CHAPTER XXVII.—THE PLEASURES OF KEEPING UP THE GAME.
Having looked at the stars, and profited by their quiet teaching, Harry went in a sadder and a wiser man, resolved, ere he slept that night, to confess his fault, and, if it might be so, obtain Alice’s forgiveness. But Alice, tired and unhappy, had gone to bed, and cried herself to sleep like a weary child; and when Harry entered her room, he found her lying with her head pillowed on her arm, and the tear-drops scarcely dried upon her long silken eyelashes, as soundly asleep as though care, and sin, and sorrow, were evils of which her philosophy had never dreamed—so Coverdale could only invoke a silent blessing upon her, and hasten to follow her example by going to bed and to sleep himself. Thus an opportunity was lost of regaining the “high estate” in his wife’s affections, from which he had fallen by reason of his inconsiderate selfishness, and hasty and impetuous temper; and it is a fact equally true and trying, that an opportunity once lost never returns, even an advertisement in the Times would fail to regain it.
One of the strangest and least comprehensive of psychological phenomena is the total change produced in our thoughts, feelings, opinions, hopes, fears, sympathies, antipathies, and all the other component parts which make up that wonderful spiritual steam-engine, the mind of man, by a good night’s sleep. We go to bed desperately in love with some charming girl we have flirted with half the evening, despising her cruel old male parent, who would come and disturb our tête-à-tête, and take her away at least an hour sooner than anybody not utterly callous to all the finer feelings of human nature would have dreamed of doing; and having with unchristian malignity her tall cousin in the Blues, who, having known her from her cradle upwards, dared to call her “Gussie” to our very face—we sleep soundly, our mind lies fallow for some six hours, and lo! a change has come o’er us; our goddess has stepped down from her pedestal, and appears a very average specimen of white muslined femininity and flirtation, whom her father has improved into quite an amiable model paterfamilias, at whose patient benignity in remaining, to please his daughter, at an evening party till half-past three a.m. we actually marvel; and as to that fine young fellow her cousin, we are really shocked when we recall our unchristian feelings towards him, and, as some slight compensation, mentally book him for an invite to that dinner at Blackwall which we propose bestowing upon a dozen of our very particular friends, in the unlikely event of our exchequer holding out till the white-bait season. Thus, by the next morning, Coverdale had slept off the sharp edge of his penitence, and when Alice began by a great effort to refer to the events of the previous day, with the intention of confessing herself in the wrong, and asking forgiveness, Harry, dreading a scene with a degree of horror equally masculine and English, checked the flow of her eloquence by exclaiming abruptly and cheerfully, “Yes, dear, certainly—but don’t say another word about it; we were both very silly, and made each other very miserable, when we might be as happy as the day is long; let bygones be bygones, we will forgive and forget, and be wiser for the future, eh?” As he spoke, he drew her to him, and sealing his forgiveness on her lips with a kiss, rendered all discussion impossible by leaving the room.
This speech (kiss included) ought to have satisfied any reasonable wife, but unfortunately at that moment Alice was not exactly in a reasonable frame of mind; she had dwelt so long on one idea, in accordance with which she had arranged the whole programme of a dramatic reconciliation scene, that she by no means approved of Harry’s short cut to concord, rendering null and void all her explanation of how, and why, and wherefore she had come to behave ill, together with a spirited sketch in monologue of her contrition for the past and vows of amendment for the future; the whole to conclude with certain annotations and reflections, which she trusted would so affect her husband’s feelings, and convince his understanding, that he would for the future restrict shooting to two short mornings a-week, and cast hunting “to the dogs” entirely, and now all the mysterious pleasure the gentler sex derive from talking a thing well over, was denied her.
Ah! that “talking over,” what a wonderful female attribute it is! how vast and important a part of “woman’s mission” does it constitute! in fact, we have met innumerable women—the majority of our female acquaintance, we should say—whose whole and entire mission appears to consist of a “call” to “talk over,” first, their neighbours’ affairs (a duty to their neighbour in which they never fail), secondly, their own. The French aphorism (seldom acted upon, by its voluble originators), Cela va sans dire, must seem unspeakably absurd to these advocates for an indefinite extension of the “freedom of debate;” while the “silent system” must appear a more “capital punishment” than death itself, always supposing the excellence of a punishment to be tested by its severity: but we are slightly digressing.
If anything were needed to prove the absurdity of human beings—creatures with immortal souls, placed in this world to prepare for eternity—darkening the sunshine of each other’s lives by bickering about trifles, that evidence would be afforded when we observe the manner in which such mental nebulæ vanish before the presence of any of the stern realities of existence. Thus when, breakfast being concluded, Harry was called mysteriously out of the apartment to learn that a mounted groom had just arrived from Hazlehurst Grange, with the intelligence that old Mr. Hazlehurst had been seized with a fit, from which, when the servant came away, he was not expected to recover, Coverdale’s only thought was how most tenderly and judiciously to break the sad news to Alice. Having executed his painful task with a degree of tact and delicacy of feeling for which those who knew only the rough side of his character would scarcely have given him credit, and soothed, to the best of his ability, the burst of grief with which Alice received the intelligence, Harry continued, “And now, love, the moment you are able to start, the phaeton will be ready; it is lighter than the close carriage, and in an emergency like the present, every minute becomes of consequence.”
“And you?” inquired Alice, glancing at him timidly through her tears.
“I of course will drive you myself; you did not suppose I should let you go alone.”
Alice could not reply, but as she pressed her husband’s hand caressingly, the old loving look came back into her eyes, and Harry felt that he was forgiven. On reaching the Grange the report of the sick man was more favourable than Alice had dared to hope. An apoplectic fit constitutes one of the few exceptional cases in which prompt medical assistance does not necessarily increase the evil, and the Esculapius of the neighbourhood had this time successfully interposed between death and his victim; while Mr. Hazlehurst had received a lesson sufficiently severe to prevent him from objecting to the substitution of toast and water and “bland” puddings for Port wine, bottled in the year 1830, and the roast beef of Old England. Coverdale having remained at the Grange for three days, during which time he had shaken hands with, and lamented over Arthur (who, summoned at the commencement of his father’s illness, appeared looking so pale and thin, that it was decided nem. con. that he was working himself to death—a view of the case which he rather than otherwise encouraged by the faintness of his denial), was forced to return to the Park to attend the next meeting of magistrates, and finally to dispose of the offending poachers. Accordingly, having arranged with Alice to send the close carriage for her on the day but one following, he took leave of the Hazlehurst family, and drove to H————. Here, after a long examination, the aforesaid poachers were convicted, and sentenced, one to nine months’, another to a year’s imprisonment—Markum’s evidence being so clear and convincing, that such an issue became inevitable. As the gamekeeper left the court, a tall, gipsy-looking fellow came up to him, and muttered in his car, “You’ll live to repent this day’s work, Master Keeper; look to yourself one of these dark nights.”
“Look to yourself if I catch you on our ground,” was Markum’s contemptuous rejoinder; “there’s enough oakum to pick in H———— gaol for Tom and you too.”
“Who is that fellow,” inquired Coverdale, as the man, perceiving that the keeper’s reply was beginning to attract attention, turned away with a scowl.
“That be Jack Hargrave, Mr. Coverdale, sir,” returned Markum; “brother along o’ Tom, as we’ve give twelve months to; and sarve ’im right, a poachin’, thievin’ wagrant.”
“Is this fellow a poacher also?” asked Harry.
“That is he then,” was the reply; “a reg’lur bred un, and as deep a hand as ever set a snare, only he’s so ‘wide o’,’ that it’s not so easy to nab the warmint; but I’ll be down upon ’im yet, for all his threatenings. He’s bin heard to swear he’ll put a charge o’ shot under my veskit some o’ these nights; he’d better not, though, or he may find there’s two can play at that game.”
“No violence, my good fellow, no violence; it’s not a light thing to shed the blood of a fellow-creature—besides, there’s a quiet way of managing these affairs. I shall warn the police to keep an eye on that man Hargrave; he looks dangerous; and you may as well put on another watcher, it won’t do to be shorthanded just now.” So saying, Coverdale turned away, and was soon deep in conversation with the inspector of the mounted rural police; after which, refusing to make one of a jovial party who were about to dine with Tom Rattleworth, and were tolerably certain to remain playing whist, and imbibing strong liquors till the small hours should be again upon the increase, he drove home to his solitary mansion.
It was the first time since his marriage that Coverdale had dined by himself, and he felt proportionably lonely; everything tended to remind him of Alice—her favourite dog, a little black-and-tan spaniel, with large loving eyes, not unlike her own, leaped on his knee after dinner, and gazing wistfully at the empty chair opposite, uttered a low whine, as though it would inquire, “Where’s my mistress?” The footstool, whereon her dainty little feet were wont to repose—the screen with which she was accustomed to shade her fair cheek from the too ardent advances of the fire—each object, animate or inanimate, recalled his thoughts to Alice; and feeling, even more strongly than he had ever yet felt, how deeply and tenderly he loved her, he for the first time perceived that love in its true light, and, in acknowledging its full reality, became conscious of the duties and responsibilities such an affection entailed upon him. Faintly and dimly at first the light broke in upon him; deeply did he feel the difficulties of the task, and his own inability to perform it; and bitterly, most bitterly, did he regret his own selfish carelessness, which had, as he was fain to confess, tended already to estrange his young wife’s affection, and to convert a gentle, yielding girl, into a wilful and exacting woman. And thus he sat, pondering over and regretting the past, and forming wise and good resolutions for the future, while minutes gliding by unobserved grew into hours, until the sudden restlessness of the little dog, which had been sleeping quietly upon his knees, roused him, and looking at his watch, he perceived it was nearly midnight. As he did so the dog, whose restlessness appeared to increase, uttered a short bark, while at the same moment a distant sound was faintly audible, which Harry’s practised ear instantly recognised as the report of a gun. To spring to the window, open the shutter, and fling up the sash, was the work of an instant; a like space of time sufficed to resolve doubt into certainty,—guns were being discharged in a favourite plantation about half a mile from the house—a plantation in which the pheasants were as well fed and tame as barn-door fowls; it was evident the poachers were taking their revenge, and that these sacred birds, the Lares and Penates of Harry’s sporting mythology, were being ruthlessly slaughtered on their roosts. Harry rang the bell furiously; then, before the alarmed Wilkins (who, having commenced his career in the service of an apoplectic alderman, laboured under a chronic impression that somebody was in a fit) had passed beyond the door of the servants’ hall, he rushed impetuously out of the dining-room, and meeting that bewildered domestic in full career, nearly frightened him into an attack of the malady he so much dreaded for others, by exclaiming, “Here, quick! Tell Saunders, or some of them, to saddle the shooting cob, and bring him round instantly; then find me a hat and pea-jacket. Quick, I say!”
As the butler vanished on his mission, Coverdale took down from a peg in the hall, a special constable’s staff which had been intrusted to him on behalf of her gracious Majesty, at a time when an extra dose of politics and strong beer had proved too potent for the dense agricultural pates of certain free and independent (alias bribed and tipsy) electors of the neighbouring county town. It was a stout piece of ash, about a foot and a half long, thicker than an ordinary broom-stick, and weighted with lead, for the benefit of any unusually opaque skull into which it might be deemed advisable to knock a respect for our glorious constitution. Harry felt its weight, and, as he passed his wrist through the leather thong attached to it, he thought to himself they would be bold men who could prevent him, with that in his hand, from going where he pleased. The instant the cob appeared he sprang into the saddle. “Do you and Marshal get a couple of stout sticks, and make the best of your way to the ash plantation!” he exclaimed hastily; “there are poachers out, and from their venturing to come so near the house, I should fancy there must be a strong gang of them, and Markum may want all the help we can give him.”
So saying, Coverdale gathered up the reins, and without waiting the groom’s reply, rode off at a brisk canter. As he approached the wood, he drew in and paused, uncertain whether Markum might yet have reached the scene of action: as he listened, the sound of men crashing through the dry underwood became distinctly audible; then shouts and a clamour of angry voices, and finally, the unmistakeable noise of a conflict met his ear. Pausing no longer, he put his horse into a gallop, and dashed on till he reached a hand-gate leading into the wood. This, to his annoyance, he found locked; true, he had a master-key, which he had fortunately brought with him, but he was forced to dismount in order to unfasten the padlock. While thus engaged, the sounds proved that the affray was still raging fiercely, and, as he flung the gate open, a gun was discharged, followed almost instantaneously by the report of two others. Fearing mischief might occur before he could reach the combatants, Coverdale remounted hastily, and heedless alike of obstacles and darkness, galloped down one of the grass rides through the plantation, avoiding collision with the trunks and branches of trees by, as it appeared, a succession of miracles. Before, however, he could arrive at the scene of action, the sound of blows, the shouts and imprecations, had ceased, and nothing but a confused hum of voices, together with a low moaning, as of some person ill or in pain, met his ear. Forcing his horse through the tangled underwood, Coverdale came suddenly upon a group of men, amongst whom he recognised several of his own farm labourers, while two under-keepers were kneeling beside the prostrate figure of a man who, from the stiff, unnatural attitude in which he lay, appeared either dead or dying. To leap to the ground, and snatch a lantern from one of the bystanders, was Harry’s first act; then bending over the fallen man, he recognised in the ghastly features, distorted and convulsed with agony, the well-known countenance of honest, sturdy Markum, while from a gun-shot wound in his right side the dark life-blood was slowly flowing.
“How has this happened?” was Coverdale’s hurried inquiry. “Is it an accident, or have any of those scoundrels dared to shoot him?”
There was a moment’s pause, and then one of the elder men replied, “It wor no accident, Mr. Coverdale; but Giles there can tell you best, squire; he wor nearest to un when he dropped.”
The under-keeper thus appealed to—a tall, strapping young fellow, who was vainly attempting to staunch the blood which still continued to flow—turned to reply, while Coverdale, kneeling beside the wounded man, endeavoured to arrange a more effectual bandage.
“All as I know, sir,” he said, “is that I wor a watching nigh down by the warren, when up cum poor Master Markum here, and ‘Giles,’ says he, ‘ye’re wanted, lad; there’s them out as didn’t oughter be.’ So him and I, and the rest o’ our mates here, which master had appinted to meet at eleven o’clock—for I expect he’d had some hint give him of what was to be up, made for the ash spinney, and laid us down in a ditch. Well, it warn’t long afore we heard the blackguards at work among the pheasants, a banging away like blazes. We waited till they got near us, and then we up and at ’em like good uns. There was more of ’em nor there was o’ we, so they showed light a bit. Poor master there he jest wor real savage; he hit out hard and straight, and rolled ’em over like nine-pins; they worn’t o’ no manner o’ use again him, not none on ’em. Well, they soon got enough of that sort of fun, and one arter another cut away, till at last they all fairly turned tail and bolted—that is, all but one, and him master collared, and says he, ‘Stop a bit, Jack; I’m agoin’ to send you to see your brother in H———— gaol; I’m afeard Tom should be dull for want o’ cumpany, poor chap!’ Well, Jack Hargrave, for him it wor, fit sharp for his liburty, but master wor too good a man for him; and he’d a took him as safe as mutton, only Jack hollard arter one of his mates as had a gun, and told him to shoot the ———— keeper, and not let him be took. The fellow stopped and faced round—he wor a young chap as I knows well—I’d cotched sight of his face afore he cut away, a soft young feller, as anybody might bully into anything; and when Jack rapped out a volley of oaths, and told him to let fly, and chance hittin’ him, shoot he did, and poor master let go his hold o’ Jack’s collar, and rolled over and over like I’ve seen many a hare and rabbid roll over afore his gun.”
“But there was more than one barrel discharged,” interposed Coverdale; “I heard three shots in succession—how was that?”
“Why, when I see poor Master Markum fall, I was jest agoin’ to kneel down to raise him a bit, when I ketched sight o’ Jack Hargrave and his pal a cutting away like lamplighters, and I felt mad like to think he should get off scotfree arter what he’d been and done, and having my gun in my hand, I give ’em the contents of both barrels; it worn’t right, I knows, Mr. Coverdale, but if you’d been in my place, squire, I’m blessed if I don’t think you’d ha done the same, axing your pardon.”
Feeling a strong private conviction that “Giles” had only judged him correctly, Harry looked grave and shook his head, as if such a possibility could not exist in the case of a magistrate, ere he inquired, “Do you think you hit either of them?”
“They’d got a farish start before I pulled at ’em,” was the reply, “and the light ain’t that good for a long shot, but I fancy Jack Hargrave’s got something to take home with him, for he give a rare jump as the charge reached him; but it warn’t enough to stop him, for I see him a runnin’ like a greyhound arter-wards.”
While this conversation was proceeding, Coverdale, by aid of sundry neckcloths, and a strip that he cut from his own pea-jacket, had contrived a bandage which in great measure stopped the bleeding, and Markum revived sufficiently to recognise those about him; as his eyes fell on Coverdale, a faint smile passed across his features.
“Is it you, squire?” he murmured in a low voice. “Ah! you always had a kind heart of your own; Jack Hargrave’s kep his word, you see. I expects him and his mate ’as finished me atween ’em this time.”
“We’ll hope not, my poor fellow—but don’t speak. Do you think you can bear carrying yet—yes? Four of you take that hand-gate off its hinges, and bring it here; we’ll lay him on that. We shall have a surgeon for you directly, my poor fellow! I sent one of the lads off on my horse to fetch Mr. Gouger the moment I came up—now, steady with him. I’ll lift his head—that’s it; now raise the gate steadily. Gently there—well done—are you all ready? Step together mind—march.”
As he spoke, Harry (who himself supported one corner of the temporary litter he had contrived) and three others, raised the wounded man on their shoulders, and carried him to his own cottage, which fortunately was near at hand. He bore the transit bravely, though the pain occasioned by such motion as was unavoidable, reduced him more than once to the verge of fainting. Shortly after he had reached his destination the surgeon arrived. Coverdale waited until he had pronounced the wound dangerous, though not necessarily mortal, then leaving him to make a more minute examination, he quitted the house. He found a mounted policeman awaiting him outside, who, making his rounds, had been attracted by the sound of guns at that unusual hour.
“Ah, policeman, I was just going to send after you; my head keeper has been shot by these poaching rascals, and is seriously hurt, I’m afraid!” exclaimed Coverdale. “How are we to make sure of the fellows who did it? It lies between a man called Jack Hargrave—”
“A reg’lur bad un,” observed the horse-patrol, parenthetically.
“You said you knew the other man,” continued Harry, appealing to the under-keeper; “are you acquainted with his name?”
“They do call him ‘Winkey’ in a general way, from a trick he’s got with his eyelids; but his right name be Jim Fags,” was the reply.
“I know him,” observed the policeman. “Well, sir, as we’re acquainted with the parties, I should say we’re safe to be down upon ’em somewheres to-morrow. I’ll ride over to H————, and put all our men on the scent.”
“Stay! that gives me an idea,” said Coverdale; then turning to the under-keeper, he continued in a lower voice—“You are sure you hit Hargrave—are you, Giles?”
The young man nodded in the affirmative, and his master resumed,—
“Go and fetch Nero, poor Markum’s night-dog, muzzle him, and bring him in one of the greyhound leashes. We’ll contrive to take these rascals before day dawns, policeman.”
While Coverdale was explaining his plan to the patrol, Giles returned with the dog: it was a splendid animal, a cross between the English mastiff and a Spanish bloodhound. Its size was unusual, and its strength enormous. Its eyes glared red in the torchlight, like those of some wild beast. When it saw the policeman it uttered a low growl, and the bristles on its back stood up like a mane; but at a word from Coverdale it relinquished its hostile attitude, and with a sagacious look, which said almost as plainly as words could have expressed it—“I comprehend; it’s not him they’ve sent for me to worry”—thrust its huge head caressingly into its master’s hand.
“Now patrol,” resumed Coverdale, “if you will ride along the skirts of the wood, and lead my horse, I fancy I shall be able to put the dog on the track of these fellows—and, if so, he will never leave it till the game is run down. You have handcuffs with you?”
“Aye, and pistols too, for the matter of that,” was the reply.
“I don’t expect they will be required,” rejoined Coverdale; “the scoundrels will scarcely want more fighting than they’ve had already;” then signalling Giles to follow with the dog he turned, and, re-entering the plantation, soon reached the scene of the late conflict.
“Now try and find, an nearly as possible, the spot where Hargrave was when you fired at him,” began Coverdale; “give me the dog to hold, and take the lantern with you.”
Giles obeyed; and having walked about fifty paces down a narrow pathway through the wood, began carefully to examine the ground on either side. Having pursued his investigation for some minutes in silence, he paused, examined the spot still more closely, and then made a sign to Coverdale to join him.
On reaching the place Harry observed, by the light of the lantern, several dark spots, and a long mark on the soft ground, as though some person had slipped and nearly fallen, then deep footsteps led towards the outskirts of the wood. The moment the dog perceived the scent of blood all the savage instinct of its nature awoke, and, with a bound, which tested the strength of the leash, and nearly dislocated Coverdale’s shoulders, it sprang forward along the track of the fugitives. Five minutes’ painful toiling through bush and briar, brought them to the outskirts of the plantation, where they found the policeman waiting with the horses. Hastily springing to the saddle, Coverdale made Giles attach a small cord he had brought with him to the end of the leash, against which the bloodhound now strained impatiently; then twisting the other end round his own wrist, he was about to desire the under-keeper to return, when the patrol interfered by observing,—
“Better take Giles with us, sir!”
“Why so, policeman?” rejoined Coverdale, sharply; “we’re two to two, fresh men against tired ones; besides, you’re armed, and they’re not.”
“Jack’s got a gun with him, and is likely enough to use it now his steam’s up,” insinuated Giles, who by no means approved of losing his share in the expedition.
“And when we have nabbed ’em, I shall want help to convey ’em to H———— gaol,” pleaded the policeman. “I can take him up behind me.”
“As you will; only lose no more time,” was Coverdale’s reply; and cheering on the dog, he rode forward at a brisk trot.
The track led them through the Park, and then over hill and dale, ploughed field, and rough stubble, till it brought them out upon a wide bleak common, dotted here and there with patches of furze and broom, which showed dark and shadowy in the moonbeams, like plumes upon a hearse. Across the wildest and most tangled portion of the heath the dog led them, still straining at the leash, and uttering from time to time a suppressed whimper indicative of impatience. On the farther side of the common rose a steep bank, in one portion of which a deep hollow had been excavated for the purpose of obtaining gravel. As the dog approached this place, its eagerness became, if possible, stronger than before, until, at about thirty yards from the spot, it suddenly stopped, and again erecting the bristles on its back, uttered a deep growl. At the same moment, Coverdale, whose sight was remarkably keen, perceived a figure cautiously stealing away under cover of the bushes. Pointing him out to the policeman, whose horse was beginning to evince symptoms of distress under its double burden, Coverdale observed,—
“I can only see one man, but let us make sure of him. Get down Giles, and hold the dog. Now patrol, while I ride round that bush and head the fellow, do you go on and seize him; and if you want any assistance, I shall be ready to afford it.”
So saying, Coverdale rode forward to cut off the poacher’s retreat, while the policeman, putting spurs to his horse, and drawing his cutlass, dashed up to the fellow, and seized him by the collar.
Overawed by the gleaming weapon, and exhausted by his previous exertions, the unfortunate Jim Fags (alias Winkey) attempted no resistance; and the policeman availed himself of his pusillanimity to produce the handcuffs, and dextrously secure his prisoner. He was thus engaged when Coverdale, who was walking his horse quietly towards them, suddenly caught sight of what, at the first glance, appeared to him only the stump of a tree, but on closer inspection proved to be the figure of a man, crouching under the shadow of the gravel-pit, while, at the moment in which Coverdale first perceived him, he was taking a deliberate aim with a short gun at the unconscious patrol. For a moment the policeman’s life hung upon a thread; but a slight movement of the horse brought the unfortunate Winkey’s head into the line of fire, and his accomplice lowered his piece, and slightly altered his position, while he took fresh aim. The opportunity was not to be lost—quick as thought Coverdale rose in his stirrups, and with the full force of his muscular arm hurled the constable’s staff, which he had retained the whole evening, at the head of the kneeling figure. Fortunately for the policeman, the missile took effect, and, stunned by the force of the blow, Jack Hargrave (for he it was) measured his length upon the turf, discharging the gun harmlessly as he fell. Before he could regain his feet, Giles and the dog (who, but for his muzzle, would have torn the poacher to pieces) were upon him. In less than two hours from that time both the culprits were safely lodged in H———— gaol.