by accident?" "my lord, it is my duty to my client to make no admission whatever." "i should think that you would be safe enough, all circumstances considered, if you took the latter course," observed the judge, humanely. mr trevor was now in a dilemma; he knew not how to move. he was fearful, if he stated positively that our hero's gun went off by accident, that joey would deny it; and yet if he was permitted to assert this to be the case, he saw, from the bearing of the judge, that the result of the trial would be satisfactory. it hardly need be observed that both judge, prosecuting counsel, jury, and everybody in court, were much astonished at this hesitation on the part of the prisoner's counsel. "do you mean to assert that the gun went off by accident, mr trevor?" asked the judge. "i never fired the gun, my lord," replied joey, in a calm steady voice. "the prisoner has answered for me," replied mr trevor, recovering himself; "we are perfectly aware that by making a statement of accidental murder, we could safely have left the prisoner in the hands of an intelligent jury; but the fact is, my lord, that the prisoner never fired the gun, and therefore could not be guilty of the murder imputed to him." mr trevor had felt, upon our hero's assertion, that his case was hopeless; he roused up, however, to make a strong appeal to the jury; unfortunately, it was declamation only, not disproof of the charges, and the reply of the prosecuting counsel completely established the guilt of our hero upon what is called presumptive evidence. the jury retired for a few minutes after the summing up of the judge, and then returned a verdict against our hero of guilty, but recommended him to mercy. although the time to which we refer was one in which leniency was seldom extended, still there was the youth of our hero, and so much mystery in the transaction, that when the judge passed the sentence, he distinctly stated that the royal mercy would be so far extended, that the sentence would be commuted to transportation. our hero made no reply; he bowed, and was led back to his place of confinement, and in a few minutes afterwards the arms of the weeping mary were encircled round his neck. "you don't blame me, mary?" said joey. "no, no," sobbed mary; "all that the world can do is nothing when we are innocent." "i shall soon be far from here, mary," said joey, sitting down on the bedstead; "but, thank heaven! it is over." the form of emma phillips rose up in our hero's imagination, and he covered up his face with his hands. "had it not been for her!" thought he. "what must she think of me! a convicted felon! this is the hardest of all to bear up against." "joey," said mary, who had watched him in silence and tears, "i must go now; you will see her now, will you not?" "she never will see me! she despises me already," replied joey. "your mother despise her noble boy? oh, never! how can you think so?" "i was thinking of somebody else, mary," replied joey. "yes, i wish to see my mother." "then i will go now; recollect what her anxiety and impatience must be. i will travel post to-night, and be there by to-morrow morning." "go, dear mary, go, and god bless you! hasten to my poor mother, and tell her that i am quite--yes--quite happy and resigned. go now, quickly." mary left the cell, and joey, whose heart was breaking at the moment that he said he was happy and resigned, for he was thinking of his eternal separation from emma, as soon as he was alone, threw himself on the bed, and gave full vent to those feelings of bitter anguish which he could no longer repress. chapter forty eight. in which everybody appears to be on the move except our hero. mary set off with post-horses and arrived at the hall before daylight. she remained in her own room until the post came in, when her first object was to secure the newspapers before the butler had opened them, stating that her mistress was awake, and requested to see them. she took the same precaution when the other papers came in late in the day, so that mr austin should not read the account of the trial; this was the more easy to accomplish, as he seldom looked at a newspaper. as soon as the usual hour had arrived, mary presented herself to her mistress, and communicated the melancholy result of the trial. mrs austin desired mary to say to the servants that she was going to remain with a lady, a friend of hers, some miles off, who was dangerously ill; and should in all probability, not return that night, or even the next, if her friend was not better; and, her preparations for the journey being completed, she set off with mary a little before dark on her way to exeter. but, if mr austin did not look at the newspapers, others did, and amongst the latter was major mcshane, who, having returned from his tour, was sitting with o'donahue and the two ladies in the library of his own house when the post came in. the major had hardly looked at the newspapers, when the name of rushbrook caught his eye; he turned to it, read a portion, and gave a loud whistle of surprise. "what's the matter, my dear?" asked mrs mcshane. "murder's the matter, my jewel," returned the major; "but don't interrupt me just now, for i'm breathless with confusion." mcshane read the whole account of the trial, and the verdict, and then without saying a word, put it into the bands of o'donahue. as soon as o'donahue had finished it, mcshane beckoned him out of the room. "i didn't like to let mrs mcshane know it, as she would take it sorely to heart," said mcshane: "but what's to be done now, o'donahue? you see the boy has not peached upon his father, and has convicted himself. it would be poor comfort to mrs mcshane, who loves the memory of that boy better than she would a dozen little mcshanes, if it pleased heaven to grant them to her, to know that the boy is found, when he is only found to be sent away over the water; so it is better that nothing should be said about it just now: but what is to be done?" "well, it appears to me that we had better be off to exeter directly," replied o'donahue. "yes, and see him," rejoined the major. "before i saw him, mcshane, i would call upon the lawyer who defended him, and tell him what you know about the father, and what our suspicions, i may say, convictions, are. he would then tell us how to proceed, so as to procure his pardon, perhaps." "that's good advice; and now what excuse are we to make for running away?" "as for my wife," replied o'donahue, "i may as well tell her the truth; she will keep it secret; and as for yours, she will believe anything you please to tell her." "and so she will, the good creature, and that's why i never can bear to deceive her about anything; but, in this instance, it is all for her own sake and therefore, suppose your wife says that you must go to town immediately, and that i had better accompany you, as it is upon a serious affair?" "be it so," replied o'donahue; "do you order the horses to be put to while i settle the affair with the females." this was soon done, and in half an hour the two gentlemen were on their way to exeter; and as soon as they arrived, which was late in the evening, they established themselves at the principal hotel. in the mean time mrs austin and mary had also arrived and had taken up their quarters at another hotel where mrs austin would be less exposed. it was, however, too late to visit our hero when they arrived, and the next morning they proceeded to the gaol, much about the same hour that mcshane and o'donahue paid their visit to mr trevor. perhaps it will be better to leave to the imagination of our readers the scene which occurred between our hero and his mother, as we have had too many painful ones already in this latter portion of our narrative. the joy and grief of both at meeting again, only to part for ever--the strong conflict between duty and love--the lacerated feelings of the doting mother, the true and affectionate son, and the devoted servant and friend--may be better imagined than expressed; but their grief was raised to its climax when our hero, pressed in his mother's arms as he narrated his adventures, confessed that another pang was added to his sufferings in parting with the object of his earliest affections. "my poor, poor boy, this is indeed a bitter cup to drink!" exclaimed mrs austin. "may god, in his mercy, look down upon you, and console you!" "he will, mother: and when far away--not before, not until you can safely do so, promise me to go to emma, and tell her that i was not guilty. i can bear anything but that she should despise me." "i will, my child, i will; and i will love her dearly for your sake. now go on with your history, my dear boy." we must leave our hero and his mother in conversation, and return to mcshane and o'donahue, who, as soon as they had breakfasted, repaired to the lodgings of mr trevor. mcshane, who was spokesman, soon entered upon the business which brought them there. mr trevor stated to him the pertinacity of our hero, and the impossibility of saving him from condemnation, remarking, at the same time, that there was a mystery which he could not fathom. mcshane took upon himself to explain that mystery, having, as we have before observed, already been sufficiently clear-sighted to fathom it; and referred to o'donahue to corroborate his opinion of the elder rushbrook's character. "and this father of his is totally lost sight of; you say?" observed mr trevor. "altogether: i have never been able to trace him," replied mcshane. "i was observing to his sister--" said mr trevor. "he has no sister," interrupted mcshane. "still there is a young woman--and a very sweet young woman, too--who came to me in london, to engage me for his defence, who represented herself as his sister." "that is strange," rejoined mcshane, musing. "but, however," continued mr trevor, "as i was about to say, i was observing to this young woman how strange it was, that the first time i was legally employed for the name of rushbrook, it should be a case which, in the opinion of the world, should produce the highest gratification, and that in the second in one which has ended in misery." "how do you mean?" inquired mcshane. "i put a person of the name of rushbrook in possession of a large fortune. i asked our young friend's sister whether he could be any relation; but she said no." "young rushbrook had no sister, i am sure," interrupted mcshane. "i now recollect," continued mr trevor, "that this person who came into the fortune stated that he had formerly held a commission in the army." "then, depend on it, it's rushbrook himself, who has given himself brevet rank," replied mcshane. "where is he now?" "down in dorsetshire," said mr trevor. "he succeeded to the austin estates, and has taken the name." "'tis he--'tis he--i'll swear to it," cried mcshane. "phillaloo! murder and irish! the murder's out now. no wonder this gentleman wouldn't return my visit, and keeps himself entirely at home. i beg your pardon, mr trevor, but what sort of a looking personage may he be, for as i have said, i have never seen this mr austin?" "a fine, tall, soldierly man; i should say rough, but still not vulgar; dark hair and eyes, aquiline nose; if i recollect right--" "'tis the man!" exclaimed o'donahue. "and his wife--did you see her?" asked mcshane. "no i did not," replied mr trevor. "well, i have seen her very often," rejoined mcshane; "and a very nice creature she appears to be. i have never been in their house in my life. i called and left my card, that's all; but i have met her several times; however, as you have not seen her, that proves nothing; and now, mr trevor, what do you think we should do?" "i really am not prepared to advise; it is a case of great difficulty; i think, however, it would be advisable for you to call upon young rushbrook, and see what you can obtain from him; after that, if you come here to-morrow morning, i will be better prepared to give you an answer." "i will do as you wish, sir; i will call upon my friend first, and my name's not mcshane if i don't call upon his father afterwards." "do nothing rashly, i beg," replied mr trevor; "recollect you have come to me for advice, and i think you are bound at least to hear what i have to propose before you act." "that's the truth, mr trevor; so now with many thanks, we will take our leave, and call upon you to-morrow." mcshane and o'donahue then proceeded to the gaol, and demanded permission to see our hero. "there are two ladies with him, just now," said the gaoler; "they have been there these three hours, so i suppose they will not be much longer." "we will wait, then," replied o'donahue. in about a quarter of an hour mrs austin and mary made their appearance; the former was closely veiled when she entered the gaoler's parlour, in which o'donahue and mcshane were waiting. it had not been the intention of mrs austin to have gone into the parlour, but her agitation and distress had so overcome her that she could scarcely walk, and mary had persuaded her as she came down to go in and take glass of water. the gentlemen rose when she came in; she immediately recognised mcshane, and the sudden rush into her memory of what might be the issue of the meeting, was so overwhelming, that she dropped into a chair and fainted. mary ran for some water, and while she did so, mcshane and o'donahue went to the assistance of mrs austin. the veil was removed; and, of course, she was immediately recognised by mcshane, who was now fully convinced that austin and rushbrook were one and the same person. upon the first signs of returning animation, mcshane had the delicacy to withdraw, and making a sign to the gaoler, he and o'donahue repaired to the cell of our hero. the greeting was warm on both sides. mcshane was eager to enter upon the subject; he pointed out to joey that he knew who committed the murder; indeed, plainly told him, that it was the deed of his father. but joey, as before, would admit nothing; he was satisfied with their belief in his innocence, but, having made up his mind to suffer, could not be persuaded to reveal the truth, and mcshane and o'donahue quitted the cell, perceiving that, unless most decided steps were taken, without the knowledge of our hero, there was no chance of his being extricated from his melancholy fate. struck with admiration at his courage and self-devotion towards an unworthy parent, they bade him farewell, simply promising to use all their endeavours in his behalf. chapter forty nine. the interview. according to their arrangement, on the following morning, mcshane and o'donahue called upon mr trevor, and after half an hour's consultation, it was at last decided that they should make an attempt to see austin, and bide the issue of the interview, when they would again communicate with the lawyer, who was to return to town on the following day. they then set off as fast as four horses could convey them, and drove direct to the hall, where they arrived about six o'clock in the evening. it had so happened that austin had the evening before inquired for his wife. the servant reported to him what mary had told them, and austin, who was in a fidgety humour, had sent for the coachman who had driven the carriage, to inquire whether mrs austin's friend was very ill. the coachman stated that he had not driven over to the place in question, but to the nearest post-town, where mrs austin had taken a postchaise. this mystery and concealment on the part of his wife was not very agreeable to a man of mr austin's temper; he was by turns indignant and alarmed; and after having passed a sleepless night, had been all the day anxiously waiting mrs austin's return, when the sound of wheels was heard, and the carriage of mcshane drove up to the door. on inquiry if mr austin was at home, the servants replied that they would ascertain; and austin, who imagined that this unusual visit might be connected with his wife's mysterious absence, desired the butler to show in the visitors. austin started at the announcement of the names, but recovering himself; he remained standing near the table, drawn up to his full height. "mr austin," said o'donahue, "we have ventured to call upon you upon an affair of some importance: as mr austin, we have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but we were formerly, if i mistake not, serving his majesty in the same regiment." "i do not pretend to deny, gentlemen, that you once knew me under different circumstances," replied austin, haughtily; "will you please to be seated, and then probably you will favour me with the cause of this visit." "may i inquire of you, mr austin," said mcshane, "if you may have happened to look over the newspapers within these few days?" "no! and now i recollect--which is unusual--the papers have not been brought to me regularly." "they were probably withheld from you in consequence of the intelligence they would have conveyed to you." "may i ask what that intelligence may be?" inquired austin, surprised. "the trial, conviction, and sentence to transportation for life of one joseph rushbrook, for the murder of a man of the name of byres," replied mcshane; "mr austin, you are of course aware that he is your son." "you have, of course, seen the party, and he has made that statement to you?" replied mr austin. "we have seen the party, but he has not made that statement," replied o'donahue; "but do you pretend to deny it?" "i am not aware upon what grounds you have thought proper to come here to interrogate me," replied austin. "supposing that i had a son, and that son has as you say been guilty of the deed, it certainly is no concern of yours." "first, with your leave, mr austin," said mcshane, "let me prove that he is your son. you were living at grassford, where the murder was committed; your son ran away in consequence, and fell into the hands of captain (now general) o'donahue; from him your son was made over to me, and i adopted him; but having been recognised when at school, by furness, the schoolmaster of the village, he absconded to avoid being apprehended; and i have never seen him from that time till yesterday morning, when i called upon him, and had an interview as soon as his mother, mrs austin, had quitted the cell in exeter gaol, where he is at present confined." austin started--here was the cause of mrs austin's absence explained; neither could he any longer refuse to admit that joey was his son. after a silence of a minute, he replied-"i have to thank you much for your kindness to my poor boy, major mcshane; and truly sorry am i that he is in such a dilemma. now that i am acquainted with it, i shall do all in my power. there are other rushbrooks, gentlemen, and you cannot be surprised at my not immediately admitting that such a disgrace had occurred to my own family. of mrs austin's having been with him i assure you i had not any idea; her having gone there puts it beyond a doubt, although it has been carefully concealed from me till this moment." it must not be supposed that, because austin replied so calmly to major mcshane, he was calm within. on the contrary, from the very first of the interview he had been in a state of extreme excitement, and the struggle to command his feelings was terrible; indeed, it was now so painfully expressed in his countenance, that o'donahue said-"perhaps, mr austin, you will allow me to ring for a little water?" "no, sir, thank you," replied austin, gasping for breath. "since you have admitted that joseph rushbrook is your son, mr austin," continued mcshane, "your own flesh and blood, may i inquire of you what you intend to do in his behalf? do you intend to allow the law to take its course, and your son to be banished for life?" "what can i do, gentlemen? he has been tried and condemned: of course if any exertion on my part can avail--but i fear that there is no chance of that." "mr austin, if he were guilty i should not have interfered; but, in my opinion, he is innocent; do you not think so?" "i do not believe, sir, that he ever would have done such a deed; but that avails nothing, he is condemned." "i grant it, unless the real murderer of the pedlar could be brought forward." "y-e-s," replied austin, trembling. "shall i denounce him, mr austin?" "do you know him?" replied austin, starting on his feet. "yes, rushbrook," replied mcshane, in a voice of thunder, "i do know him,--'tis yourself!" austin could bear up no longer, he fell down on the floor as if he had been shot. o'donahue and mcshane went to his assistance; they raised him up, but he was insensible; they then rang the bell for assistance, the servant came in, medical advice was sent for, and mcshane and o'donahue, perceiving there was no chance of prosecuting their intentions, in mr austin's present state, quitted the hall just as the chaise with mrs austin and mary drove up to the door. chapter fifty. in which it is to be hoped that the story winds up to the satisfaction of the reader. it was not for some time after the arrival of the medical men that mr austin could be recovered from his state of insensibility, and when he was at last restored to life, it was not to reason. he raved wildly, and it was pronounced that his attack was a brain fever. as, in his incoherent exclamations, the name of byres was frequently repeated, as soon as the medical assistants had withdrawn, mrs austin desired all the servants, with the exception of mary, to quit the room; they did so with reluctance, for their curiosity was excited, and there was shrugging of the shoulders, and whispering, and surmising, and repeating of the words which had escaped from their unconscious master's lips, and hints that all was not right passed from one to another in the servants' hall. in the mean time, mrs austin and mary remained with him; and well it was that the servants had been sent away, if they were not to know what had taken place so long ago, for now austin played the whole scene over again, denounced himself as a murderer, spoke of his son, and of his remorse, and then he would imagine himself in conflict with byres--he clenched his fists--and he laughed and chuckled and then would change again to bitter lamentations for the deed which he had done. "oh, mary, how is this to end?" exclaimed mrs austin, after one of the paroxysms had subsided. "as guilt always must end, madam," replied mary, bursting into tears and clasping her hands,--"in misery." "my dear mary, do not distress yourself in that manner; you are no longer guilty." "nor is my master then, madam; for i am sure that he has repented." "yes, indeed, he has repented most sincerely; one hasty deed has embittered his whole life--he never has been happy since, and never will be until he is in heaven." "oh, what a happy relief it would be to him!" replied mary, musing. "i wish that i was, if such wish is not sinful." "mary, you must not add to my distress by talking in that manner; i want your support and consolation now." "you have a right to demand everything of me, madam," replied mary, "and i will do my best, i will indeed. i have often felt this before, and i thank god for it; it will make me more humble." the fever continued for many days, during which time mr austin was attended solely by his wife and mary; the latter had written to our hero, stating the cause of her absence from him in so trying a period, and she had received an answer, stating that he had received from very good authority the information that he was not likely to leave the country for some weeks, and requesting that mary would remain with his mother until his father's dangerous illness was decided one way or the other he stated that he should be perfectly satisfied if he only saw her once before his departure, to arrange with her relative to her affairs, and to give her legal authority to act for him, previously to his removal from the country. he told her that he had perceived an advertisement in the london papers, evidently put in by his friends at portsmouth, offering a handsome reward to any one who could give any account of him--and that he was fearful that some of those who were at the trial would read it, and make known his position; he begged mary to write to him every day if possible, if it were only a few lines, and sent his devoted love to his mother. mary complied with all our hero's requests, and every day a few lines were despatched; and it was now ascertained by the other domestics, and by them made generally known, that a daily correspondence was kept up with a prisoner in exeter gaol, which added still more mystery and interest to the state of mr austin. many were the calls and cards left at the hall, and if we were to inquire whether curiosity or condolence was the motive of those who went there, we are afraid that the cause would, in most cases, have proved to have been the former. among others, o'donahue and mcshane did not fail to send every day, waiting for the time when they could persuade austin to do justice to his own child. the crisis, as predicted by the medical attendants, at last arrived, and mr austin recovered his reason; but, at the same time, all hopes of his again rising from his bed were given over. this intelligence was communicated to his wife, who wept and wished, but dared not utter what she wished; mary, however took an opportunity, when mrs austin had quitted the room, to tell mr austin, who was in such a feeble state that he could hardly speak, that the time would soon come when he would be summoned before a higher tribunal, and conjured him, by the hopes he had of forgiveness, now that the world was fading away before his eyes, to put away all pride, and to do that justice to his son which our hero's noble conduct towards him demanded--to make a confession, either in writing or in presence of witnesses, before he died--which would prove the innocence of his only child, the heir to the property and the name. there was a straggle, and a long one, in the proud heart of mr austin before he could consent to this act of justice. mary had pointed out the propriety of it early in the morning, and it was not until late in the evening, after having remained in silence and with his eyes closed for the whole day, that austin made a sign to his wife to bend down to him, and desired her in a half-whisper to send for a magistrate. his request was immediately attended to; and in an hour the summons was answered by one with whom austin had been on good terms. austin made his deposition in few words, and was supported by mary while he signed the paper. it was done; and when she would have removed the pen from his fingers, she found that it was still held fast, and that his head had fallen back; the conflict between his pride and this act of duty had been too overpowering for him in his weak condition, and mr austin was dead before the ink of his signature had time to dry. the gentleman who had been summoned in his capacity of magistrate, thought it advisable to remove from the scene of distress without attempting to communicate with mrs austin in her present sorrow. he had been in conversation with o'donahue and mcshane at the time that he was summoned, and mr austin's illness and the various reports abroad had been there canvassed. o'donahue and mcshane had reserved the secret; but when their friend was sent for, anticipating some such result would take place, they requested him to return to them from the hall: he did so, and acquainted them with what had passed. "there's no time to lose, then," said mcshane; "i will, if you please, take a copy of this deposition." o'donahue entered into a brief narrative of the circumstances and the behaviour of our hero; and, as soon as the copy of the deposition had been attested by the magistrate, he and mcshane ordered horses, and set off for london. they knocked up mr trevor at his private house in the middle of the night, and put the document into his hands. "well, major mcshane, i would gladly have risen from a sick bed to have had this paper put into my hands; we must call upon the secretary of state to-morrow, and i have no doubt but that the poor lad will be speedily released, take possession of his property, and be an honour to the county." "an honour to old england," replied mcshane; "but i shall now wish you good night." mcshane, before he went to bed, immediately wrote a letter to mrs austin, acquainting her with what he had done, and the intentions of mr trevor, sending it by express; he simply stated the facts, without any comments. but we must now return to portsmouth. the advertisement of mr small did not escape the keen eye of the police-constable who had arrested our hero--as the reader must recollect the arrest was made so quietly that no one was aware of the circumstance, and as the reward of 100 pounds would be a very handsome addition to the 200 pounds which he had already received--the man immediately set off for portsmouth on the outside of the coach, and went to mr small, where he found him in the counting-house with mr sleek. he soon introduced himself; and his business with them; and such was mr small's impatience that he immediately signed a cheque for the amount, and handed it to the police-officer, who then bluntly told him that our hero had been tried for murder, and sentenced to transportation, his real name being rushbrook, and not o'donahue. this was a heavy blow to mr small: having obtained all the particulars from the police-constable, he dismissed him, and was for some time in consultation with mr sleek; and as it would be impossible long to withhold the facts, it was thought advisable that mrs phillips and emma should become acquainted with them immediately, the more so as emma had acknowledged that there was a mystery about our hero, a portion of which she was acquainted with. mrs phillips was the first party to whom the intelligence was communicated, and she was greatly distressed. it was some time before she could decide upon whether emma, in her weak state, should be made acquainted with the melancholy tidings, but as she had suffered so much from suspense, it was at last considered advisable that the communication should be made. it was done as cautiously as possible; emma was not so shocked as they supposed she would have been at the intelligence. "i have been prepared for this, or something like this," replied she, weeping in her mother's arms, "but i cannot believe that he has done the deed; he told me that he did not, when he was a child; he has asserted it since. mother, i must--i will go and see him." "see him, my child! he is confined in gaol." "do not refuse me, mother, you know not what i feel--you know not--i never knew myself till now how much i loved him. see him i must, and will. dearest mother, if you value my life, if you would not drive reason from its seat, do not refuse me." mrs phillips found that it was in vain to argue, and consulted with mr small, who at length (after having in vain remonstrated with emma) decided that her request should be granted, and that very day he accompanied his niece, travelling all night, until they arrived at exeter. in the mean time, mrs austin had remained in a state of great distress; her husband lay dead; she believed that he had confessed his guilt, but to what extent she did not know, for neither she nor mary had heard what passed between him and the magistrate. she had no one but mary to confide in or to console, no one to advise with or to consult. she thought of sending for the magistrate, but it would appear indecorous, and she was all anxiety and doubt. the letter from mcshane, which arrived the next afternoon, relieved her at once; she felt that her boy was safe. "mary, dear, read this; he is safe," exclaimed she. "god of heaven, accept a mother's grateful tears." "cannot you spare me, madam?" replied mary, returning the letter. "spare you. oh, yes! quick, mary, lose not a moment; go to him, and take this letter with you. my dear, dear child." mary did not wait a second command; she sent for post-horses, and in half an hour was on her way to exeter; travelling with as much speed as emma and her uncle, she arrived there but a few hours after them. our hero had been anxiously awaiting for mary's daily communication; the post time had passed, and it had not arrived. pale and haggard from long confinement and distress of mind, he was pacing up and down, when the bolts were turned, and emma, supported by her uncle, entered the cell. at the sight of her, our hero uttered a cry, and staggered against the wall; he appeared to have lost his usual self-control. "oh," said he, "this might have been spared me; i have not deserved this punishment. emma, hear me. as i hope for future happiness i am innocent; i am--i am, indeed--" and he fell senseless on the pavement. mr small raised him up and put him on the bed; after a time he revived, and remained where he had been laid, sobbing convulsively. as soon as he became more composed, emma, who had been sitting by him, the tears coursing each other down her pale cheeks, addressed him in a calm voice. "i feel--i am sure that you are innocent, or i should not have been here." "bless you for that, emma, bless you; those few words of yours have given me more consolation than you can imagine. is it nothing to be treated as a felon, to be disgraced, to be banished to a distant country, and that at the very time that i was full of happiness, prosperous, and anticipating?--but i cannot dwell upon that. is it not hard to bear, emma? and what could support me, but the consciousness of my own innocence, and the assurance that she whom i love so, and whom i now lose for ever, still believes me so? yes, it is a balm; a consolation; and i will now submit to the will of heaven." emma burst into tears, leaning her face on our hero's shoulder. after a time she replied, "and am i not to be pitied? is it nothing to love tenderly, devotedly, madly--to have given my heart, my whole thoughts, my existence to one object--why should i conceal it now?--to have been dwelling upon visions of futurity so pleasing, so delightful, all passing away as a dream, and leaving a sad reality like this? make me one promise; you will not refuse emma--who knelt by your side when you first met her, she who is kneeling before you now?" "i dare not, emma, for my heart tells me that you would propose a step which must not be--you must leave me now, and for ever." "for ever! for ever!" cried emma springing on her feet. "no! no! uncle, he says i am to leave him for ever? who is that?" continued the frantic girl. "mary! yes 'tis! mary, he says i must leave him for ever!" (it was mary who had just come into the cell.) "must i, mary?" "no--no!" replied mary, "not so! he is saved, and his innocence is established; he is yours for ever!" we shall not attempt to describe the scene we could not do justice to. we must allow the day to pass away; during which emma and our hero, mcshane and mary, were sitting together; tears of misery wiped away-tears of joy still flowing and glistening with the radiance of intermingled smiles. the next morning mcshane and o'donahue arrived, the secretary of state had given immediate orders for our hero's release, and they had brought the document with them. the following day they were all _en route_, emma and her uncle to portsmouth, where they anxiously awaited the arrival of our hero as soon as he had performed his duty to his parents. we must allow the reader to suppose the joy of mrs austin in once more holding her child in her embrace, and the smiles and happiness of mary at his triumphant acquittal; the wondering of the domestics, the scandal and rumour of the neighbourhood. three days sufficed to make all known, and by that time joey was looked upon as the hero of a novel. on the fourth day he accompanied the remains of his father as chief mourner. the funeral was quiet without being mean; there was no attendance, no carriages of the neighbouring gentry followed. our hero was quite alone and unsupported; but when the ceremony was over, the want of respect shown to the memory of his father was more than atoned for by the kindness and consideration shown towards the son, who was warmly, yet delicately, welcomed as the future proprietor of the hall. three months passed away, and there was a great crowd before the house of mr small, navy agent at portsmouth. there was a large company assembled, the o'donahues, the mcshanes, the spikemans, and many others. mrs austin was there, looking ten years younger; and mary was attending her at the toilet, both of them half smiles, half tears, for it was the morning of our hero's wedding-day. mr small strutted about in white smalls, and mr sleek spluttered over everybody. the procession went to the church, and soon after the ceremony, one couple of the party set off for the hall; where the others went is of no consequence. we have now wound up the history of little joey rushbrook, the poacher. we have only to add, that the character of our hero was not the worse as he grew older, and was the father of a family. the hall was celebrated for hospitality, for the amiability of its possessors, and the art which they possessed of making other people happy. mary remained with them more as a confidante than as a servant; indeed, she had so much money, that she received several offers of marriage, which she invariably refused, observing, with the true humbleness of a contrite heart, that she was undeserving of any honest, good man. everybody else, even those who knew her history, thought otherwise; but mary continued firm in her resolution. as for all the rest of the personages introduced into these pages, they passed through life with an average portion of happiness, which is all that can be expected. in conclusion, we have only one remark to make. in this story we have shown how a young lad, who commenced his career with poaching, ultimately became a gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year; but we must remind our youthful readers, that it does not follow that every one who commences with poaching is to have the same good fortune. we advise them, therefore, not to attempt it, as they may find that instead of 7,000 pounds a year, they may stand a chance of going to where our hero very narrowly escaped from being sent; that is, to a certain portion of her majesty's dominions beyond the seas, latterly termed australia, but more generally known by the appellation of botany bay. chapter fifty one. a rencontre. a short story. one evening i was sitting alone in the _salle a manger_ of the _couronne d'or_, at boulogne, when colonel g---, an old acquaintance, came in. after the first greeting, he took a chair, and was soon as busily occupied as i was with a cigar, which was occasionally removed from our lips, as we asked and replied to questions as to what had been our pursuits subsequently to our last rencontre. after about half an hour's chit-chat, he observed, as he lighted a fresh cigar-"when i was last in this room, i was in company with a very strange personage." "male or female?" inquired i. "female," replied colonel g---. "altogether it's a story worth telling, and, as it will pass away the time, i will relate it to you--unless you wish to retire." as i satisfied him that i was not anxious to go to bed, and very anxious to hear his story, he narrated it, as nearly as i can recollect, in the following words:-"i had taken my place in the diligence from paris, and when i arrived at _notre dame des victoires_ it was all ready for a start; the luggage, piled up as high as an english haystack, had been covered over and buckled down, and the _conducteur_ was calling out for the passengers. i took my last hasty whiff of my cigar, and unwillingly threw away more than half of a really good havannah; for i perceived that in the _interieur_, for which i had booked myself, there was one female already seated: and women and cigars are such great luxuries in their respective ways, that they are not to be indulged in at one and the same time--the world would be too happy, and happiness, we are told, is not for us here below. not that i agree with that moral, although it comes from very high authority; there is a great deal of happiness in this world, if you knew how to extract it,--or, rather, i should say, of pleasure; there is a pleasure in doing good; there is a pleasure, unfortunately, in doing wrong; there is a pleasure in looking forward, ay, and in looking backward also; there is pleasure in loving and being loved, in eating, and drinking, and, though last, not least, in smoking. i do not mean to say that there are not the drawbacks of pain, regret, and even remorse; but there is a sort of pleasure even in them; it is pleasant to repent, because you know that you are doing your duty; and if there is no great pleasure in pain, it precedes an excess when it has left you. i say again that, if you know how to extract it, there is a great deal of pleasure and of happiness in this world, especially if you have, as i have, a very bad memory. "`_allons, messieurs_!' said the _conducteur_; and when i got in i found myself the sixth person, and opposite to the lady: for all the other passengers were of my own sex. having fixed our hats up to the roof, wriggled and twisted a little so as to get rid of coat-tails, etcetera, all of which was effected previously to our having cleared _rue notre dame des victoires_, we began to scrutinise each other. our female companion's veil was down and doubled so that i could not well make her out; my other four companions were young men--all frenchmen,--apparently good-tempered, and inclined to be agreeable. a few seconds were sufficient for my reconnoitre of the gentlemen, and then my eyes were naturally turned towards the lady. she was muffled up in a winter cloak, so that her figure was not to be made out; and the veil still fell down before her face, so that only one cheek and a portion of her chin could be deciphered: that fragment of her physiognomy was very pretty, and i watched in silence for the removal of the veil. "i have omitted to state that, before i got into the diligence, i saw her take a very tender adieu of a very handsome woman; but, as her back was turned to me at the time, i did not see her face. she had now fallen back in her seat, and seemed disposed to commune with her own thoughts: that did not suit my views, which were to have a view of her face. real politeness would have induced me to leave her to herself, but pretended politeness was resorted to that i might gratify my curiosity; so i inquired if she wished the window up. the answer was in the negative, and in a very sweet voice; and then there was a pause, of course so i tried again. "`you are melancholy at parting with your handsome sister,' observed i, leaning forward with as much appearance of interest as i could put into my beautiful phiz. "`how could you have presumed that she was my sister?' replied she. "`from the _strong family_ likeness,' replied i. `i felt certain of it.' "`but she is only my sister-in-law, sir,--my brother's wife.' "`then, i presume, he chose a wife as like his sister as he could find; nothing more natural--i should have done the same.' "`sir, you are very polite,' replied the lady, who lowered down the window, adding, `i like fresh air.' "`perhaps you will find yourself less incommoded if you take off your veil?' "`i will not ascribe that proposition to curiosity on your part, sir,' replied the lady, `as you have already seen my face.' "`you cannot, then, be surprised at my wishing to see it once more.' "`you are very polite, sir.' "although her voice was soft, there was a certain quickness and decision in her manner and language which were very remarkable. the other passengers now addressed her, and the conversation became general. the veiled lady took her share in it, and showed a great deal of smartness and repartee. in an hour more we were all very intimate. as we changed horses, i took down my hat to put into it my cigar-case, which i had left in my pocket, upon which the lady observed, `you smoke, i perceive; and so, i dare say, do all the rest of the gentlemen. now, do not mind me; i am fond of the smell of tobacco--i am used to it.' "we hesitated. "`nay, more, i smoke myself, and will take a cigar with you.' "this was decisive. i offered my cigar-case--another gentleman struck a light. lifting up her veil so as to show a very pretty mouth, with teeth as white as snow, she put the cigar in her mouth, and set us the example. in a minute both windows were down, every one had a cigar in his mouth. "`where did you learn to smoke, madam?' was a question put to the incognita by the passenger who sat next to her. "`where?--in the camp--africa--everywhere. i did belong to the army-that is, my husband was the captain of the 47th. he was killed, poor man! in the last successful expedition to constantine:--_c'etait un brave homme_.' "`indeed! were you at constantine?' "`yes, i was; i followed the army during the whole campaign.' "the diligence stopped for supper or dinner, whichever it might be considered, and the _conducteur_ threw open the doors. `now,' thought i, `we shall see her face;' and so, i believe, thought the other passengers; but we were mistaken; the lady went upstairs and had a basin of soup taken to her. when all was ready we found her in the diligence, with her veil down as before. "this was very provoking, for she was so lively and witty in conversation, and the features of her face which had been disclosed were so perfect, that i was really quite on a fret that she would leave me without satisfying my curiosity:--they talk of woman's curiosity, but we men have as much, after all. it became dark;--the lady evidently avoided further conversation, and we all composed ourselves as well as we could. it may be as well to state in few words, that the next morning she was as cautious and reserved as ever. the diligence arrived at this hotel--the passengers separated--and i found that the lady and i were the only two who took up our quarters there. at all events, the frenchmen who travelled with us went away just as wise as they came. "`you remain here?' inquired i, as soon as we had got out of the diligence. "`yes,' replied she. `and you--' "`i remain here, certainly; but i hope you do not intend to remain always veiled. it is too cruel of you.' "`i must go to my room now, and make myself a little more comfortable; after that, monsieur l'anglais, i will speak to you. you are going over in the packet, i presume?' "`i am, by to-morrow's packet.' "`i shall put myself under your protection, for i am also going to london.' "`i shall be most delighted.' "`_au revoir_.' "about an hour afterwards a message was brought to me by the _garcon_, that the lady would be happy to receive me at number 19. i ascended to the second floor, knocked, and was told to come in. "she was now without a veil; and what do you think was her reason for the concealment of her person?" "by the beard of mokhanna, how can i tell?" "well, then, she had two of the most beautiful eyes in the world; her eyebrows were finely arched; her forehead was splendid; her mouth was tempting,--in short, she was as pretty as you could wish a woman to be, only she had _broken her nose_,--a thousand pities, for it must once have been a very handsome one. well, to continue, i made my bow. "`you perceive now, sir,' said she, `why i wore my veil down.' "`no, indeed,' replied i. "`you are very polite, or very blind,' rejoined she; `the _latter_ i believe not to be the fact. i did not choose to submit to the impertinence of my own countrymen in the diligence; they would have asked me a hundred questions upon my accident. but you are an englishman, and have respect for a female who has been unfortunate.' "`i trust i deserve your good opinion, madam; and if i can be in any way useful to you--' "`you can. i shall be a stranger in england. i know that in london there is a great man, one monsieur lis-tong, who is very clever.' "`very true, madam. if your nose instead of having been slightly injured as it is, had been left behind you in africa, mr liston would have found you another.' "`if he will only repair the old one, i ask no more. you give me hopes. but the bones are crushed completely, as you must see.' "`that is of no consequence. mr liston has put a new eye in, to my knowledge. the party was short-sighted, and saw better with the one put in by mr liston than with the one which had been left him.' "`_est-il possible? mais, quel homme extraordinaire_! perhaps you will do me the favour to sit with me, monsieur; and, if i mistake not, you have a request to make of me--_n'est-ce pas_?' "`i felt such interest about you, madam, that i acknowledge, if it would not be too painful to you, i should like to ask a question.' "`which is, how did i break my nose? of course you want to know. and as it is the only return i can make for past or future obligations to you, you shall most certainly be gratified. i will not detain you now. i shall expect you to supper. adieu, monsieur.' "i did not, of course, fail in my appointment; and after supper she commenced:-"`the question to be answered,' said she, `is, how did you break your nose?--is it not? well then, at least, i shall answer it after my own fashion. so, to begin at the beginning, i am now exactly twenty-two years old. my father was tambour-majeur in the garde imperiale. i was born in the camp--brought up in the camp--and, finally, i was married in the camp, to a lieutenant of infantry at the time. so that, you observe, i am altogether _militaire_. as a child, i was wakened up with the drum and fife, and went to sleep with the bugles; as a girl, i became quite conversant with every military manoeuvre; and now that i am a woman grown, i believe that i am more fit for the _baton_ than one-half of those marshals who have gained it. i have studied little else but tactics and have as my poor husband said, quite a genius for them; but of that hereafter. i was married at sixteen, and have ever since followed my husband. i followed him at last to his grave. he quitted my bed for the bed of honour, where he sleeps in peace. we'll drink to his memory.' "we emptied our glasses, when she continued:-"`my husband's regiment was not ordered to africa until after the first disastrous attempt upon constantine. it fell to our lot to assist in retrieving the honour of our army in the more successful expedition which took place, as you, of course, are aware, about three months ago. i will not detain you with our embarkation or voyage. we landed from a steamer at bona, and soon afterwards my husband's company was ordered to escort a convoy of provisions to the army which was collecting at mzez ammar. well, we arrived safely at our various camps of drean, nech meya, and amman berda. we made a little _detour_ to visit ghelma. i had curiosity to see it, as formerly it was an important city. i must say, that a more tenable position i never beheld. but i tire you with these details.' "`on the contrary, i am delighted.' "`you are very good. i ought to have said something about the travelling in those wild countries, which is anything but pleasant. the soil is a species of clay, hard as a flint when the weather is dry, but running into a slippery paste as soon as moistened. it is, therefore, very fatiguing, especially in wet weather, when the soldiers slip about in a very laughable manner to look at, but very distressing to themselves. i travelled either on horseback or in one of the waggons, as it happened. i was too well known, and, i hope i may add, too well liked, not to be as well provided for as possible. it is remarkable how soon a frenchman will make himself comfortable, wherever he may chance to be. the camp of mzez ammar was as busy and as lively as if it was pitched in the heart of france. the followers had built up little cabins out of the branches of trees, with their leaves on, interwoven together, all in straight lines, forming streets, very commodious, and perfectly impervious to the withering sun. there were _restaurants, cafes, debis de vin et d'eau-de-vie_, sausage-sellers, butchers, grocers--in fact, there was every trade almost, and everything you required; not very cheap certainly, but you must recollect, that this little town had sprung up, as if by magic, in the heart of the desert. "`it was in the month of september that damremont ordered a _reconnoissance_ in the direction of constantine, and a battalion of my husband's regiment, the 47th, was ordered to form a part of it. i have said nothing about my husband. he was a good little man, and a brave officer, full of honour, but very obstinate. he never would take advice, and it was nothing but "_tais-toi, coralie_," all day long--but no one is perfect. he wished me to remain in the camp, but i made it a rule never to be left behind. we set off; and i rode in one of the little carriages called _cacolets_ which had been provided for the wounded. it was terrible travelling, i was jolted to atoms, in the ascent of the steep mountain called the rass-el-akba; but we gained the summit without a shot being fired. when we arrived there, and looked down beneath us, the sight was very picturesque. there were about four or five thousand of the arab cavalry awaiting our descent; their white bournous, as they term the long dresses in which they enfold themselves, waving in the wind as they galloped at speed in every direction; while the glitter of their steel arms flashed like lightning upon our eyes. we closed our ranks and descended; the arabs, in parties of forty or fifty, charging upon our flanks every minute, not coming to close conflict, but stopping at pistol-shot distance, discharging their guns, and then wheeling off again to a distance--mere child's play, sir; nevertheless, there were some of our men wounded, and the little waggon, upon which i was riding, was ordered up in the advance to take them in. unfortunately, to keep clear of the troops, the driver kept too much on one side of the narrow defile through which we passed: the consequence was, that the waggon upset, and i was thrown out a considerable distance down the precipice.' `and broke your nose,' interrupted i. "`no, indeed, sir, i did not. i escaped with only a few contusions about the region of the hip, which certainly lamed me for some time, and made the jolting more disagreeable than ever. well, the _reconnoissance_ succeeded. damremont was, however, wrong altogether. i told him so when i met him; but he was an obstinate old fool, and his answer was not as polite as it might have been, considering that at that time i was a very pretty woman. we returned to the camp at mzez ammar; a few days afterwards we were attacked by the arabs, who showed great spirit and determination in their desultory mode of warfare, which, however, can make no impression on such troops as the french. the attack was continued for three days, when they decamped as suddenly as they had come. but this cannot be very interesting to you, monsieur.' "`on the contrary, do not, i beg, leave out a single remark or incident.' "`you are very good. i presume you know how we _militaires_ like to fight our battles over again. well, sir, we remained in camp until the arrival of the duc de nemours,--a handsome, fair lad, who smiled upon me very graciously. on the 1st of october we set off on our expedition to constantine; that is to say, the advanced guard did, of which my husband's company formed a portion. the weather, which had been very fine, now changed, and it rained hard all the day. the whole road was one mass of mud, and there was no end to delays and accidents. however, the weather became fine again, and on the 5th we arrived within two leagues of constantine, when the arabs attacked us, and i was very nearly taken prisoner.' "`indeed?' "`yes; my husband, who, as i before observed to you, was very obstinate, would have me ride on a _caisson_ in the rear; whereas i wished to be in the advance, where my advice might have been useful. the charge of the arabs was very sudden; the three men who were with the _caisson_ were sabred, and i was in the arms of a chieftain, who was wheeling round his horse to make off with me when a ball took him in the neck, and he fell with me. i disengaged myself, seized the horse by the bridle, and prevented its escape; and i also took possession of the arab's pistols and scymitar.' "`indeed!' "`my husband sold the horse the next day to one of our generals, who forgot to pay for it after my husband was killed. as for the scymitar and pistols, they were stolen from me that night: but what can you expect?--our army is brave, but a little demoralised. the next day we arrived before constantine, and we had to defile before the enemy's guns. at one portion of the road, men and horses were tumbled over by their fire; the _caisson_ that i was riding upon was upset by a ball, and thrown down the ravine, dragging the horses after it. i lay among the horses' legs--they kicking furiously; it was a miracle that my life was preserved: as it was--' "`you broke your nose,' interrupted i. "`no, sir, indeed i did not. i only received a kick on the arm, which obliged me to carry it in a sling for some days. the weather became very bad; we had few tents, and they were not able to resist the storms of rain and wind. we wrapped ourselves up how we could, and sat in deep pools of water, and the arabs attacked us before we could open the fire of our batteries; we were in such a pickle that, had the bad weather lasted, we must have retreated; and happy would those have been who could have once more found themselves safe in the camp of mzez ammar. i don't think that i ever suffered so much as i did at that time--the weather had even overcome the natural gallantry of our nation; and so far from receiving any attention, the general remark to me was, "what the devil do _you_ do here?" this to be said to a pretty woman! "`it was not till the 10th that we could manage to open the fire of our batteries. it was mud, mud, and mud again; the men and horses were covered with mud up to their necks--the feathers of the staff were covered with mud--every ball which was fired by the enemy sent up showers of mud; even the face of the duc de nemours was disfigured with it. i must say that our batteries were well situated, all except the great mortar battery. this i pointed out to damremont when he passed me, and he was very savage. great men don't like to be told of their faults; however, he lost his life three days afterwards from not taking my advice. he was going down the hill with rhullieres when i said to him, "mon general, you expose yourself too much; that which is duty in a subaltern is a fault in a general." he very politely told me to go to where he may chance to be himself now; for a cannonball struck him a few seconds afterwards, and he was killed on the spot. general perregaux was severely wounded almost at the same time. for four days the fighting was awful; battery answered to battery night and day: while from every quarter of the compass we were exposed to the fierce attacks of the arab cavalry. the commander of our army sent a flag of truce to their town, commanding them to surrender: and, what do you think was the reply?--"if you want powder, we'll supply you; if you are without bread, we will send it to you: but as long as there is one good mussulman left alive, you do not enter the town."--was not that grand? the very reply, when made known to the troops, filled them with admiration of their enemy, and they swore by their colours that if ever they overpowered them they would give them no quarter. "`in two days, general vallee, to whom the command fell upon the death of damremont, considered the breach sufficiently wide for the assault, and we every hour expected that the order would be given. it came at last. my poor husband was in the second column which mounted. strange to say, he was very melancholy on that morning, and appeared to have a presentiment of what was to take place. "coralie," said he to me, as he was scraping the mud off his trousers with his pocket-knife, "if i fall, you will do well. i leave you as a legacy to general vallee--he will appreciate you. do not forget to let him know my testamentary dispositions." "`i promised i would not. the drums beat. he kissed me on both cheeks. "go, my philippe," said i; "go to glory." he did; for a mine was sprung, and he with many others was blown to atoms. i had watched the advance of the column and was able to distinguish the form of my dear philippe when the explosion with the vast column of smoke took place. when it cleared away, i could see the wounded in every direction hastening back; but my husband was not among them. in the mean time the other columns entered the breach--the firing was awful, and the carnage dreadful. it was more than an hour after the assault commenced before the french tricolor waved upon the minarets of constantine. "`it was not until the next day that i could make up my mind to search for my husband's body; but it was my duty. i climbed up the breach, strewed with the corpses of our brave soldiers, intermingled with those of the arabs; but i could not find my husband. at last a head which had been blown off attracted my attention. i examined it--it was my philippe's, blackened and burnt, and terribly disfigured: but who can disguise the fragment of a husband from the keen eyes of the wife of his bosom? i leaned over it. "my poor philippe!" exclaimed i: and the tears were bedewing my cheeks when i perceived the duc de nemours close to me, with all his staff attending him. "what have we here?" said he with surprise, to those about him. "a wife, looking for her husband's body, mon prince," replied i. "i cannot find it; but here is his head." he said something very complimentary and kind, and then walked on. i continued my search without success, and determined to take up my quarters in the town. as i clambered along, i gained a battered wall; and, putting my foot on it it gave way with me, and i fell down several feet. stunned with the blow, i remained for some time insensible; when i came to, i found--' "`that you had broken your nose.' "`no, indeed; i had sprained my ankle and hurt the cap of my knee, but my nose was quite perfect. you must have a little patience yet. "`what fragments of my husband were found, were buried in a large grave, which held the bodies and the mutilated portions of the killed: and having obtained possession of an apartment in constantine, i remained there several days, lamenting his fate. at last, it occurred to me that his testamentary dispositions should be attended to, and i wrote to general vallee, informing him of the last wishes of my husband. his reply was very short; it was, that he was excessively flattered,--but press of business would not permit him to administer to the will. it was not polite. "`on the 26th i quitted constantine with a convoy of wounded men. the dysentery and the cholera made fearful ravages, and i very soon had a _caisson_ all to myself. the rain again came on in torrents, and it was a dreadful funeral procession. every minute wretches, jolted to death, were thrown down into pits by the road-side, and the cries of those who survived were dreadful. many died of cold and hunger; and after three days we arrived at the camp of mzez ammar, with the loss of more than one-half of our sufferers. "`i took possession of one of the huts built of the boughs of the trees which i formerly described, and had leisure to think over my future plans and prospects. i was young and pretty, and hope did not desert me. i had recovered my baggage, which i had left at the camp, and was now able to attend to my toilet. the young officers who were in the camp paid me great attention, and were constantly passing and repassing to have a peep at the handsome widow, as they were pleased to call me: and now comes the history of my misfortune. "`the cabin built of boughs which i occupied was double; one portion was fenced off from the other with a wattling of branches, which ran up about seven feet, but not so high as the roof. in one apartment i was located, the other was occupied by a young officer who paid me attention, but who was not to my liking. i had been walking out in the cool of the evening, and had returned, when i heard voices in the other apartment. i entered softly and they did not perceive my approach; they were talking about me, and i must say that the expressions were very complimentary. at last one of the party observed, "well, she is a splendid woman, and a good soldier's wife. i hope to be a general by-and-bye, and she would not disgrace a marshal's baton. i think i shall propose to her before we leave the camp." "`now, sir, i did not recognise the speaker by his voice, and, flattered by the remark, i was anxious to know who it could be who was thus prepossessed in my favour. i thought that if i could climb up on the back of the only chair which was in my apartment, i should be able to see over the partition and satisfy my curiosity. i did so, and without noise; and i was just putting my head over to take a survey of the tenants of the other apartment when the chair tilted, and down i came on the floor, and on my face. unfortunately, i hit my nose upon the edge of the frying-pan, with which my poor philippe and i used to cook our meat; and now, sir, you know how it was that i broke my nose.' "`what a pity!' observed i. "`yes; a great pity. i had gone through the whole campaign without any serious accident, and--but, after all, it was very natural: the two besetting evils of women are vanity and curiosity, and if you were to ascertain the truth, you would find that it is upon these two stumbling-blocks that most women are upset and break their noses.' "`very true, madam,' replied i. `i thank you for your narrative, and shall be most happy to be of any use to you. but i will detain you from your rest no longer, so wish you a very good night.'" "well, colonel," said i, as he made a sudden stop, "what occurred after that?" "i took great care of her until we arrived in london, saw her safe to the hotel in leicester square, and then took my leave. whether liston replaced her nose, and she is now _flanee_-ing about paris, as beautiful as before her accident; or, whether his skill was useless to her, and she is among the _soeurs de charite_, or in a convent, i cannot say: i have never seen or heard of her since." "well, i know liston, and i'll not forget to ask him about her the very first time that i meet him. will you have another cigar?" "no, i thank you. i've finished my cigar, my bottle, and my story, and so now good night!" the end.