This was grist at once to the mill of the able lawyer Dare Deville. He looked on and rubbed his hands. Warrants were speedily issued by the baronets of Bullockshed and Tenterhook, for the apprehension of the individuals who had been seen carrying off the notice-boards, for larceny; and against a number of others for trespass, and for aiding and abetting. There was plenty of work for Dare Deville and his brethren of the robe; but it all ended, after the flying about of sundry mandamuses and assize trials, in Sir Roger finding that though Rockville was his, the roads through it were the public’s.
As Sir Roger drove homewards from the assize, which finally settled the question of those foot-paths, he heard the bells in all the steeples of Great Castleborough burst forth with a grand peal of triumph. He closed the windows of his fine old carriage, and sunk into a corner: but he could not drown the intolerable sound. “But,” said he, “I’ll stop their pic-nicing. I’ll stop their fishing. I’ll have hold of them for trespassing and poaching!” There was war henceforth between Rockville and Great Castleborough.
On the next Sunday there came literally thousands of the jubilant Castleburghians to Rockville. They had brought baskets and wine for dining and drinking success to all foot-paths. But in the great grove there were keepers and watchers, who warned them to keep the path, that narrow, well-worn line up the middle of the grove. “What! were they not to sit on the grass?” “No.” “What! were they not to pic-nic?” “No; not there!”
The Castleburghians felt a sudden damp on their spirits. But the river-bank! The cry was “to the river-bank! There they would pic-nic!” The crowd rushed away down the wood; but there they found a whole regiment of watchers, who pointed again to the narrow line of foot-path, and told them not to trespass beyond it. But the islands! They went over to the islands. There, too, were Sir Roger’s forces, who warned them back. There was no road there—all found there would be trespassers, and be duly punished.
The Castleburghians discovered that their triumph was not quite so complete as they had flattered themselves. The foot-paths were theirs, but that was all. Their ancient licence was at an end. If they came there, there was no more fishing; if they came in crowds, there was no more pic-nicing; if they walked through the woods in numbers, they must keep to Indian file, or they were summoned before the county magistrates for trespass and were soundly fined; and not even the able Dare Deville would undertake to defend them.
The Castleburghians were chop-fallen, but they were angry and dogged; and they thronged up to the village, and the front of the hall. They filled the little inn in the hamlet—they went by scores, and roving all over the churchyard, read epitaphs—
“That teach the rustic moralists to die,”
but don’t teach them to give up their old indulgences very good-humouredly. They went and sat in a row on the old churchyard-wall, opposite to the very windows of the irate Sir Roger. They felt themselves beaten, and Sir Roger felt himself beaten. True, he could coerce them to the foot-path—but, then, they had the foot-paths: yet, on the other hand, the pic-nicing, and the fishing, and the islands! The Castleburghians were full of sullen wrath, and Sir Roger was—oh, most expressive old Saxon phrase—Hairsore! Yes, he was one universal wound of vexation and jealousy of his rights. Every hair in his body was like a pin sticking in him. Come within a dozen yards of him; nay, at the most, blow on him, and he was excruciated—you rubbed his sensitive hairs at a furlong’s distance.
The next Sunday the people found the churchyard locked up, except during service, when beadles walked there, and desired them not to loiter and disturb the congregation, closing the gates and showing them out like a flock of sheep the moment the service was over. This was fuel to the already boiling blood of Castleborough. The week following, what was their astonishment to find the much frequented, the charming little rustic inn gone. It was actually gone! not a trace of it; but the spot where it had stood for ages, turfed, planted with young spruce trees, and fenced off with post and rail. The exasperated people now launched forth an immensity of fulminations against the churl, Sir Roger; and a certain number of them resolved to come and seat themselves in the street of the hamlet and there dine; but a terrific thunderstorm, which seemed in league with Sir Roger, soon routed them, drenched them through, and on attempting to seek shelter in the cottages, the poor people said they were very sorry, but it was as much as their holdings were worth, and they dare not admit them.
Sir Roger had triumphed! It was all over with the old delightful days at Rockville. There was an end of pic-nicing, of fishing, of roving in the islands. One sturdy disciple of Izaak Walton, indeed, dared to fling a line from the banks of Rockville Grove, but Sir Roger himself came upon him, and endeavoured to seize him. The man coolly walked into the middle of the river, and without a word continued his fishing.