IN WHICH THE AUTHOR HAS ENDEAVOURED, WITH ALL HIS POWER, TO SUIT THE
PRESENT TASTE OF THE PUBLIC.
We have said that Byres was the receiver of the game obtained by
Rushbrook. It so happened, that in these accounts Byres had not adhered
to his duty towards his neighbour; in fact, he attempted to over-reach,
but without success, and from that time Byres became Rushbrook's
determined, but secret, enemy. Some months had passed since their
disagreement, and there was a mutual mistrust (as both men were equally
revengeful in their tempers), when they happened to meet late on a
Saturday night at the ale-house, which was their usual resort. Furness
the schoolmaster was there; he and many others had already drunk too
much; all were boisterous and noisy. A few of the wives of those
drinking were waiting patiently and sorrowfully outside, their arms
folded in their aprons as a defence against the cold, watching for their
husbands to come out, that they might coax them home before the major
part of the week's earnings had been spent in liquor. Byres had the
paper in his hand--he had taken it from the schoolmaster, who was too
far gone to read it, and was declaiming loudly against all governments,
monarchy, and laws when a stranger entered the tap-room where they were
all assembled. Rushbrook was at the time sitting down, intending
quietly to take a pint and walk home, as he had too much respect for the
Sabbath to follow his profession of poacher on the morning of that day:
he did not intend, therefore, to resort to his usual custom of
pretending to be intoxicated; but when the stranger came in, to his
great surprise he observed a glance of recognition between him and
Byres, after which they appeared as if they were perfect strangers.
Rushbrook watched them carefully, but so as not to let them perceive he
was so doing, when a beckon from the stranger to Byres was again made.
Byres continued to read the paper and to harangue, but at the same time
took an opportunity of making a signal in reply. There was something in
the stranger's appearance which told Rushbrook that he was employed as a
keeper, or something in that way, for we often single out our enemies by
instinct. That there was mischief in the wind Rushbrook felt sure, and
his heart misgave him the more so, as occasionally the eyes of both were
turned towards him. After a little reflection, Rushbrook determined to
feign intoxication, as he had so often done before: he called for
another pint, for some time talked very loud, and at last laid his head
on the table; after a time he lifted it up again, drank more, and then
fell back on the bench. By degrees the company thinned, until there was
no one left but the schoolmaster, the pedlar, and the stranger. The
schoolmaster, as usual, offered to assist the pedlar in helping
Rushbrook to his cottage; but Byres replied that he was busy, and that
he need not wait for Rushbrook; the friend he had with him would assist
him in taking home the drunken man. The schoolmaster reeled home,
leaving the two together. They sat down on the bench, not far from
Rushbrook, who appeared to them to be in the last stage of inebriety.
Their conversation was easily overheard. The pedlar stated that he had
watched several nights, but never could find when Rushbrook left his
cottage, but he had traced the boy more than once; that R had promised
to have game ready for him on Tuesday, and would go out on Monday night
for it. In short, Rushbrook discovered that Byres was about to betray
him to the man, whom, in the course of their conversation, he found out
to be a game-keeper newly hired by the lord of the manor. After a while
they broke up, Byres having promised to join the keeper in his
expedition, and to assist in securing his former ally. Having made
these arrangements, they then took hold of Rushbrook by the arms, and,
shaking him to rouse him as much as they could, they led him home to the
cottage, and left him in charge of his wife. As soon as the door was
closed, Rushbrook's long-repressed anger could no longer be restrained:
he started on his feet, and striking his fist on the table so as to
terrify his wife, swore that the pedlar should pay dear for his
peaching. Upon his wife's demanding an explanation, Rushbrook, in a few
hurried sentences, explained the whole. Jane, however she might agree
with him in his indignation, like all women, shuddered at the thought of
shedding blood. She persuaded her husband to go to bed. He consented;
but he slept not: he had but one feeling, which was vengeance towards
the traitor. When revenge enters into the breast of a man who has lived
peaceably at home, fiercely as he may be impelled by the passion, he
stops short at the idea of shedding blood. But when a man who had, like
Rushbrook, served so long in the army, witnessed such scenes of carnage,
and so often passed his bayonet through his adversary's body, is roused
up by this fatal passion, the death of a fellow-creature becomes a
matter of indifference, provided he can gratify his feelings. Thus it
was with Rushbrook, who, before he rose on the morning of that Sabbath
in which, had he gone to church, he could have so often requested his
trespasses might be forgiven, as he "forgave them who trespassed against
him," had made up his mind that nothing short of the pedlar's death
would satisfy him. At breakfast he appeared to listen to his wife's
entreaties, and promised to do the pedlar no harm; and told her that,
instead of going out on the Monday night, as he had promised, he should
go out on that very night, and by that means evade the snare laid for
him. Jane persuaded him not to go out at all; but this Rushbrook would
not consent to. He told her that he was determined to show them that he
was not to be driven off his beat, and would make Byres believe on
Tuesday night that he had been out on the Monday night. Rushbrook's
object was to have a meeting with Byres, if possible, alone, to tax him
with his treachery, and then to take summary vengeance.
Aware that Byres slept at the ale-house, he went down there a little
before dark, and told him that he intended going out on that night; that
it would be better if, instead of coming on Tuesday, he were to meet him
at the corner of one of the covers, which he described, at an hour
agreed upon, when he would make over to him the game which he might have
procured. Byres, who saw in this an excellent method of trapping
Rushbrook, consented to it, intending to inform the keeper, so that he
should meet Rushbrook. The time of meeting was arranged for two o'clock
in the morning. Rushbrook was certain that Byres would leave the
ale-house an hour or two before the time proposed, which would be more
than sufficient for his giving information to the keeper. He therefore
remained quietly at home till twelve o'clock, when he loaded his gun,
and went out without Joey or the dog. His wife perceiving this, was
convinced that he had not gone out with the intention to poach, but was
pursuing his scheme of revenge. She watched him after he left the
cottage, and observed that he had gone down in the direction of the
ale-house; and she was afraid that there would be mischief between him
and Byres, and she wakened Joey, desiring him to follow and watch his
father, and do all he could to prevent it. Her communication was made
in such a hurried manner, that it was difficult for Joey to know what he
was to do, except to watch his father's motions, and see what took
place. This Joey perfectly understood; and he was off in an instant,
followed, as usual, by Mum, and taking with him his sack. Our hero
crept softly down the pathway, in the direction of the ale-house. The
night was dark, for the moon did not rise till two or three hours before
the morning broke, and it was bitterly cold: but to darkness and cold
Joey had been accustomed, and although not seen himself; there was no
object could move without being scanned by his clear vision. He gained
a hedge close to the ale-house. Mum wanted to go on, by which Joey knew
that his father must be lurking somewhere near to him: he pressed the
dog down with his hand, crouched himself; and watched. In a few minutes
a dark figure was perceived by Joey to emerge from the ale-house, and
walk hastily over a turnip-field behind the premises: it had gained
about half over, when another form, which Joey recognised as his
father's, stealthily followed after the first. Joey waited a little
time, and was then, with Mum, on the steps of both; for a mile and a
half each party kept at their relative distances, until they came near a
furze bottom, which was about six hundred yards from the cover; then the
steps of Rushbrook were quickened, and those of Joey in proportion; the
consequence was, that the three parties rapidly neared each other.
Byres for it was he who had quitted the ale-house--walked along
leisurely, having no suspicion that he was followed. Rushbrook was now
within fifteen yards of the pedlar, and Joey at even less distance from
his father, when he heard the lock of his father's gun click as he
cocked it.
"Father," said Joey, not over loud, "don't--"
"Who's there?" cried the pedlar, turning round. The only reply was the
flash and report of the gun; and the pedlar dropped among the furze.
"Oh father--father!--what have you done?" exclaimed Joey, coming up to
him.
"You here, Joey!" said Rushbrook. "Why are you here?"
"Mother sent me," replied Joey.
"To be evidence against me," replied his father, in wrath.
"Oh no!--to stop you. What have you done, father?"
"What I almost wish I had not done now," replied he, mournfully; "but it
is done, and--"
"And what, father?"
"I am a murderer, I suppose," replied Rushbrook. "He would have
peached, Joey--have had me transported, to work in chains for the rest
of my days, merely for taking a few pheasants. Let us go home;" but
Rushbrook did not move, although he proposed so doing.
He leant upon his gun, with his eyes fixed in the direction where Byres
had fallen.
Joey stood by him--for nearly ten minutes not a word was spoken. At
last Rushbrook said--
"Joey, my boy, I've killed many a man in my time, and I have thought
nothing of it; I slept as sound as ever the next night. But then, you
see, I was a soldier, and it was my trade, and I could look on the man I
had killed without feeling sorrow or shame; but I can't look upon this
man, Joey. He was my enemy; but--I've murdered him--I feel it now. Go
up to him, boy--you are not afraid to meet him--and see if he be dead."
Joey, although generally speaking fear was a stranger to him, did,
however, feel afraid; his hands had often been dyed with the blood of a
hare or of a bird, but he had not yet seen death in his
fellow-creatures. He advanced slowly and tremulously through the dark
towards the furze-bush in which the body laid; Mum followed, raising
first one paw and pausing, then the other, and as they came to the body,
the dog raised his head and gave such a mournful howl, that it induced
our hero to start back again. After a time Joey recovered himself; and
again advanced to the body. He leant over it, he could distinguish but
the form; he listened, and not the slightest breathing was to be heard;
he whispered the pedlar's name, but there was no reply; he put his hand
upon his breast, and removed it reeking with warm blood.
"Father, he must be dead, quite dead," whispered Joey, who returned
trembling. "What shall we do?"
"We must go home," replied Rushbrook; "this is a bad night's work;" and,
without exchanging another word until their arrival, Rushbrook and Joey
proceeded back to the cottage, followed by Mum.