“To see me! You are very good. I hope you’ll dine with us to-morrow, if Barbary will spare you.”
“Ah! I don’t know about that; I’m afraid not. Anyway, I have a tale to tell you first.”
Sitting on the other side the fire, opposite the Squire, the wine and walnuts on the table between them, he told the tale of that past Tuesday night.
He had gone out with Barbary in a fit of foolishness, not intending to do any harm to the game or to join in any harm, though Barbary had insisted on his carrying a loaded gun. The moon was remarkably bright. Not long had they been out, going cautiously, when on drawing near Dyke Neck, they became aware that some poachers were already abroad, and that the keepers were tracking them; so there was nothing for it but to steal back again. They had nearly reached Caramel Cottage, and were making for the side gate, when a huge dog flew up, barking. Barbary called out that it was the Squire’s dog, and——
“Bless me!” interjected the Squire at this.
“Yes, sir, your dog, Don,” continued Mr. Reste. “Barbary very foolishly kicked the dog: he was in a panic, you see, lest the noise of its barking should bring up the keepers. That kick must have enraged Don, and he fastened savagely on Barbary’s leg. I, fearing for Barbary’s life, or some lesser injury, grew excited, and fired at the dog. It killed him.”
The Squire drew a deep breath.
“Not daring to leave the dog at the gate, for it might have betrayed us, we drew him across the yard to the brewhouse, and locked the door upon him. But while doing this, Ben Gibbon passed, and thereby learnt what had happened. The next day, Barbary and I had some bickering together. I wanted to come to you and confess the truth openly; Barbary forbade it, saying it would ruin him: we could bury the dog that night or the next, he said, and nobody would ever be the wiser. In the evening, Gibbon came in; he was all for Barbary’s opinion, and opposed mine. After he left, I and Barbary had a serious quarrel. I said I would leave there and then; he resented it, and followed me into the yard to try to keep me. But my temper was up, and I set off to walk to Evesham, telling him to send my traps after me, and to direct them to Euston Square Station. I took the first morning train that passed through Evesham for London, and made my mind up on the journey to go abroad for a week or two. Truth to confess,” added the speaker, “I felt a bit of a coward about the dog, not knowing what proceedings you might take if it came to light, and I deemed it as well to be out of the way for a time. But I don’t like being a coward, Mr. Todhetley, it is a role I have never been used to, and I came down to-day to confess all. Barbary is going away, so it will not damage him: besides, it was really I who killed the dog, not he. And now, sir, I throw myself upon your mercy. What do you say to me?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” said the Squire, who was in a rare good humour, and liked the young fellow besides. “It was a bad thing to do—poor faithful Don! But it’s Christmas-tide, so I suppose we must say no more about it. Let bygones be bygones.”
Edgar Reste grasped his hand.