“Well, what is it? for I can see by your eyes that you have something
you wish to ask me, Walter,” observed Lewis, as his pupil stood before
him nervously moving his feet and twisting the lash of a dog-whip round
his hands.
“Only Millar wanted--that is, he didn’t want, but he said he would take
me out with him to see him shoot those great pretty birds.”
“Pheasants,” suggested Lewis.
“Yes, to see him shoot pheasants,” continued Walter, “if you would let
me go. Millar says,” he added, seeing that Lewis appeared doubtful,
“Millar says all real gentlemen like shooting, and that I’m quite old
enough to learn.”
One great change wrought in Walter since he had been under Lewis’s
direction--a change from which his tutor augured the most favourable
results--was the almost total disappearance of those fits of morbid
despondency and indifference to external objects, at times almost
amounting to unconscious imbecility, to which he had formerly been
subject; it was therefore a part of Lewis’s system to encourage him
to follow up vigorously any pursuit for which he evinced the slightest
predilection; indeed, so effectual a means did he consider this of
arousing his faculties, that he often sacrificed to it the daily routine
of mechanical teaching. Having, therefore, run over in his mind the pros
and cons, and decided that if he accompanied his pupil no danger could
accrue, he graciously gave his consent, and having encased his feet in
a stout pair of boots, and seen that Walter followed his example,
both master and pupil hastened to the stable-yard to join the worthy
individual with whom the expedition had originated.
Millar, who, as the reader has probably ere this divined, was none other
than General Grant’s head gamekeeper, appeared anxious to be off without
delay, as he had received orders to kill a certain amount of game which
was required for a forthcoming dinner-party. The morning was, as we have
already said, lovely, and Lewis enjoyed the brisk walk through some of
the most wild and picturesque scenery the country afforded with a degree
of zest at which he was himself surprised. The pheasants, however,
not being endowed with such superornithological resignation as certain
water-fowl, who, when required for culinary purposes were invited, as
the nursery rhyme relates, to their own executions by the unalluring
couplet,
“Dilly dilly dilly ducks, come and be killed!”
appeared singularly unwilling to face death at that particular epoch,
and contrived accordingly by some means or other to render themselves
invisible. In vain did Millar try the choicest spinnies, in vain did
he scramble through impassable hedges, where gaps there were none,
rendering himself a very pin-cushion for thorns; in vain did he creep
along what he was pleased to term dry ditches, till from the
waist downwards he looked more like a geological specimen than a
leather-gaitered and corduroyed Christian; still the obdurate pheasants
refused to stand fire, either present or prospective (gun or kitchen),
and at the end of three hours’ hard walking through the best preserves
the disconsolate gamekeeper had only succeeded in bagging a brace.
At length completely disheartened, he came to anchor on a stile,
and produced a flask of spirits, with the contents of which (after
fruitlessly pressing Lewis and Walter to partake thereof) he proceeded
to regale himself. Finding himself the better for this prescription,
he shouted to a dishevelled individual yclept the beater, who for the
trifling consideration of eighteenpence per diem and a meal of broken
victuals, delivered himself over to the agreeable certainty of being wet
_to_ the skin, and scratched and torn _through_ it, with the by no means
remote contingency of getting accidentally shot into the bargain. The
creature who appeared in answer to this summons, and who in spite of
the uncomfortable description we have given of his occupation, seemed to
enjoy his day’s sport excessively, was too old for a boy and too young
for a man. His face was, of course, scratched and bleeding, and his
elf locks, drenched with the hoar frost, now melted into a species of
half-frozen gelatine, gave him a strange, unearthly appearance. His
clothing, if rags which looked like the cast-off garments of an indigent
scarecrow deserved the name, was so tattered and torn, that the fact of
their hanging upon him at all was calculated to shake one’s faith in the
Newtonian theory of gravitation, till one gained a clue to the mystery
by recollecting the antagonistic principle “attraction of cohesion;”
the only personal attraction, by the way (save a pair of clear grey eyes
giving a shrewd expression to his face), that our friend possessed.
“Villiam,” began his superior--and here let it be remarked
parenthetically that it was the custom of this excellent gamekeeper
invariably to address his satellite for the time being as “Villiam,”
utterly disregarding the occasional fact that the sponsors of the youth
had seen fit to call him otherwise--“Villiam,” observed Mr. Millar,
“you’re vet.” This being an incontrovertible certainty, evident to the
meanest capacity, “Villiam” did not feel called upon to reply in words,
merely shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog for the benefit of the
bystanders, and glancing wistfully at the flask. “Yer vet right thro’
yer, Villiam,” resumed his employer dogmatically; “so shove a drop o’
this here down yer throat, and make spurrits and vater of yerself.”
To this proposition “Villiam” replied by stretching out his hand,
grasping the flask eagerly, then tugging at a tangled lock of hair on
his forehead as a salutation to the assembled company, and growling
out in a hoarse, damp voice, “Here’s wushin’ hall yer ’ealths,” he
proceeded to “do his spiriting,” though by no means as “gently” as the
delicate Ariel was accustomed to perform that operation. Having thus
qualified his cold-water system by the introduction of alcohol, the
spirit moved him and he spake.
“Yer ain’t bagged much game, Master, this mornin’, I reckon?”
“Not I,” was the reply; “no man can’t shoot things as ain’t wisibul, yer
know, Villiam. I can’t think vot’s got all the game.”
“They do tell I as pheasands as looks wery like ourn goes to Lunnun in
t’carrier’s cart twice a veek,” observed “Villiam” in a dreamy, absent
kind of manner, as if the remark were totally foreign to the subject
under discussion.
“Ah! that’s vot yer hear, is it, Villiam?” returned Millar carelessly.
“Hif that’s the case, I suppose (for ’tain’t likely they valks there
of themselves) somebody must take ’em?”
“That is right, Master,” was the rejoinder.
“Has it hever cum across yer--take another drop of spurrits, Villiam;
yer vet--has it hever cum across yer who that somebody his?” demanded
Millar in an easy, careless tone of voice.
“His it true as ther General thinks o’ puttin’ hon a second
hunder-keeper?” rejoined “Villiam,” replying, like an Irish echo, by
another question.
“Hi’m avake, Villiam,” returned his patron with an encouraging wink, “it
certingly his possibul hif I vas to tell ther General that I knowed
a quick, hintelligent lad has might be wery useful in _catchin
poarchers_--yer understand, Villiam--sich a thing might cum about.”
“In that case hi’m free to mention that hi see three coves a cummin’
hout o’ Todshole Spinney vith a sack as vosn’t haltogither hempty,
atween three and four o’clock this here blessed mornin’.”
“And vot might yer be a’ doin’ yerself, hout o’ bed at that time o’
night, Villiam?” inquired Millar suspiciously.
“A lying in a dry ditch vith my heyes open,” returned the imp
significantly.
“I sees!” rejoined the keeper reflectively. “Yer didn’t happen
haccidentally to know any o’ they three coves, Villiam, I suppose?”
“Ther von has carried the sack worn’t haltogither unlike long Hardy, the
blacksmith,” was the reply.
The worthy Mr. Millar meditated for some minutes in silence on the
information thus acquired; then rousing himself with a sudden start, he
observed, “Now, Villiam, hif you’ll be so hobliging has to beat along
that ere ’edgerow to the right, ve’ll see hif ve can knock hover
another brace o’ longtails, and ve can talk about Mr. Hardy ven ve have
finished our day’s vork. There’s a precious young limb o’ vickedness,”
he added, turning to Lewis as the boy got out of earshot, “he’s von hof
’em, bless yer, only he’s turned again ’em with a mercenary view hof
getting a hunder-keeper’s sitivation.”
“In which rascality do you mean to allow him to succeed?” asked Lewis.
“Not by no manner o’ means--halways supposing I can pump him dry
without,” was the prudent reply; and shouldering his doublebarrel the
gamekeeper quitted his perch on the stile and resumed his shooting.
Whether the intelligence he had received had affected his nervous system
(reserving for future discussion the more doubtful question of his
possessing such an aristocratic organisation), or whether in the
excitement of the moment he had allowed himself to imbibe an unusually
liberal allowance of the contents of the spirit-flask, we do not pretend
to decide; but certain it is that he missed consecutively two as fair
shots as ever presented themselves to the gun of a sportsman, and ended
by wounding, without bringing down, a young hen pheasant, despite the
warning cry of “‘ware hen” from the perfidious “Villiam,” then located
in a quagmire.
“Veil, I never did!” exclaimed the unfortunate perpetrator of this the
greatest crime which in a gamekeeper’s opinion a sportsman can commit;
“I ’aven’t done sich a think has that since I wos a boy o’ thirteen
year old, and father quilted me with the dog-whip for it, and sarve
me right, too. This here’s a werry snipey bit, too,” he continued
dejectedly; “but hif I can’t ’it apheasand, hit’s useless to ’old up
my gun hat a snipe.”
“Your ill luck in the morning has made you impatient and spoiled your
shooting,” observed Lewis, wishing good-naturedly to propitiate his
companion.
This speech, however, seemed to produce just a contrary effect, for
Millar answered gruffly, “Perhaps, Mister, you fancies as you can do
better yourself; hif so, you’re velcome to take the gun and try.”
“I’ve no objection,” replied Lewis, smiling at the very evident contempt
in which, as a “Lunnuner,” his companion held him; “I’ll try a shot or
two, if you like.”
“Here you are, then, sir,” was the reply, as the keeper handed him the
gun; “the right barrel’s shotted for pheasands, and the left for snipes;
so look hout, and if yer don’t bag Villiam, or Master Valter here,
hit’ll be a mercy, I expects.”
If the unfortunate Millar hoped to console himself for his own failure
by witnessing a similar _mis_hap on the part of the young tutor, he
was once more doomed to be disappointed; for scarcely had Lewis
taken possession of the gun when a splendid cock-pheasant rose within
distance, though farther off than either of the shots the keeper had
just missed, and, ere its gaudy plumage had well caught the rays of
the sun above the tops of the young plantation, fell to the ground,
quivering in the agonies of death. As the smoke from the discharge
cleared away, a snipe, scared alike by the report of the gun and the
approach of the beater, sprang from a thick clump of alder bushes and
darted away, uttering its peculiar cry.
“No use--hit’s clean out o’ shot,” exclaimed Millar, as Lewis, swift as
thought, again raised the gun to his shoulder. Slightly piqued by the
keeper’s contemptuous manner, he determined not to throw away a chance
of vindicating his skill as a marksman, and though he felt by no means
sure of success, on the “nothing venture nothing have” principle, the
instant he got a clear sight of the bird he blazed away at it. Great
then was his delight to perceive the snipe suddenly tower upwards and
then drop to the ground, as if struck by lightning.
“Vel, if that hain’t a clever shot!” ejaculated Millar, surprised into
admiration in spite of himself; “bless’d if yer ’aven’t tuk the shine
hout of me properly. I thort yer vos a reg’lar green un, but I’m free to
confess I couldn’t ’ave killed that ere bird at that distance ther best
o’ times.”
“Nor have I, it seems,” exclaimed Lewis, as the snipe, which was only
wounded, rose, flew a short distance, and dropped again.
“Hit’s dead this time. I’ll bet a quart,” observed Millar; “hit’ll never
git hup no more, hif ve can honly find it.”
“I think I can,” said Lewis; “I marked the exact spot where it fell.
Walter, do you stay with Millar till I come back. I should not like to
lose it.”
So saying, Lewis, completely carried away by the excitement of the
sport, returned the gun to its owner, and dashing the branches aside,
bounded forward, and was soon hidden amongst the trees, as he forced
his way through the dense underwood towards the spot where he trusted
to find the snipe. With some difficulty, and after much energetic
scrambling, Lewis reached the place where he had seen the bird fall, but
even then it was no such easy matter to find it, nor was it till he had
nearly decided that he must relinquish the search that he discovered his
victim caught in a forked branch, and perfectly dead. Having secured
his prize, the next object was to rejoin his companions, and this
accordingly he endeavoured to accomplish without delay; but since the
days of pious Æneas the task of retracing our steps, the _revocare
gradus_, has been a work of difficulty, more especially if we have
begun by taking a few in a wrong direction, and Lewis’s case proved no
exception to the rule. After one or two wrong turns he became completely
bewildered, and feeling sure that he should never discover his right
course while surrounded by the thick underwood, he struck into the first
path which presented itself, and following its windings, found himself,
almost immediately, close to the hedge which separated that side of the
plantation from a grass-field beyond. As he made his way towards a gap
in this hedge his attention was attracted by the sound of voices, and
on approaching the spot he perceived two persons engaged in earnest
conversation.
They were a man and a girl, the former, who wore the dress of a
gentleman, having his arm round his companion’s waist. The interview
seemed, however, about to terminate, for as Lewis paused, uncertain
whether or not to make himself known to the lovers (for such he
conjectured them to be), the gentleman stooped, imprinted a kiss on the
damsel’s brow, then saying, “Remember, you have promised!” loosed the
bridle of a horse which was fastened to the branch of a tree, sprang
into the saddle, and rode hastily away. Not, however, before Lewis had
recognised the features of Lord Bellefield.
Surprise at this discovery was the first feeling of which Lewis was
conscious, then a sudden desire seized him to ascertain who the girl
could be, and without waiting to reflect on what further course it might
be advisable for him to pursue, he crossed the gap, sprang over the
ditch beyond, and presented himself before her. With a violent start
and a slight scream at this sudden apparition, the girl raised her head,
disclosing to Lewis the intelligent face and earnest eyes of the young
female who had accosted him on the previous evening immediately after
the affair of the glove had taken place. Lewis was the first to speak.
“I have startled you, I fear,” he began. “I quitted my companions to
go in search of a snipe I had just shot, and becoming bewildered in the
wood, have contrived to miss them. Hearing voices in this direction, I
jumped over the hedge, hoping I should find some one who could tell me
how to retrace my steps.”
“Were you in the hazel walk when you left your party, sir?” inquired the
girl in a voice which faltered from various conflicting emotions.
Lewis answered in the affirmative, and she continued--
“Then, if you go straight on till you come to the corner of the field
you will see a gate on your left hand; get over that and follow the road
which leads into the wood, and it will bring you to your friends.”
Lewis thanked her, and then stood a moment, irresolute whether or not
to allude to the parting he had just witnessed. It was no affair of his,
and yet could he answer it to his conscience not to warn her against
the designs which, he did not doubt, Lord Bellefield entertained against
her?
“Do not think me interfering without reason,” he observed, “but I was an
involuntary witness to your parting with that gentleman, and I wish to
ask you if you are acquainted with his name and position?”
The girl cast down her eyes, and after a pause, murmured that she knew
he was very rich.
“And his name?” urged Lewis.
“Mr. Leicester, brother to the young Lord,” she believed.
“He has told you that, has he?” returned Lewis sternly; “and did it not
occur to you to inquire of the servants last night whether your wealthy
admirer had revealed to you his real name?”
“No; she had never doubted that he had done so,” making game of a
fellow.
“And perhaps were unwilling to call attention to your connection with
him by making the inquiry?” resumed Lewis.
A bright blush proved that he had hit upon the truth; but the probing
nature of his questions roused the girl’s spirit, and raising her eyes,
she looked him full in the face as she in her turn inquired--“And pray,
sir, who are you? and what right have you to question me in this way?”
“My name is Lewis Arundel; I reside at Broadhurst, as tutor to Sir
Walter Desborough,” was the reply; “and my right to ask you these
questions is the right every man possesses to do his best to counteract
the designs of a heartless libertine; for such I take your friend to
be, and now I will give you my reasons for thinking him so. In the first
place, he has not told you his true name: he is not Lord Bellefield’s
brother, as he pretends, but Lord Bellefield himself; and in the second
place, at the very moment when he is making professions of affection
here to you, he is engaged to be married to his cousin, the daughter of
General Grant.”
“It is not true, you hate him,” exclaimed the girl with flashing
eyes. “You quarrelled with him last night, and now you seek to revenge
yourself by sowing dissension between him and me, but you shall not
succeed. I see through your meanness, and despise you for it.”
“Girl, you are infatuated,” returned Lewis angrily, “and must reap the
fruits of your obstinate folly. I spoke only for your good, and told you
the simple truth. If you choose to disbelieve me, the sin will lie at
your door, and not mine.”
As he spoke he turned and left her. By the time he reached the gate into
the wood his conscience began to reproach him for having been too hasty.
He looked back to see if the girl were still there; she had not moved
from the spot where he had quitted her, but stood motionless, apparently
buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly observing that his eyes were
directed towards her, she started, and drawing her shawl closer around
her, hurried away in an opposite direction. Lewis watched her retreating
figure till it became no longer visible; then getting over the gate, he
walked leisurely along the turfed road to rejoin his companions. He
was no coward, far from it; but had he known that at that moment a
gun-barrel covered him, levelled by the stalwart arm and keen eye of one
before whose unerring aim by the broad light of day, or beneath the
cold rays of the moon, hare, pheasant, or partridge fell like leaves in
autumn--one who, hiding from the gaze of men, had witnessed his parting
from the girl not five minutes since,--had he known the deep interest
felt for her by this person, and how, his suspicions being aroused, he
had watched day after day to discover the features of her clandestine
suitor, but had never succeeded, till, creeping through the bushes, he
had accidentally come up at the moment when Lewis, having spoken eagerly
to her, turned and left the spot,--had he known the struggle between the
good and evil principle in that man’s heart, a struggle on the result
of which depended life or death,--had he known all this, Lewis Arundel,
though a brave man, would scarcely have paced that greenwood alley with
a pulse so calm, a brow so unruffled and serene.
[Illustration: 0204]