Dorset dear

by M. E. Francis

IN THE HEART OF THE GREEN.

When the new keeper and his wife took possession of their cottage, deep in the heart of Westbury Chase, summer was still at its height. Jim Whittle’s real responsibilities had not yet begun—a little breathing space was, as it were, allotted to the young couple before settling thoroughly into harness. So Betty thought at least, though Jim frequently reminded her that summer was as anxious a time as any other for a man in his position.

“What with folks expectin’ the young birds to be nigh full-growed afore they was much more than hatched out; and what wi’ the fear of there being too much wet, or too much sun, and varmint an’ sich-like, I can tell ye, Betty,” said he, “I’m as anxious in summer as in winter, very near.”

Nevertheless, he found time to do many little odd jobs for her which he could not have accomplished in the shooting season: knocking together shelves, digging in the garden, chopping up the store of wood which she herself collected as she strolled out in her spare hours. Betty was as happy as a bird in those days. Their new home had been put in order before their advent, and was spick and span from roof to threshold; the fresh thatch glinted bravely through the heavy summer foliage; the flowers in the little garden made patches of bright colour amid the surrounding green. Betty herself in her print dress and with her hair shining like polished gold, Betty carrying her six-months-old child poised on her round arm, was an almost startling figure to those who came upon her suddenly in the leafy aisles about her home. Brown and grey and fawn and russet are the tones chiefly affected by forest people; yet here were the mother and child, wood creatures both of them, flaunting it in their pinks and yellows before autumn had so much as crimsoned a leaf.

What wonder that the shy folk in fur or feather peered at them with round astonished eyes, ere scuttling to cover or taking to flight.

Dick Tuffin, the woodman, looked up in surprise from the faggot he had just bound together, when Betty and her baby-boy came towards him one sunny morning from one of the many shadowy avenues which abutted on a glade cleared by his own hands. As she advanced, he sat back upon his heels amid the slender sappy victims of his axe, and frankly stared at her.

He was a young man, dark as a gipsy, muscular and lithe, with quick-glancing eyes and a flashing smile.

“Good-day,” said Betty, pausing civilly.

“Good-day to you, Mum. I d’ ’low you be new keeper’s wife?”

“Yes, I am Mrs. Whittle,” said Betty. “Are you cutting down my husband’s woods?” she added, smiling.

“Ah! your husband’s woods ’ud not be in sich good order as they do be if it wasn’t for I an’ sich as I,” returned the man. “I do cut down a piece reg’lar every year, an’ then the young growth comes, d’ye see, twice so thick as before, so that the game can find so much shelter as they do like.”

“And what are you going to do with all these poor little trees?” inquired Betty. “They are too green for firewood, aren’t they?”

“Well,” said Dick, with his infectious smile, “I make hurdles wi’ ’em for one thing, an’ some of ’em goes for pea-sticks, an’ others is made into besoms. They mid be green,” he added reflectively, “but folks do come here often enough a-pickin’ up scroff for burnin’.”

Here the child on Betty’s arm began to whimper, and she nodded to it and dandled it, her own person keeping up a swaying, dancing movement the while.

Dick Tuffin watched her, at first with a smile; but presently his face clouded.

“You have a better time of it, Mrs. Whittle,” said he, “nor my poor little ’ooman at home. You do see your husband so often as you like; but there, I must bide away from home for weeks and months at a time. I mid almost say I haven’t got a home; and Mary, she mid say she haven’t got a husband.”

“How’s that?” inquired Betty, pausing, with the now laughing child suspended in mid-air, to turn her astonished face upon him.

“My place is nigh upon fifteen mile away from here. I go travellin’ the country round, cuttin’ the woods and makin’ hurdles; an’ ’tis too far to get back except for a little spell now and then. I didn’t think o’ wedlock when I took up the work, an’ now I d’ ’low I wouldn’t care to turn to any other. But ’tis hard on the ’ooman.”

“She oughtn’t to let you do it!” cried the keeper’s wife firmly. “Ha’ done, Jim; ha’ done, thou naughty boy! I’ll throw thee over the trees in a minute!”

The child had clutched at her golden locks, pulling one strand loose; she caught at the chubby hand, made believe to slap it, and then kissed the little pink palm half a dozen times.

“Your wife ought to make you get your livin’ some other way,” she added seriously.

“It couldn’t be done now,” said the woodman. “I have done nothin’ but fell trees an’ plesh hurdles since I was quite a little ’un. I couldn’t do naught else,” he added somewhat dreamily; “I fancy I couldn’t bide anywhere except in a wood.”

“Well, ’tis a fine life,” said she, willing to say something civil.

“Yes, pleasant enough,” he agreed. “If I could tole my missus about I’d never complain; but, there! it can’t be done.”

He tossed the faggot on one side, and began to collect materials for another. Betty noticed a great rent in his fustian waistcoat, and, commenting upon the fact, volunteered to mend it.

“’Tis awkward for ye having no one to sew for ye,” she added, as Dick gratefully divested himself of the garment in question.

“’Tis that,” agreed Tuffin. “I do move about so often the folks where I lodge do never seem to take a bit of interest in I. My wife, she do fair cry at times when she do see the state my things be in. Come, I’ll hold the youngster for ye, Mum.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right on the soft grass here!”

“Nay, I’d like to hold ’en if ye’ll let me. I want to get my hand in, d’ye see. There’ll be a little un at our place very soon.”

“I do call it unfeelin’ of ye to leave your wife alone at such a time,” remarked Betty reprovingly.

“Her mother’s wi’ her,” returned Dick. “I’ll go home for a bit in a fortnight or so, but I must be back in October.”

He chirruped to the child, swinging him high in the air, till Baby Jim crowed and laughed again. Soon Mrs. Whittle’s task was accomplished, and she handed back the waistcoat to its owner, receiving his profuse thanks in return. As she walked away through the chequered light and shade Dick looked after her.

“Some folks is luckier nor others,” he said. “Keeper can live in the woods and have wife and child anigh him, too; but I, if I be to live at all, must live alone.”

Then he thought of the little brown wife in that far-away village, and wondered with a sudden tightening of the heart-strings how she was getting on; but presently he whistled again, in time to the rhythmic strokes of his axe, as he pointed the sowels for his next lot of hurdles.

On the following morning when Betty was sweeping out her house a shadow fell across the threshold, and, looking up, she descried the woodman.

“I’ve brought ye a new besom,” said he, with a somewhat shamefaced smile. “One good turn do deserve another, Mrs. Whittle.”

“Thank ye kindly, I’m sure,” returned Betty, with a bright smile. “I never thought of your making any return for the few stitches I set for ye. The besom is a beauty, Mr. Tuffin.”

“Glad ye like it,” said Dick, turning to take his leave.

“If ye’ve any other bits o’ mending, Mr. Tuffin,” Betty called after him, “I’d be pleased to do ’em for ye.”

“Nay, now, I don’t like puttin’ too much on your good nature, Mrs. Whittle,” said Dick, glancing over his shoulder with a sheepish smile.

But the keeper’s wife insisted; and presently Dick confessed that there were a good few socks lying by at his lodgings in sore need of repair.

On the morrow he brought them, with the addition of a large basket of “scroff,” or chips, for firing.

Keeper Jim was much amused at this exchange of civilities; but was so far moved with compassion for Tuffin’s lonely wife that he contributed a couple of nice young rabbits to the little packet of comforts which Betty sent her when Dick went home for his brief holiday; and he was both touched and gratified when little Mrs. Tuffin sent a return tribute of new-laid eggs and fresh vegetables to the woman who had befriended her Dick.

Autumn came, scarcely perceptible at first in this sheltered spot; little drifts of yellow leaves strewed Betty’s threshold of a morning; there was a brave show of berries amid the undergrowth; maple bushes lit cool fires here and there; and travellers’ joy and bryony flung silver-spangled tendrils or jewelled chains across a tangle of orange and crimson and brown. The delicate tracery of twigs, the gnarled strength of boughs, became ever more perceptible as the leafage thinned; Jim could see more of the thatch of his house as he tramped homewards, and could mark through the jagged outline of the naked boughs how the blue smoke-wreaths blew hither and thither as they issued from his chimney.

There was a growing sense of excitement in the woods; their silence was often broken by startled cries and the whirring of great wings. Soon the glades would echo to the sound of the beaters’ sticks; dry twigs would crack beneath the sportsmen’s feet; shots would wake the slumbering echoes; and then a cart would come and bear away the rigid bodies erstwhile so blithe. Betty almost cried as she thought of the fate that awaited the pretty birds which she had so often fed with her own hand and which the baby had loved to watch; but Jim chid her when she said she hoped many of them would escape.

“Tell ’ee what,” he remarked sternly, “if the gentry don’t find more pheasants nor in the wold chap’s time they’ll say I bain’t worth my salt. There, what be making such a fuss about? ’Tis what they be brought up for. D’ye think folks ’ud want to be watchin’ ’em an’ feedin’ ’em an’ lookin’ arter ’em always if ’twasn’t that they mid get shot in the end? They must die some way, d’ye see; and I d’ ’low if ye was to ax ’em, they pheasants ’ud liefer come rocketin’ down wi’ a dose o’ lead in their innards nor die natural-like by freezin’ or starvin’ or weasels or sich.”

Jim grew more and more enthusiastic as the time drew nearer for the big shoot, which was, as he expected, to establish his reputation. This was not to take place till late in November, so as to allow time for the trees to be fully denuded of their leaves. The keeper often talked darkly of the iniquities of certain village ne’er-do-weels, who, according to him, thought no more of snaring a rabbit than of lying down in their beds.

“If they only kept to rabbits,” he added once, “it wouldn’t be so bad; but when those chaps gets a footin’ in these woods there’s no knowin’ where they’ll stop. But they’ll find I ready for them. They’ll find I bain’t so easy to deal wi’ as wold Jenkins.”

“Dear, to be sure, Jim, I wish you wouldn’t talk so!” said Betty. “You make me go all of a tremble! I shall be afeard to stop here by myself when you’re away on your beat if you ’fray me wi’ such tales. I don’t like to think there’s poachin’ folk about.”

“There, they’d never want to do nothin’ to a woman,” said Jim consolingly; “’tis the game they’re arter. They’ll not come anigh the house, bless ye!”

“Well, but I don’t like to think they mid go fightin’ you,” she whimpered.

Jim bestowed a sounding kiss on her smooth cheek.

“Don’t ye fret yoursel’,” he cried; “they’ll run away fast enough when they do see I comin’. Why, what a little foolish ’ooman thou be’est! There, give over cryin’. I didn’t ought to ha’ talked about such things.”

Betty’s pretty eyes were still somewhat pink, however, as she came strolling into Dick’s quarters that afternoon; and her lip drooped when in answer to his questions she divulged the cause.

“Afeard o’ poachers!” exclaimed the woodman, with a laugh. “Bless ye, Mrs. Whittle, poachers bain’t no worse nor other folks! Dalled if I can see much harm in a man catchin’ a rabbit or two when there’s such a-many of ’em about! The place be fair swarmin’ wi’ ’em o’ nights.”

Betty was much shocked; and returned reprovingly that it couldn’t ever be right to steal. “And poachin’ is but stealin’,” she summed up severely.

“Stealin’!” echoed Dick; “nay, ye’ll never make me believe that. I d’ ’low the Lard did make they little wild things for the poor so well as for the rich. Pheasants, now,” he continued, ruminating, “I won’t say as any one has a right to take pheasants except the man what owns the woods. I’d as soon rob a hen-roost, for my part, as go arter one o’ they fat tame things as mid be chicken for all the spirit what’s in ’em. I’d never ax to interfere wi’ a pheasant,” he continued reflectively, “wi’out it was jist for the fun o’ the thing. But settin’ a gin or two—wi’ all these hundreds and thousands o’ rabbits runnin’ under a body’s feet—ye’ll never make me think there’s a bit o’ harm in it.”

“Don’t let my husband hear such talk!” said Betty loftily.

The woodman laughed again. “I wouldn’t mind speakin’ out plain to his face,” said he. “Him and me is the best o’ friends—I do like en very well,” continued Dick handsomely; “better nor I ever thought to like a gamekeeper. As a rule, I don’t hold with folks what goes spyin’ about, a-tryin’ to catch other folks in the wrong. I never could a-bear a policeman, now—’tis my belief they do more harm than good.”

“Gracious!” ejaculated the scandalised Betty. “I don’t know how you can go for to say such things.”

“Well, d’ye see, ’tis this way,” explained Dick. “If a man do want for to get drunk, drunk he’ll get if there be farty policemen arter him. If he’s willin’ to make a beast of hisself, and to ruin his wife and family, and to get out o’ work an’ everything, for the sake of a drap o’ drink, ’tisn’t a policeman that ’ull stop him. And if a chap do want to fight another chap—his blood being up, d’ye see—he’ll fight en—ah, that he will! and give no thought at all to the chance o’ bein’ run in for it. And jist same way—if a body has a notion to trap a rabbit, trap it he will, keeper or no keeper.”

Here Dick selected a sapling and began to trim it leisurely, pursing up his lips the while in a silent whistle.

“I’ll not tell Whittle all you’ve said,” remarked Betty with dignity, as she shifted her baby from one arm to the other, and prepared to walk on. “He mid think you was a poacher yourself.”

“You may tell him if you like,” retorted Dick, and then he whistled out loud and clapped his hands at the baby, which thereupon laughed ecstatically, and almost sprang from its mother’s arms. The keeper’s wife relaxed, and mentally resolved to make no allusion to Dick’s unorthodox sentiments in conversing with her husband. Jim himself had said that it wouldn’t be so bad if folks only kept to rabbits, and Dick had intimated that he would never care to touch anything else. A body should not be too hard, she reflected, on a poor fellow who had no home, so to speak; why, he was almost like a wild creature of the woods himself, living out in all weathers, sleeping often under the stars, picking up a chance meal as he best could—there was no great wonder if he had become as lawless as the four-footed “varmint” against whom the keepers waged such fierce war.

One evening, shortly before the great shoot was to take place, Jim came home to tea in a state of contained excitement. When the meal was over he went to the door, and began, to his wife’s surprise, to examine the fastenings carefully.

“’Tis a good stout bolt,” he remarked, “and the lock be a new ’un. I d’ ’low if house was shut up you wouldn’t be afeard to bide alone in it?”

Betty immediately demonstrated the presence of mind which she would be likely to display under such circumstances by uttering a loud scream.

“Oh, Jim, Jim!” she cried, “why be goin’ to stop out all night? I do know so well as if you did tell me that you be goin’ into danger.”

“Danger!” cried the keeper, thumping his great chest, “not much fear o’ that! There, don’t ye be so foolish. Me and Stubbs be a-goin’ over t’other side o’ the park down to the river to see to that ’ere decoy for duck, as squire be so set on puttin’ to rights. ’Tis five mile away; we be like to be kep’ late, very late—till daybreak, most like; but do you make the house fast, old ’ooman, and no harm ’ull come to either of us.”

Had Betty not been so much absorbed in the main issue, she might have detected something improbable about the keeper’s story; but, as it was, her fears for him were almost lost in the horror of being left all night alone in that desolate spot.

Jim, however, jested at her terrors, and himself made the round of the cottage, fastening the casements and securing the seldom-used front door. He stood outside the threshold while she drew the bolts and locked the back one.

“Get to thy bed early,” he called to her. “Go to sleep so fast as thou can; and first thing thou knows thou’lt hear me knockin’ to be let in.”

But somebody else knocked before Betty had any thought of going to bed; before, indeed, she had finished washing up the tea-things.

“Who’s that?” cried she, thrusting a scared face out of the window.

“It’s me, Mrs. Whittle—Dick Tuffin. I’ve a-brought ye back your hamper what I promised to mend for ye. Why, ye be shut up very early, bain’t ye?”

“Whittle’s gone travellin’ off a long way,” she answered with a scarcely perceptible sob. “There, he be gone to the river—’tis a good five mile off, he do say. I’m frightened to death here by myself.”

She heard him laugh in the darkness.

“How ’ud ye like to be my little wife,” he asked, “as bides alone night after night, wi’ nobody but the little ’un, now her mother have a-left her? I wouldn’t be afeard, Mrs. Whittle. Your house be so safe as a church; and there’s Duke—he’s big enough and strong enough to guard ye. Hark to en barkin’ now, the minute he do hear my voice!”

“Well, and that’s true,” agreed Betty in a more cheerful tone. “Thank ye for mendin’ the hamper, Mr. Tuffin. I’ll open the door in a minute.”

“No, don’t ye bother to do that,” said Dick. “The hamper’ll take no harm out here till morning. Good-night to ye.”

“Good-night,” said Betty, closing the window.

She heard the sound of his footsteps die away, and then the loneliness of the forest night seemed to close in upon her. Jim had often been out as late as this, and later, but the mere knowledge that he did not intend to return till daybreak made her more nervous than she had ever been. When the logs crackled or fell together she started violently; the moaning of the wind in the branches without filled her with dread, though often, when she and her husband sat by the hearth, they had declared the sound made them feel more snug. More than once she opened the window and listened; a fine, close rain was falling, making a dull patter upon the thatched roof, dripping from the eves; but besides these sounds there were many others, strange, unaccountable, terrifying—creakings and crackings of boughs; now what seemed to be a stealthy tread, now whispering voices. She chid herself for these fancies, knowing well that they must be without foundation, since Duke remained silent; nevertheless her flesh crept and the dew of terror started to her brow.

At length, making a strong resolution, she went up to her attic bedchamber, undressed, and, taking the child into her arms, crept into bed. But she lay there for a long time, quaking, and staring with wide-open eyes into the darkness; until, overcome by sheer fatigue after a long and busy day, she fell asleep.

She woke up suddenly, and sat for a moment vainly endeavouring to disentangle the confusion of sound which filled her ears. Her heart was beating like a drum, the blood surged in her brain—a dream-panic was still upon her, and yet there were certain other unmistakable noises to be heard without. Duke was barking in frenzied fashion and straining at his chain; men were shouting at no very great distance, and now—what was that? A single shot!

“It’s the poachers!” exclaimed Betty, with chattering teeth. “Pray God they don’t come here!”

In the midst of her anguish of fear she felt a sudden rush of gratitude. Jim was safe out of the way, thanks be! Jim would not be back till the folks had got off with their spoil. But now Duke was whimpering and crying in a most eerie and heartrending manner, and presently uplifted his voice in long-drawn howls which jarred upon Betty’s overwrought nerves beyond endurance. She jumped out of bed and ran to the casement. It had ceased raining, and though the moon rode between piles of angry clouds, she sent forth at that moment an extraordinarily clear light. Betty could see the skeleton branches of the trees all wet and shining as they tossed against the sky; the little paved path glimmered white; yonder stood a dark patch—Dick’s hamper. She could see Duke pacing round and round his kennel, at the utmost length of his chain; now sniffing the ground, now lifting up his head for another howl.

She rapped at the pane and called to him sharply; and the dog looked up at her window, and suddenly wheeled in the opposite direction, pricking his ears.

Steps were heard approaching—slow, lagging steps—and presently two figures came staggering together out of the wood. Betty screamed as they emerged from the shadow, and then leaned forth, paralysed with dread; for as the two slowly advanced into the moonlit path she recognised Stubbs, the under-keeper, and saw that he was supporting, almost carrying, his companion.

“Be that you, Mrs. Whittle?” cried Stubbs. “Come down, Mum, come down this minute! This be a bad night’s work!”

The man leaning upon him raised his head with an inarticulate attempt to speak, and Betty saw that it was Jim—her own Jim—her husband! But, oh! what tale was that told by the drawn features and glassy eyes?

She had screamed at the unknown terror, but she uttered no sound now. Before they reached the door she had mechanically thrown on her dress over her nightgown, and had come downstairs, pattering with her bare feet. She flung open the door, and put her arms round her husband, almost as if she grudged him any support but hers.

“My poor little ’ooman!” said Jim brokenly; “I d’ ’low I’m done for.”

With Stubbs’ aid she stretched him on the sofa, and unfastened coat and waistcoat. She drew out her hand from his bosom suddenly, and looked at it with a shudder: it was red!

“Ah, he’s got the whole charge in en somewhere,” groaned Stubbs. “There was a lot of ’em out to-night, and we catched one of ’em; he fought like a devil, he did—’twas in wrestling wi’ him poor Whittle’s gun went off. Dear to be sure, ’tis awful to think on. His own gun!”

“Where’s the man?” asked Betty sharply; her face was as white as a sheet—her lips drawn back from her gleaming teeth.

“Oh, he made off, ye mid be sure,” returned the other. “I don’t know who he was. ’Twas in the thick o’ the trees yonder we come on ’em. Moon had gone in and ’twas as dark as pitch.”

“Do you think my husband will die!” gasped Betty.

“Ah! ’tis a bad job—’tis surely,” responded the other, almost whimpering; “and the worst on’t is we be nigh six mile from a doctor.”

“Oh, Mr. Stubbs,” cried the keeper’s wife earnestly, “let’s do everything we can, any way! Will ye go for the doctor for me? Do! I’ll—I’ll give ye every penny in the house if ye will!”

“Lard! my dear ’ooman, I don’t want no pay for doin’ what I can at sich a time. I’ll go, to be sure, an’ make so much haste as I can; but—won’t ye be afeard to bide here all alone—and him so bad?”

Betty saw that he expected her husband would die before his return, but she did not flinch.

“I will do anything in the world so long as there’s a chance of saving him!” she cried. “Run, Mr. Stubbs, run! Make haste—oh, do make haste!”

Stubbs drew his arm from beneath the wounded man’s shoulder, and hastened away without another word. Betty went to her linen-drawer, and found an old sheet, which she tied round Jim’s body to staunch the bleeding; he seemed to have received the charge chiefly in his right side. He opened his eyes and smiled at her faintly, and then she dropped on her knees beside him.

“Jim,” she whispered, “you never went away arter all?”

He shook his head feebly. “I meant it for the best,” he said; “I heard these chaps would be up to their tricks to-night, and I thought me and Stubbs ’ud catch them.”

“Oh, Jim,” said Betty, “ye told me a lie!”

“I meant it for the best, my dear,” he returned faintly. “I didn’t want ye to be frayed—poor little ’ooman! Ye mustn’t be vexed.”

Betty stooped and kissed him, and he closed his eyes.

“I reckon I’m goin’,” he said. “Well, I done my dooty. But what ’ull ye do, my dear?”

“I’ll manage,” said Betty.

Her voice had a harsh note quite unlike its own; she sank down in a heap on the floor, staring before her. She knew what she would do if Jim died. She would first of all find the man who had killed him, and then—oh, he should pay for it!

Jim had fallen into a kind of drowsy state, and presently his hand slipped down and unconsciously touched hers: it was very cold. Betty, rousing herself, went towards the hearth, drawing the embers together. There was not enough fuel, however, to make much of a fire; and, softly opening the door, she went out to the woodshed, her bare feet making no sound on the damp stones. As she was returning with her burden the wicket-gate swung open, and Dick Tuffin come up the path.

“Mrs. Whittle! Mrs. Whittle!” he called pantingly.

She turned and confronted him. The moon had dipped behind the trees and she could not distinguish his face, but something in the aspect of the man struck her with a lightning-like intuition.

“Come in,” she said hoarsely.

Dick followed her into the house, starting back at sight of the prostrate figure on the couch. Betty dropped her wood on the hearth and came swiftly across to him with her panther-like tread. There was an expression on her face which might have recalled the beast in question. She placed both her hands upon his breast, and he, giving way before them, stepped backwards a few paces.

“Look at him,” said Betty; “he is dying! Dick Tuffin, it is you who have killed my husband!”

“I swear I didn’t know it was him,” faltered Dick. “I’d no thought of harm. I went out with the others for a frolic. You yourself did tell I your husband was miles away.”

She had told him! He would make out that she had delivered him into their hands! A red mist came before her eyes.

“Even when he did catch I,” went on Dick, “I didn’t know who ’twas. But somebody told me jist now that Stubbs was runnin’ for the doctor for en, so I come—I couldn’t rest, ye see. I had to come. Mrs. Whittle, I don’t know what you’ll say to me.”

Betty said nothing at all, but the steady pressure of her hands upon his breast increased, and, as before, Dick recoiled beneath it. Her eyes were blazing in her white face; her dishevelled fair hair fell about her shoulders. Dick gazed at her remorsefully, suffering her unresistingly to push him the length of the little room and through an open doorway. He imagined her to be ejecting him from the house, but all in a moment she threw her whole weight upon him with such violence that he stumbled and fell. Before he could recover he found the door closed upon him and bolted. He heard hasty steps in the inner room and the dragging across the floor of some heavy piece of furniture, which was presently pushed against the door.

“Mrs. Whittle!” he called out, “what are you doing? Are you mad?”

Then came Betty’s voice, harsh and broken: “I’ve got ye, Dick Tuffin! Ye can’t get out; there’s no window and no other door. I’ve got ye and I mean to keep ye! Ye’ve killed my husband—ye’ve made me a widow and my child an orphan—an’ I’ll not rest till I do the same by your wife and your child.”

And then something else came battering up against the door. Dick had no doubt but that the barricade was now complete. He felt about him in the darkness, identifying shelves, one or two small barrels, a crock: he was in the buttery most likely. He might possibly force his way out; the bolt was in all probability not very strong, and once the door was opened he could soon do away with all other obstacles; but then he would have that fierce woman to encounter. He could not escape without doing her some hurt, and the awful face of the wounded man would again meet his gaze. Besides, of what use would it be to attempt to escape? He was well known in the place, and the police would soon track him.

He sat down, therefore, with the resignation of despair, shivering from time to time, and straining his ears for every sound in the next room. He heard poor Jim groan now and then, and Betty speak to him in a voice of such yearning tenderness that it was scarcely recognisable as the same which had threatened himself a little while before. He thought of Betty as she had first come upon him, so young and gay in her pink dress, and with her yellow hair glancing in the sun, and of the child which he had so often dandled in his arms. Widow and orphan! Widow and orphan! And all because Dick Tuffin had gone out with a few idle chaps for a night’s frolic. And then he thought of his own little woman at home: he seemed to see her in her “deep”. And the little one, who would never be able to hold up his head because they hanged his father.

Thus did he muse very sorrowfully until slumber overtook him in that inexplicable fashion with which it will sometimes come upon the weary and anxious of heart. And he slept until the grey light of morning began to creep through the chinks of the barricaded door.

He heard voices in the adjoining room—men’s voices, and Betty’s; then the tread of feet walking in unison. The little stairs creaked; the heavy footfalls now tramped in the room overhead, then descended again, and crossed the kitchen. Now the folks were leaving the house; he could hear them clattering down the path, and caught the swing of the gate.

“It’s all over,” he said to himself, “they’ve carried the poor chap upstairs.”

A sudden numbness came upon him: it was true, then, and not a bad dream. Poor Jim Whittle was dead, and he, Dick, had killed him; and now Betty would give him up to the police, and he would be tried and convicted and hanged.

Dick was not very learned in the statutes of his country, and had no manner of doubt that since the keeper had been killed in struggling with him—by his hand, it might be said, for the gun had gone off owing to Dick’s endeavour to wrench it away—he would have to pay the full penalty of the law. To be hanged by the neck until he was dead. He put his hand to his throat, and drew a long sobbing breath.

After what seemed an interminable time, he heard once more the sound of voices in the kitchen—a man’s voice and Betty’s—then a quick firm step crossing the room to the house-door, and finally the retreating sounds of a horse’s feet. Then there was a scraping and bumping of furniture; the rim of light which had been perceptible but half-way down the door suddenly lengthened, the bolt grated in its hasps, and in another moment Betty stood before him.

Dick had been so long imprisoned in the darkness that at first he could hardly bear the flood of wintry light which burst upon him. And there, in the midst of it, was the woman, with so bright a face that he could scarce credit his eyes. She stretched out both hands to him and cried:—

“He be to live! Doctor says he be to live!” Her voice faltered and broke, the tears leaped from her eyes. “Thank God!” she cried. “Oh, thank God! He’ll live! My Jim’s to live!”

Dick came staggering forth from his cell. His brown face was blanched to a sickly pallor; he trembled in every limb. Choking back her sobs, Betty again extended her hand to him, and he wrung it; but, turning from her, he leaned against the wall, hiding his face. His shoulders were heaving.

“Doctor says he’ll not die,” pursued Betty betwixt laughing and crying. “He’s young and strong, he says, and he’ll get over it. ‘We’ll get as much lead as we can out of him,’ says doctor, ‘and he’ll carry the rest quite comfortable, as many another has done before him.’”

She laughed a feeble, wavering laugh that ended in a sob. “He said we’d best get him upstairs and put him to bed,” continued Betty. “Stubbs and another man come up from the village, so they carried him up; and doctor’s been with him a long time, and he’s sleepin’ now.”

She told her tale brokenly, with a little gasp between each word; but Dick made no comment. Presently he turned round again, his face still working.

“Mrs. Whittle,” he said unsteadily, “I’d like ye to hear me say so solemn as I can, as I’ll never lay another finger on any creature in the woods. I’ll never touch another feather——”

“Oh, it’s all right, it’s all right!” interrupted she quickly. “I’d like ye to hear me say summat too. I was mad last night, but I bain’t so hard-hearted as I made out. Even if my Jim had died I wouldn’t never ha’—I wouldn’t ha’ made a widow of your poor wife, nor yet an orphan o’ the baby.”