My father had held a poor clerkship with the East India Company. He had left the House late in the day to carry a letter down to the docks for the master of an Indiaman; but had never delivered the letter, and had vanished without trace or word. I remembered my mother’s pitiful distress, as day succeeded day without tidings, and the cloud of mystery was in no way lifted. A countrywoman and friendless, she could make little search for him; it was assumed by the gentlemen of the East India House, that he had been pressed aboard one of the King’s ships; even so, none of his name was ever found among the crews, though the interest of the Company secured inquiry from the Commissioners of His Majesty’s Navy.
And my mother, distraught for many days, seemed stricken with terror of the Town and its associations, and took coach and fled away with me to Chelton; all the years since we had had no word of my father and did not know whether he was alive or dead. We had lived quietly in a little cottage on the edge of Chelton—the last dwelling, indeed, of the village ere the street passed into the great highway. My mother was possessed of small means—a legacy, I believed, from a kinsman, though she would tell me nothing either of my father’s family or of her own. She had not sufficient for our needs; she added to our means by fine needlework for the Squire’s lady and her folk; how she found the five guineas a year for which the Rev. Mr. Vining allowed me to share the studies and the discipline of his son Tony I did not know. Yet, though I, lazy and graceless young dog as I was, urged her to let me seek employment in Chelton or in London itself, she would not hear of this. She declared, dear soul, that she would have me first a scholar; even though I had turned seventeen, there was time and to spare for me to choose a calling. So with Tony I had become an equally indifferent scholar, in spite of Mr. Vining’s cane, and as abandoned a rogue and poacher. So I sat now with the parson’s son awaiting Squire Chelton’s summary justice, and most like Tim Kerrick’s execution of it. But Mr. Bradbury—?
Mr. Bradbury sat in a cushioned chair by the fire; Mr. Chelton supported his huge body more or less steadily against the chimney-piece, when at last Tim Kerrick paraded us before them in the library. It was a vast room,—its shelves lined with books, none of which, I fear, Mr. Chelton had ever opened from the day when his father’s death put him into possession of the Hall and its acres. Old Mr. Gilbert Chelton’s portrait looked coldly down from its gilded frame above the chimney-piece on his stout son, flushed from his drink—his red coat, buckskins and high boots all mud-splashed from the cross-country ride of the day. Squire Chelton had not changed his rig to do honour to his guests, who, I took it from the roars of laughter yet sounding in the dining-room, were gentlemen of tastes similar to his own. His iron-grey hair was wind-blown; his blood-shot eyes were as unsteady as his legs. He exuded good humour—natural to him, but stimulated by as liberal an indulgence in the contents of his cellar as he expected from any gentleman of his company. While Mr. Gilbert’s portrait looked its disapproval, the paintings of four other dead and gone Cheltons of a marked resemblance to the Squire seemed to regard him enviously from their old frames.
Mr. Bradbury, if he had not been permitted to spare the bottle at dinner, made no show of it in his complexion. He sat by the fire, his legs crossed; he had a silver snuff-box set with some glittering gem in his left hand; his face was almost as white as his linen. Observing him, I had a sense that the mind at the back of his broad brow was as keen and as sparkling as the jewels on his fingers. With his leanness, his bloodlessness, his coldly impassive face, his cunning eyes peering through his spectacles, he was as odd a contrast to his stout, drink-flushed patron in his riding-rig as were his air of precision and the trimness of his dress to the frank disorder of the rich furniture in the room. Squire Chelton’s desk was littered with papers and parchments; an inkhorn was overset among them; goose quills had blown to the carpet; hats, cloaks, riding-whips, and gloves were tossed pell-mell on chairs and table. On this dark oaken table a half-emptied flagon of crystal and silver was set, and a circle of glasses stained with the red dregs of wine. The library was lit by many tall candles in silver sticks, and by the leaping flames from the hearth before which Mr. Bradbury warmed himself, with the reflections flashing from his jewelled hands, his snuff-box and the silver buckles of his shoes. I noted the keenness of Mr. Bradbury’s gaze immediately Tim thrust us forward; all the while I remained in the room, I fancied that his eyes never left me.
“Here’s the young varmints, sir and Mr. Bradbury,” Tim announced, touching his forelock.
“Young Vining and young Howe,—hey?” cried Mr. Chelton, essaying to frown majestically. “Caught poaching! Ye’re a credit to the parson who has the schooling of the pair of ye. What have ye to say for yourselves? Come!”
We stared up at Mr. Chelton; grinned foolishly, but said nothing.
“Answer the Squire, varmint! Answer the Squire!” Tim muttered hoarsely at our backs.
“Tell the story for them, Kerrick,” said Mr. Chelton. “Maybe when they hear your account they’ll be ready enough to answer for themselves and call you a liar”—chuckling.
Tim, stepping forward, briskly told his tale—no, he told the tale of poachings from Chelton for the twelvemonth past, not limiting himself to the matter of the evening, the rabbit in Tony’s jacket or the conjectured content of my bag. Not a pheasant, not a hare, not a rabbit had been poached from Chelton, but had gone—on Tim’s assertion—in company with Tony and me,—the worst pair of varmints, Tim dubbed us, as never was. Meanwhile, Squire Chelton from ruddy grew purple, from good-humoured choleric and from choleric nigh choking with passion. From time to time, as Tim proceeded, Mr. Chelton would burst out, “D’ye hear this, Bradbury?” or “D’ye hear that?” Mr. Bradbury nodded; said nothing, and took snuff, while he peered at me through his spectacles. Tim wound up with a narration of the affair of the evening,—glowering at him I rejoiced to see the damage wrought by the bramble to his nose and chin.