THE COURTSHIP IN THE ORCHARD.
The next morning Bevis's papa looking at the almanac found there was
going to be an eclipse of the sun, so Bevis took a piece of glass (part
of one of the many window panes he had broken) and smoked it over a
candle, so as to be able to watch the phenomenon without injury to his
eyes. When the obscuration began too, the dairy-maid brought him a
bucket of clear water in which the sun was reflected and could be
distinctly seen. But before the eclipse had proceeded beyond the mere
edge of the sun, Bevis heard the champing of a bit, and the impatient
pawing of hoofs, and running up to the stable to see who it was, found
that his papa was just on the point of driving over in the dog-cart to
see another farmer (the very old gentleman in whose orchard Kapchack's
palace was situated) about a load of straw.
Bevis of course insisted upon going too, the smoked glass was thrown
aside, he clambered up and held the reins, and away they went, the
eclipse now counting for nothing. After a while, however, as they went
swiftly along the road, they came to a hill, and from the summit saw a
long way off a vast shadow like that cast by some immense cloud which
came towards them over the earth, and in a second or two arrived, and
as it were put out the light. They looked up and the sun was almost
gone. In its place was a dark body, with a rim of light round it, and
flames shooting forth.
As they came slowly down the hill a pheasant crowed as he flew up to
roost, the little birds retired to the thickets, and at the farmyards
they passed the fowls went up to their perches. Presently they left the
highway and drove along a lane across the fields, which had once been
divided from each other by gates. Of these there was nothing now
standing but the posts, some of which could hardly be said to stand, but
declining from the perpendicular, were only kept from falling by the
bushes. The lane was so rough and so bad from want of mending that they
could only walk the impatient horse, and at times the jolting was
extremely unpleasant.
Sometimes they had to stoop down in the trap to pass under the drooping
boughs of elms and other trees, which not having been cut for years,
hung over and almost blocked the track. From the hedges the brambles and
briars extended out into the road, so that the wheels of the dog-cart
brushed them, and they would evidently have entirely shut up the way had
not waggons occasionally gone through and crushed their runners. The
meadows on either hand were brown with grass that had not been mown,
though the time for mowing had long since gone by, while the pastures
were thick with rushes and thistles. Though so extensive there were
only two or three cows in them, and these old and poor, and as it were
broken-down. No horses were visible, nor any men at work.
There were other fields which had once grown wheat, but were now so
choked with weeds as to be nothing but a wilderness. As they approached
the farmhouse where the old gentleman dwelt, the signs of desolation
became more numerous. There were walls that had fallen, and never been
repaired, around whose ruins the nettles flourished. There were holes in
the roofs of the sheds exposing the rafters.
Trees had fallen and lay as they fell, rotting away, and not even cut up
for firewood. Railings had decayed till there was nothing left but a few
stumps; gates had dropped from their hinges, and nothing of them
remained but small bits of rotten board attached to rusty irons. In the
garden all was confusion, the thistles rose higher than the gooseberry
bushes, and burdocks looked in at the windows. From the wall of the
house a pear that had been trained there had fallen away, and hung
suspended, swinging with every puff; the boughs, driven against the
windows, had broken the panes in the adjacent casement; other panes
which had been broken were stuffed up with wisps of hay.
Tiles had slipped from the roof, and the birds went in and out as they
listed. The remnants of the tiles lay cracked upon the ground beneath
the eaves just as they had fallen. No hand had touched them; the hand of
man indeed had touched nothing. Bevis, whose eyes were everywhere, saw
all these things in a minute. "Why," said he, "there's the knocker; it
has tumbled down." It had dropped from the door as the screws rusted;
the door itself was propped up with a log of wood. But one thing only
appeared to have been attended to, and that was the wall about the
orchard, which showed traces of recent mortar, and the road leading
towards it, which had not long since been mended with flints.
Now Bevis, as I say, noting all these things as they came near with his
eyes, which, like gimlets, went through everything, was continually
asking his papa questions about them, and why everything was in such a
state, till at last his papa, overwhelmed with his inquiries, promised
to tell him the whole story when they got home. This he did, but while
they are now fastening up the horse (for there was no one to help them
or mind it), and while Bevis is picking up the rusty knocker, the story
may come in here very well:--
Once upon a time, many, many years ago, when the old gentleman was
young, and lived with his mother at the farmhouse, it happened that he
fell in love. The lady he loved was very young, very beautiful, very
proud, very capricious, and very poor. She lived in a house in the
village little better than a cottage, with an old woman who was said to
be her aunt. As the young farmer was well off, for the land was his own,
and he had no one to keep but his old mother, and as the young lady
dearly loved him, there seemed no possible obstacle in their way. But it
is well known that a brook can never run straight, and thus, though all
looked so smooth, there were, in reality, two difficulties.
The first of these was the farmer's old mother, who having been mistress
in the farmhouse for very nearly fifty years, did not like, after
half-a-century, to give place to a mere girl. She could not refrain from
uttering disparaging remarks about her, to which her son, being fond of
his mother, could not reply, though it angered him to the heart, and at
such times he used to take down his long single-barrelled gun with brass
fittings, and go out shooting. More than once the jealous mother had
insulted the young lady openly in the village street, which conduct, of
course, as things fly from roof to roof with the sparrows, was known all
over the place, and caused the lady to toss her head like a filly in
spring to show that she did not care for such an old harridan, though in
secret it hurt her pride beyond expression.
So great was the difficulty this caused, that the young lady,
notwithstanding she was so fond of the handsome young farmer, who rode
so well and shot so straight, and could carry her in his arms as if she
were no more than a lamb, would never put her dainty foot, which looked
so little and pretty even in the rude shoes made for her by the village
cobbler, over the threshold of his house. She would never come in, she
said, except as a wife, while he on his part, anxious as he was to marry
her, could not, from affection for his mother, summon up courage to
bring her in, as it were, rough-shod over his mother's feelings.
Their meetings, therefore, as she would not come indoors, were always
held in the farmer's orchard, where was a seat in an arbour, a few yards
in front of which stood the ancient apple-tree in which Kapchack, who
was also very young in those days, had built his nest. At this arbour
they met every day, and often twice a day, and even once again in the
evening, and could there chat and make love as sweetly as they pleased,
because the orchard was enclosed by a high wall which quite shut out all
spying eyes, and had a gate with lock and key. The young lady had a
duplicate key, and came straight to the orchard from the cottage where
she lived by a footpath which crossed the lane along which Bevis had
been driven.
It happened that the footpath just by the lane, on coming near the
orchard, passed a moist place, which in rainy weather was liable to be
flooded, and as this was inconvenient for her, her lover had a
waggon-load of flints brought down from the hills where the hares held
their revels, and placed in the hollow so as to fill it up, and over
these he placed faggots of nut-tree wood, so that she could step across
perfectly clean and dry. In this orchard, then, they had their constant
rendezvous; they were there every day when the nightingale first began
to sing in the spring, and when the apple-trees were hidden with their
pink blossom, when the haymakers were at work in the meadow, when the
reapers cut the corn, and when the call of the first fieldfare sounded
overhead. The golden and rosy apples dropped at their feet, they laughed
and ate them, and taking out the brown pips she pressed them between
her thumb and finger to see how far they would shoot.
Though they had begun to talk about their affairs in the spring, and had
kept on all the summer and autumn, and though they kept on as often as
the weather was dry (when they walked up and down the long orchard for
warmth, sheltered by the wall), yet when the spring came again they had
not half finished. Thus they were very happy, and the lady used
particularly to laugh at the antics of the magpie, who became so
accustomed to their presence as to go on with the repairs to his nest
without the least shyness. Kapchack, being then very young and full of
spirits, and only just married, and in the honeymoon of prosperity,
played such freaks and behaved in so amusing a manner that the lady
became quite attached to him, and in order to protect her favourite, her
lover drove away all the other large birds that came near the orchard,
and would not permit any one whatever to get up into Kapchack's
apple-tree, nor even to gather the fruit, which hung on the boughs till
the wind pushed it off.
Thus, having a fortress to retreat to, and being so highly honoured of
men, Kapchack gave the reins to his natural audacity, and succeeded in
obtaining the sovereignty. When the spring came again they had still a
great deal of talking to do; but whether the young lady was weary of
waiting for the marriage-ring, or whether she was jealous of the
farmer's mother, or whether she thought they might continue like this
for the next ten years if she did not make some effort, or whether it
was the worldly counsels of her aunt, or what it was--perhaps her own
capricious nature, it is certain that they now began to quarrel a little
about another gentleman.
This gentleman was very rich, and the owner of a large estate in the
neighbourhood; he did not often reside there, for he did not care for
sport or country life, but once when he came down he happened to see the
young lady, and was much attracted towards her. Doubtless she did not
mean any harm, but she could not help liking people to admire her, and,
not to go into every little particular, in the course of time (and not
very long either) she and the gentleman became acquainted. Now, when her
own true lover was aware of this, he was so jealous that he swore if
ever he saw them together he would shoot his rival with his
long-barrelled gun, though he were hung for it the next day.
The lady was not a little pleased at this frantic passion, and secretly
liked him ten times better for it, though she immediately resorted to
every artifice to calm his anger, for she knew his violent nature, and
that he was quite capable of doing as he had said. But the delight of
two strings to her bow was not easily to be foregone, and thus, though
she really loved the farmer, she did not discourage the gentleman. He,
on his part, finding after a while that although she allowed him to talk
to her, and even to visit her at the cottage, and sometimes (when she
knew the young farmer was at market) go for a walk with him, and once
even came and went over his grand mansion, still finding that it was
all talk, and that his suit got no further, he presently bethought him
of diamonds.
He gave her a most beautiful diamond locket, which he had had down all
fresh and brilliant from London. Now this was the beginning of the
mischief. She accepted it in a moment of folly, and wished afterwards
ten times that she had refused, but having once put it on, it looked so
lovely she could not send it back. She could not openly wear it, lest
her lover should see it, but every morning she put it on indoors, and
frequently glanced in the glass.
Nor is it any use to find fault with her; for in the first place she has
been dead many years, and in the second she was then very young, very
beautiful, and living quite alone in the world with an old woman. Now
her lover, notwithstanding the sweet assurances she gave him of her
faithfulness, and despite the soft kisses he had in abundance every day
in the orchard, soft as the bloom of the apple-trees, could not quite
recover his peace of mind. He did not laugh as he used to do. He was
restless, and the oneness of his mind was gone. Oneness of mind does not
often last long into life, but while it lasts everything is bright. He
had now always a second thought, a doubt behind, which clouded his face
and brought a line into his forehead.
After a time his mother, observing his depression, began to accuse
herself of unkindness, and at last resolved to stand no longer in the
way of the marriage. She determined to quit the house in which she had
lived ever since she came to it a happy bride half-a-century before.
Having made up her mind, that very morning she walked along the footpath
to the young lady's cottage, intending to atone for her former
unkindness, and to bring the girl back to lunch, and thus surprise her
son when he came in from the field.
She had even made up her mind to put up with the cold reception she
would probably meet with, nor to reply if any hard words were used
towards her. Thus thinking, she lifted the latch, as country people do
not use much ceremony, and stepped into the cottage, when what was her
surprise to find the girl she had come to see with a beautiful diamond
locket about her neck, gleaming in the sunshine from the open door! She
instantly understood what it meant, and upbraiding the girl with her
falseness, quitted the place, and lost no time in telling her son, but
first she took the precaution of hiding his gun. As he could not find
that weapon, after the first storm of his jealous anger had gone over he
shut himself up in his room.
The lady came the same evening to the rendezvous in the orchard, but her
lover did not meet her. She came again next day, and in the evening; and
again the third day, and so all through the week, and for nearly a month
doing all she could without actually entering the house to get access to
him. But he sullenly avoided her; once seeing her in the road, he leaped
his horse over the hedge rather than pass her. For the diamond locket
looked so like a price--as if she valued a glittering bauble far above
true love.
At last one day she surprised him at the corner of the village street,
and notwithstanding that the people (who knew all the story) were
looking on, she would speak to him. She walked by his side, and said:
"George, I have put the locket in the arbour, with a letter for you. If
you will not speak to me, read the letter, and throw the locket in the
brook."
More she could not say, for he walked as fast as he could, and soon left
her behind.
He would not go near the orchard all day, but at last in the evening
something prompted him to go. He went and looked, but the locket and the
letter were not there.
Either she had not left them as she had said, or else some one had taken
them. No one could enter the orchard without a key, unless they went to
the trouble of bringing a ladder from the rickyard, and as it was
spring, there were no apples to tempt them to do that. He thought,
perhaps, his mother might have taken his key and gone to the arbour, and
there was a terrible scene and bitter words between them--the first time
he had ever replied to her. The consequence was that she packed a chest
that very day, took a bag of money, which in old-fashioned style she
kept under her bed, and left her home for ever; but not before she had
been to the cottage, and reviled the girl with her duplicity and her
falseness, declaring that if she had not got the locket, she had not put
it in the orchard, but had sold it, like the hussy she was! Fortunately,
however, she added, George could now see through her.
The farmer himself, much agitated at his mother's departure, made
another search for the locket, and mowed the grass in the orchard
himself, thinking that perhaps the lady had dropped it, or that it had
caught in her dress and dragged along, and he also took the rake, and
turned over every heap of dead leaves which the wind had blown into the
corners. But there was no locket and no letter. At last he thought that
perhaps the magpie, Kapchack--as magpies were always famous for their
fondness for glittering things, such as silver spoons--might have picked
up the locket, attracted by the gleaming diamonds. He got a ladder and
searched the nest, even pulling part of it to pieces, despite Kapchack's
angry remonstrances, but the locket was not there.
As he came down the ladder there was the young lady, who had stolen into
the orchard and watched his operations. They stood and faced each other
for a minute: at least, she looked at him, _his_ sullen gaze was bent
upon the ground. As for her, the colour came and went in her cheek, and
her breast heaved so that, for a while, she could not speak. At last she
said very low: "So you do not believe me, but some day you will know
that you have judged me wrongly". Then she turned, and without another
word went swiftly from the orchard.
He did not follow her, and he never saw her again. The same evening she
left the village, she and the old woman, her aunt, quietly and without
any stir, and where they went (beyond the market town) no one knew or
even heard. And the very same evening, too, the rich gentleman who had
given her the locket, and who made an unwonted stay in his country home
because of her, also left the place, and went, as was said, to London.
Of course people easily put two and two together, and said no doubt the
girl had arranged to meet her wealthy admirer, but no one ever saw them
together. Not even the coachman, when the gentleman once more returned
home years afterwards, though the great authority in those days, could
say what had become of her; if she had met his master it was indeed in
some secret and mysterious manner. But the folk, when he had done
speaking, and had denied these things, after he had quaffed his ale and
departed, nudged each other, and said that no doubt his master,
foreseeing the inquiries that would be made, had bribed him with a
pocketful of guineas to hold his tongue.
So the farmer, in one day, found himself alone; his dear lady, his
mother, and his rival were gone. He alone remained, and alone he
remained for the rest of his days. His rival, indeed, came back once now
and then for short periods to his mansion; but his mother never
returned, and died in a few years' time. Then indeed deserted, the
farmer had nothing left but to cultivate, and dwell on, the memory of
the past. He neglected his business, and his farm; he left his house to
take care of itself; the cows wandered away, the horses leaped the
hedges, other people's cattle entered his corn, trampled his wheat, and
fattened on his clover. He did nothing. The hand of man was removed, and
the fields, and the house, and the owner himself, fell to decay.
Years passed, and still it was the same, and thus it was, that when
Bevis and his papa drove up, Bevis was so interested and so inquisitive
about the knocker, which had fallen from the front door. One thing, and
one place only, received the owner's care, and that was the orchard, the
arbour, the magpie's nest, and the footpath that led to the orchard
gate. Everything else fell to ruin, but these were very nearly in the
same state as when the young lady used to come to the orchard daily. For
the old gentleman, as he grew old, and continued to dwell yet more and
more upon the happy days so long gone by, could not believe that she
could be dead, though he himself had outlived the usual span of life.
He was quite certain that she would some day come back, for she had said
so herself; she had said that some day he would know that he had judged
her wrongly, and unless she came back it was not possible for him to
understand. He was, therefore, positively certain that some day she
would come along the old footpath to the gate in the orchard wall, open
it with her duplicate key, walk to the arbour and sit down, and smile at
the magpie's ways. The woodwork of the arbour had of course decayed long
since, but it had been carefully replaced, so that it appeared exactly
the same as when she last sat within it. The coping fell from the
orchard wall, but it was put back; the gate came to pieces, but a new
one was hung in its place.
Kapchack, thus protected, still came to his palace, which had reached an
enormous size from successive additions and annual repairs. As the time
went on people began to talk about Kapchack, and the extraordinary age
to which he had now attained, till, by-and-by, he became the wonder of
the place, and in order to see how long he would live, the gentlemen who
had gamekeepers in the neighbourhood instructed them to be careful not
to shoot him. His reputation extended with his years, and those curious
in such things came to see him from a distance, but could never obtain
entrance to the orchard, nor approach near his tree, for neither money
nor persuasion could induce the owner to admit them.
In and about the village itself Kapchack was viewed by the superstitious
with something like awe. His great age, his singular fortune, his
peculiar appearance--having but one eye--gave him a wonderful prestige,
and his chattering was firmly believed to portend a change of the
weather or the wind, or even the dissolution of village personages. The
knowledge that he was looked upon in this light rendered the other birds
and animals still more obedient than they would have been. Kapchack was
a marvel, and it gradually became a belief with them that he would never
die.
Outside the orchard-gate, the footpath which crossed the lane, and
along which the lady used to come, was also carefully kept in its former
condition. By degrees the nut-tree faggots rotted away--they were
supplanted by others; in the process of time the flints sunk into the
earth, and then another waggon-load was sent for. But the waggons had
all dropped to pieces except one which chanced to be under cover; this,
too, was much decayed, still it held together enough for the purpose. It
was while this very waggon was jolting down from the hills with a load
of flints to fill this hollow that the one particular flint, out of five
thousand, worked its way through a hole in the bottom and fell on the
road. And the rich old gentleman, whose horse stepped on it the same
evening, who was thrown from the dog-cart, and whose discharged groom
shot him in his house in London, was the very same man who, years and
years before, had given the diamond locket to the young lady.
In the orchard the old farmer pottered about every day, now picking up
the dead wood which fell from the trees, now raking up the leaves, and
gathering the fruit (except that on Kapchack's tree), now mowing the
grass, according to the season, now weeding the long gravel path at the
side under the sheltering wall, up and down which the happy pair had
walked in the winters so long ago. The butterflies flew over, the
swallows alighted on the topmost twigs of the tall pear-tree and
twittered sweetly, the spiders spun their webs, or came floating down on
gossamer year after year, but he did not notice that they were not the
same butterflies or the same swallows which had been there in his
youth. Everything was the same to him within the orchard, however much
the world might change without its walls.
Why, the very houses in the village close by had many of them fallen and
been rebuilt; there was scarcely a resident left who dwelt there then;
even the ancient and unchangeable church was not the same--it had been
renovated; why, even the everlasting hills were different, for the
slopes were now in many places ploughed, and grew oats where nothing but
sheep had fed. But all within the orchard was the same; his lady, too,
was the same without doubt, and her light step would sooner or later
come down the footpath to her lover. This was the story Bevis's papa
told him afterwards.
They had some difficulty in fastening up the horse, until they pulled
some hay from a hayrick, and spread it before him, for like Bevis he had
to be bribed with cake, as it were, before he would be good. They then
knocked at the front door, which was propped up with a beam of timber,
but no one answered, nor did even a dog bark at the noise; indeed, the
dog's kennel had entirely disappeared, and only a piece of the staple to
which his chain had been fastened remained, a mere rusty stump in the
wall. It was not possible to look into this room, because the broken
windows were blocked with old sacks to keep out the draught and rain;
but the window of the parlour was open, the panes all broken, and the
casement loose, so that it must have swung and banged with the wind.
Within, the ceiling had fallen upon the table, and the chairs had
mouldered away; the looking-glass on the mantelpiece was hidden with
cobwebs, the cobwebs themselves disused; for as they collected the dust,
the spiders at last left them to spin new ones elsewhere. The carpet, if
it remained, was concealed by the dead leaves which had been carried in
by the gales. On these lay one or two picture frames, the back part
upwards, the cords had rotted from the nails, and as they dropped so
they stayed. In a punch-bowl of ancient ware, which stood upon the old
piano untouched all these years, a robin had had his nest. After Bevis
had been lifted up to the window-ledge to look in at this desolation,
they went on down towards the orchard, as if the old gentleman was not
within he was certain to be there.
They found the gate of the orchard open--rather an unusual thing, as he
generally kept it locked, even when at work inside--and as they stepped
in, they saw a modern double-barrel gun leant against a tree. A little
farther, and Bevis caught sight of Kapchack's nest, like a wooden castle
in the boughs, and clapped his hands with delight. But there was a
ladder against Kapchack's tree, a thing which had not been seen there
these years and years, and underneath the tree was the old farmer
himself, pale as his own white beard, and only kept from falling to the
ground by the strong arms of a young gentleman who upheld him. They
immediately ran forward to see what was the matter.
Now it had happened in this way. It will be recollected that when the
keeper fell from the dead oak-tree, he not only disabled himself, but
his gun going off shot the dogs. Thus when the heir to the estate came
down the same evening, he found that there was neither dog nor keeper to
go round with him the next day. But when the morning came, not to be
deprived of his sport, he took his gun and went forth alone into the
fields. He did not find much game, but he shot two or three partridges
and a rabbit, and he was so tempted by the crowds of wood-pigeons that
were about (parties from Choo Hoo's army out foraging), that he fired
away the remaining cartridges in his pocket at them.
So he found himself early in the day without a cartridge, and was just
thinking of walking back to the house for some more, when the shadow of
the eclipse came over. He stayed leaning against a gate to watch the
sun, and presently as he was looking up at it a hare ran between his
legs--so near, that had he seen her coming he could have caught her with
his hands.
She only went a short way down the hedge, and he ran there, when she
jumped out of the ditch, slipped by him, and went out fifty or sixty
yards into the field, and sat up. How he now wished that he had not shot
away all his ammunition at the wood-pigeons! While he looked at the hare
she went on, crossed the field, and entered the hedge on the other side;
he marked the spot, and hastened to get over the gate, with the
intention of running home for cartridges. Hardly had he got over, than
the hare came back again on that side of the hedge, passed close to
him, and again leaped into the ditch. He turned to go after her, when
out she came again, and crouched in a furrow only some twenty yards
distant.
Puzzled at this singular behaviour (for he had never seen a hare act
like it before), he ran after her; and the curious part of it was, that
although she did indeed run away, she did not go far--she kept only a
few yards in front, just evading him. If she went into a hedge for
shelter, she quickly came out again, and thus this singular chase
continued for some time. He got quite hot running, for though he had not
much hope of catching the creature, still he wanted to understand the
cause of this conduct.
By-and-by the zig-zag and uncertain line they took led them close to the
wall of the old gentleman's orchard, when suddenly a fox started out
from the hedge, and rushed after the hare. The hare, alarmed to the last
degree, darted into a large drain which went under the orchard, and the
fox went in after her. The young gentleman ran to the spot, but could
not of course see far up the drain. Much excited, he ran round the
orchard wall till he came to the gate, which chanced to be open, because
the farmer that day, having discovered that the great bough of
Kapchack's tree had been almost torn from the trunk by the gale, had
just carried a fresh piece of timber in for a new prop, and having his
hands full, what with the prop and the ladder to fix it, he could not
shut the gate behind him. So the sportsman entered the orchard, left
his gun leaning against a tree, and running down to see if he could find
which way the drain went, came upon the old gentleman, and caught sight
of the extraordinary nest of old King Kapchack.
Now the reason Ulu (for it was the very hare Bevis was so fond of)
played these fantastic freaks, and ran almost into the very hands of the
sportsman, was because the cunning fox had driven her to do so for his
own purposes.
After he learnt the mysterious underground saying from the toad
imprisoned in the elm, he kept on thinking, and thinking, what it could
mean; but he could not make it out. He was the only fox who had a
grandfather living, and he applied to his grandfather, who after
pondering on the matter all day, advised him to keep his eyes open. The
fox turned up his nostrils at this advice, which seemed to him quite
superfluous. However, next day, instead of going to sleep as usual, he
did keep his eyes open, and by-and-by saw a notch on the edge of the
sun, which notch grew bigger, until the shadow of the eclipse came over
the ground.
At this he leaped up, recognising in a moment the dead day of the
underground saying. He knew where Bevis's hare had her form, and
immediately he raced across to her, though not clearly knowing what he
was going to do; but as he crossed the fields he saw the sportsman,
without any dogs and with an empty gun, leaning over the gate and gazing
at the eclipse. With a snarl the fox drove Ulu from her form, and so
worried her that she was obliged to run (to escape his teeth) right
under the sportsman's legs, and thus to fulfil the saying: "The hare
hunted the hunter".
Even yet the fox did not know what was going to happen, or why he was
doing this, for such is commonly the case during the progress of great
events. The actors do not recognise the importance of the part they are
playing. The age does not know what it is doing; posterity alone can
appreciate it. But after a while, as the fox drove the hare out of the
hedges, and met and faced her, and bewildered the poor creature, he
observed that her zig-zag course, entirely unpremeditated, was leading
them closer and closer to the orchard where Kapchack (whom he wished to
overthrow) had his palace.
Then beginning to see whither fate was carrying them, suddenly he darted
out and drove the hare into the drain, and for safety followed her
himself. He knew the drain very well, and that there was an outlet on
the other side, having frequently visited the spot in secret in order to
listen to what Kapchack was talking about. Ulu, quite beside herself
with terror, rushed through the drain, leaving pieces of her fur against
the projections of the stones, and escaped into the lane on the other
side, and so into the fields there. The fox remained in the drain to
hear what would happen.
The sportsman ran round, entered the gate, and saw the old farmer
trimming the prop, the ladder just placed against the tree, and caught
sight of the palace of King Kapchack. As he approached a missel-thrush
flew off--it was Eric; the farmer looked up at this, and saw the
stranger, and was at first inclined to be very angry, for he had never
been intruded upon before, but as the young gentleman at once began to
apologise for the liberty, he overlooked it, and listened with interest
to the story the sportsman told him of the vagaries of the hare. While
they were talking the sportsman looked up several times at the nest
above him, and felt an increasing curiosity to examine it. At last he
expressed his wish; the farmer demurred, but the young gentleman pressed
him so hard, and promised so faithfully not to touch anything, that at
last the farmer let him go up the ladder, which he had only just put
there, and which he had not himself as yet ascended.
The young gentleman accordingly went up the ladder, being the first who
had been in that tree for years, and having examined and admired the
nest, he was just going to descend, when he stayed a moment to look at
the fractured bough. The great bough had not broken right off, but as
the prop gave way beneath it had split at the part where it joined the
trunk, leaving an open space, and revealing a hollow in the tree. In
this hollow something caught his eye; he put in his hand and drew forth
a locket, to which an old and faded letter was attached by a mouldy
ribbon twisted round it. He cast this down to the aged farmer, who
caught it in his hand, and instantly knew the locket which had
disappeared so long ago.
The gold was tarnished, but the diamonds were as bright as ever, and
glittered in the light as the sun just then began to emerge from the
eclipse. He opened the letter, scarce knowing what he did; the ink was
faded and pale, but perfectly legible, for it had been in a dry place.
The letter said that having tried in vain to get speech with him, and
having faced all the vile slander and bitter remarks of the village for
his sake, she had at last resolved to write and tell him that she was
really and truly his own. In a moment of folly she had, indeed, accepted
the locket, but that was all, and since the discovery she had twice sent
it back, and it had twice been put on her dressing-table, so that she
found it there in the morning (doubtless by the old woman, her aunt,
bribed for the purpose).
Then she thought that perhaps it would be better to give it to him (the
farmer), else he might doubt that she had returned it; so she said, as
he would not speak to her, she should leave it in the arbour, twisting
the ribbon round her letter, and she begged him to throw the locket in
the brook, and to believe her once again, or she should be miserable for
life. But, if after this he still refused to speak to her, she would
still stay a while and endeavour to obtain access to him; and if even
then he remained so cruel, there was nothing left for her but to quit
the village, and go to some distant relations in France. She would wait,
she added, till the new moon shone in the sky, and then she must go, for
she could no longer endure the insinuations which were circulated about
her. Lest there should be any mistake she enclosed a copy of a note she
had sent to the other gentleman, telling him that she should never
speak to him again. Finally, she put the address of the village in
France to which she was going, and begged and prayed him to write to
her.
When the poor old man had read these words, and saw that after all the
playful magpie must have taken the glittering locket and placed it, not
in his nest, but a chink of the tree; when he learned that all these
years and years the girl he had so dearly loved must have been waiting
with aching heart for a letter of forgiveness from him, the orchard swam
round, as it were, before his eyes, he heard a rushing sound like a
waterfall in his ears, the returning light of the sun went out again,
and he fainted. Had it not been for the young gentleman, who caught him,
he would have fallen to the ground, and it was just at this moment that
Bevis and his papa arrived at the spot.