ducks was soft!
"One to you, Johnnie. I don't want to ride hany more."
"What else shall I teach you?"
"Hey?"
"Come, I'll show you over the farm."
"Honour bright? No larks!"
"Yes; no larks!"
"Say honour."
"Honour."
Young Whitechapel had not very much faith in his guide, however; but he
saw more country wonders that day than ever he could have dreamt of;
while his strange remarks kept Archie continually laughing.
Next day the two boys went bird-nesting, and really Archie was very
mischievous. He showed him a hoody-crow's nest, which he represented as
a green plover's or lapwing's; and a blackbird's nest in a furze-bush,
which he told Harry was a magpie's; and so on, and so forth, till at
last he got tired of the cheeky Cockney, and sent him off on a mile walk
to a cairn of stones, on which he told him crows sometimes sat and
"might have a nest."
Then Archie threw himself on the moss, took out a book, and began to
read. He was just beginning to repent of his conduct to Harry Brown,
and meant to go up to him like a man when he returned, and crave his
forgiveness.
But somehow, when Harry came back he had so long a face, that wicked
Archie burst out laughing, and forgot all about his good resolve.
"What shall I teach you next?" said Archie.
"Draw it mild, Johnnie; it's 'Arry's turn. It's the boy's turn to teach
you summut. Shall we 'ave it hout now wi' the raw uns? Bunches o'
fives I means. Hey?"
"I really don't understand you."
"Ha! ha! ha! I knowed yer was a green 'un, Johnnie. Can yer fight?
Hey? 'Cause I'm spoilin' for a row."
And Harry Brown threw off his jacket, and began to dance about in
terribly knowing attitudes.
"You had better put on your clothes again," said Archie. "Fight _you_?
Why I could fling you over the fishpond."
"Ah! I dessay; but flingin' ain't fightin', Johnnie. Come, there's no
getting hout of it. It ain't the first young haristocrat I've
frightened; an' now you're afraid."
That was enough for Archie. And the next moment the lads were at it.
But Archie had met his match; he went down a dozen times. He remained
down the last time.
"It is wonderful," he said. "I quite admire you. But I've had enough;
I'm beaten."
"Spoken like a plucked 'un. Haven't swallowed yer teeth, hey?"
"No; but I'll have a horrid black-eye."
"Raw beef, my boy; raw beef."
"Well; I confess I've caught a tartar."
"An' I caught a crab yesterday. Wot about your eider duck? My heye!
Johnnie, I ain't been able to sit down conweniently since. I say,
Johnnie?"
"Well."
"Friends, hey?"
"All right."
Then the two shook hands, and young Whitechapel said if Archie would buy
two pairs of gloves he would show him how it was done. So Archie did,
and became an apt pupil in the noble art of self-defence; which may be
used at times, but never abused.
However, Archie Broadbent never forgot that lesson in the wood.
CHAPTER SIX.
"JOHNNIE'S GOT THE GRIT IN HIM."
On the day of his fight with young Harry in the wood, Archie returned
home to find both his father and Mr Walton in the drawing-room alone.
His father caught the lad by the arm. "Been tumbling again off that
pony of yours?"
"No, father, worse. I'm sure I've done wrong." He then told them all
about the practical joking, and the _finale_.
"Well," said the Squire, "there is only one verdict. What do you say,
Walton?"
"Serve him right!"
"Oh, I know that," said Archie; "but isn't it lowering our name to keep
such company?"
"It isn't raising our name, nor growing fresh laurels either, for you to
play practical jokes on this poor London lad. But as to being in his
company, Archie, you may have to be in worse yet. But listen! I want
my son to behave as a gentleman, even in low company. Remember that
boy, and despise no one, whatever be his rank in life. Now, go and beg
your mother's and sister's forgiveness for having to appear before them
with a black-eye."
"Archie!" his father called after him, as he was leaving the room.
"Yes, dad?"
"How long do you think it will be before you get into another scrape?"
"I couldn't say for certain, father. I'm sure I don't want to get into
any. They just seem to come."
"There's no doubt about one thing, Mr Broadbent," said the tutor
smiling, when Archie had left.
"And that is?"
"He's what everybody says he is, a chip of the old block. Headstrong,
and all that; doesn't look before he leaps."
"Don't _I_, Walton?"
"Squire, I'm not going to flatter you. You know you don't."
"Well, my worthy secretary," said the Squire, "I'm glad you speak so
plainly. I can always come to you for advice when--"
"When you want to," said Walton, laughing. "All right, mind you do.
I'm proud to be your factor, as well as tutor to your boys. Now what
about that Chillingham bull? You won't turn him into the west field?"
"Why not? The field is well fenced. All our picturesque beasts are
there. He is only a show animal, and he is really only a baby."
"True, the bull is not much more than a baby, but--"
The baby in question was the gift of a noble friend to Squire Broadbent;
and so beautiful and picturesque did he consider him, that he would have
permitted him to roam about the lawns, if there did not exist the
considerable probability that he would play battledore and shuttlecock
with the visitors, and perhaps toss old Kate herself over the garden
wall.
So he was relegated to the west field. This really was a park to all
appearance. A few pet cattle grazed in it, a flock of sheep, and a
little herd of deer. They all lived amicably together, and sought
shelter under the same spreading trees from the summer's sun. The
cattle were often changed, so were the sheep, but the deer were as much
fixtures as the trees themselves.
The changing of sheep or cattle meant fine fun for Archie. He would be
there in all his glory, doing the work that was properly that of
herdsmen and collie dogs. There really was not a great deal of need for
collies when Archie was there, mounted on his wild Shetland pony, his
darling "Eider Duck" Scallowa; and it was admittedly a fine sight to see
the pair of them--they seemed made for each other--feathering away
across the field, heading and turning the drove. At such times he would
be armed with a long whip, and occasionally a beast more rampageous than
the rest would separate itself from the herd, and, with tail erect and
head down, dash madly over the grass. This would be just the test for
Archie's skill that he longed for. Away he would go at a glorious
gallop; sometimes riding neck and neck with the runaway and plying the
whip, at other times getting round and well ahead across the beast's
bows with shout and yell, but taking care to manoeuvre so as to steer
clear of an ugly rush.
In this field always dwelt one particular sheep. It had, like the pony,
been a birthday present, and, like the pony, it hailed from the _Ultima
Thule_ of the British North. If ever there was a demon sheep in
existence, surely this was the identical quadruped. Tall and lank, and
daft-looking, it possessed almost the speed of a red deer, and was as
full of mischief as ever sheep could be. The worst of the beast was,
that he led all the other woolly-backs into mischief; and whether it
proposed a stampede round the park, ending with a charge through the
ranks of the deer, or a well-planned attempt at escape from the field
altogether, the other sheep were always willing to join, and sometimes
the deer themselves.
Archie loved that sheep next to the pony, and there were times when he
held a meet of his own. Mousa, as he called him, would be carted, after
the fashion of the Queen's deer, to a part of the estate, miles from
home; but it was always for home that Mousa headed, though not in a true
line. No, this wonderful sheep would take to the woods as often as not,
and scamper over the hills and far away, so that Archie had many a fine
run; and the only wonder is that Scallowa and he did not break their
necks.
The young Chillingham bull was as beautiful as a dream--a nightmare for
instance. He was not very large, but sturdy, active, and strong.
Milk-white, or nearly so, with black muzzle and crimson ears inside,
and, you might say, eyes as well. Pure white black-tipped horns, erect
almost, and a bit of a mane which added to his picturesqueness and wild
beauty. His name was Lord Glendale, and his pedigree longer than the
Laird o' Cockpen's.
Now, had his lordship behaved himself, he certainly would have been an
ornament to the society of Westfield. But he wouldn't or couldn't.
Baby though he was, he attempted several times to vivisect his
companions; and one day, thinking perhaps that Mousa did not pay him
sufficient respect, his lordship made a bold attempt to throw him over
the moon. So it was determined that Lord Glendale should be removed
from Westfield. At one end of the park was a large, strong fence, and
Branson and others came to the conclusion that Glendale would be best
penned, and have a ring put in his nose.
Yes, true; but penning a Chillingham wild baby-bull is not so simple as
penning a letter. There is more _present_ risk about the former
operation, if not _future_.
"Well, it's got to be done," said Branson.
"Yes," said Archie, who was not far off, "it's got to be done."
"Oh, Master Archie, you _can't_ be in this business!"
"Can't I, Branson? You'll see."
And Branson did see. He saw Archie ride into the west field on
Scallowa, both of them looking in splendid form. Men with poles and
ropes and dogs followed, some of the former appearing not to relish the
business by any means.
However, it would probably be an easier job than they thought. The plan
would be to get the baby-bull in the centre of the other cattle,
manoeuvre so as to keep him there, and so pen all together.--This might
have been done had Archie kept away, but it so happened that his
lordship was on particularly good terms with himself this morning.
Moreover, he had never seen a Shetland pony before. What more natural,
therefore, than a longing on the part of Lord Glendale to examine the
little horse _inside_ as well as out?
"Go gently now, lads," cried Branson. "Keep the dogs back, Peter, we
must na' alarm them."
Lord Glendale did not condescend to look at Branson. He detached
himself quietly from the herd, and began to eat up towards the spot
where Archie and his "Duck" were standing like some pretty statue.
Eating up towards him is the correct expression, as everyone who knows
bulls will admit; for his lordship did not want to alarm Archie till he
was near enough for the grand rush. Then the fun would commence, and
Lord Glendale would see what the pony was made of. While he kept
eating, or rather pretending to eat, his sly red eyes were fastened on
Archie.
Now, had it been Harry Brown, the Whitechapel boy, this ruse on the part
of the baby-bull might have been successful. But Archie Broadbent was
too old for his lordship. He pretended, however, to take no notice; but
just as the bull was preparing for the rush he laughed derisively,
flicked Lord Glendale with the whip, and started.
Lord Glendale roared with anger and disappointment.
"Oh, Master Archie," cried Branson, "you shouldn't have done that!"
Now the play began in earnest. Away went Archie on Scallowa, and after
him tore the bull. Archie's notion was to tire the brute out, and there
was some very pretty riding and manoeuvring between the two
belligerents. Perhaps the bull was all too young to be easily tired,
for the charges he made seemed to increase in fierceness each time, but
Archie easily eluded him.
Branson drove the cattle towards the pen, and got them inside, then he
and his men concentrated all their attention on the combatants.
"The boy'll be killed as sure as a gun!" cried the keeper. Archie did
not think so, evidently; and it is certain he had his wits about him,
for presently he rode near enough to shout:
"Ease up a hurdle from the back of the pen, and stand by to open it as I
ride through."
The plan was a bold one, and Branson saw through it at once.
Down he ran with his men, and a back hurdle was loosened.
"All right!" he shouted.
And now down thundered Scallowa and Archie, the bull making a beautiful
second.
In a minute or less he had entered the pen, but this very moment the
style of the fight changed somewhat; for had not the attention of
everyone been riveted on the race, they might have seen the great
Newfoundland dashing over the field, and just as Lord Glendale was
entering the pen, Bounder pinned him short by the tail.
The brute roared with pain and wheeled round. Meanwhile Archie had
escaped on the pony, and the back hurdle was put up again. But how
about the new phase the fight had taken?
Once more the boy's quick-wittedness came to the front. He leapt off
the pony and back into the pen, calling aloud, "Bounder! Bounder!
Bounder!"
In rushed the obedient dog, and after him came the bull; up went the
hurdle, and off went Archie! But, alas! for the unlucky Bounder. He
was tossed right over into the field a moment afterwards, bleeding
frightfully from a wound in his side.
To all appearance Bounder was dead. In an agony of mind the boy tried
to staunch the blood with his handkerchief; and when at last the poor
dog lifted his head, and licked his young master's face, the relief to
his feelings was so great that he burst into tears. Archie was only a
boy after all, though a bold and somewhat mischievous one.
Bounder now drank water brought from a stream in a hat. He tried to get
up, but was too weak to walk, so he was lifted on to Scallowa's broad
back and held there, and thus they all returned to Burley Old Farm.
So ended the adventure with the baby-bull of Chillingham. The ring was
put in his nose next day, and I hope it did not hurt much. But old Kate
had Bounder as a patient in the kitchen corner for three whole weeks.
A day or two after the above adventure, and just as the Squire was
putting on his coat in the hall, who should march up to the door and
knock but Harry Brown himself.
Most boys would have gone to the backdoor, but shyness was not one of
Harry's failings.
"'Ullo!" he said; for the door opened almost on the instant he knocked,
"Yer don't take long to hopen to a chap then."
"No," said Squire Broadbent, smiling down on the lad; "fact is, boy, I
was just going out."
"Going for a little houting, hey? Is 'pose now you're Johnnie's
guv'nor?"
"I think I know whom you refer to. Master Archie, isn't it? and you're
the little London lad?"
"I don't know nuffink about no Harchies. P'r'aps it _is_ Harchibald.
But I allers calls my friends wot they looks like. He looks like
Johnnie. Kinsevently, guv'nor, he _is_ Johnnie to me. D'ye twig?"
"I think I do," said Squire Broadbent, laughing; "and you want to see my
boy?"
"Vot I vants is this 'ere. Johnnie is a rare game un. 'Scuse me,
guv'nor, but Johnnie's got the grit in him, and I vant to say good-bye;
nuffink else, guv'nor."
Here Harry actually condescended to point a finger at his lip by way of
salute, and just at the same moment Archie himself came round the
corner. He looked a little put out, but his father only laughed, and he
saw it was all right.
These were Harry's last words: "Good-bye, then. You've got the grit in
ye, Johnnie. And if hever ye vants a friend, telegraph to 'Arry Brown,
Esq., of Vitechapel, 'cos ye know, Johnnie, the king may come in the
cadger's vay. Adoo. So long. Blue-lights, and hoff we goes."
CHAPTER SEVEN.
"THEY'RE UP TO SOME BLACK WORK TO-NIGHT."
Another summer flew all too fast away at Burley Old Farm and Castle
Tower. The song of birds was hushed in the wild woods, even the
corn-crake had ceased its ventriloquistic notes, and the plaintive wee
lilt of the yellow-hammer was heard no more. The corn grew ripe on
braeland and field, was cut down, gathered, stooked, and finally carted
away. The swallows flew southwards, but the peewits remained in droves,
and the starlings took up their abode with the sheep. Squires and
sturdy farmers might now have been met tramping, gun in hand, over the
stubble, through the dark green turnip-fields, and over the distant
moorlands, where the crimson heather still bloomed so bonnie.
Anon, the crisp leaves, through which the wind now swept with harsher
moan, began to change to yellows, crimsons, and all the hues of sunset,
and by-and-by it was hunting-time again.
Archie was unusually thoughtful one night while the family sat, as of
yore, round the low fire in the green parlour, Elsie and Rupert being
busy in their corner over a game of chess.
"In a brown study, Archie?" said his mother.
"_No_, mummie; that is, Yes, I was thinking--"
"Wonders will never cease," said Rupert, without looking up. Archie
looked towards him, but his brother only smiled at the chessmen. The
boy was well enough now to joke and laugh. Best of signs and most
hopeful.
"I was thinking that my legs are almost too long now to go to the meet
on poor Scallowa. Not that Scallowa would mind. But don't you think,
mummie dear, that a long boy on a short pony looks odd?"
"A little, Archie."
"Well, why couldn't father let me have Tell to-morrow? He is not going
out himself."
His father was reading the newspaper, but he looked at Archie over it.
Though only his eyes were visible, the boy knew he was smiling.
"If you think you won't break your neck," he said, "you may take Tell."
"Oh," Archie replied, "I'm quite sure I won't break _my_ neck!"
The Squire laughed now outright.
"You mean you _might_ break Tell's, eh?"
"Well, dad, I didn't _say_ that."
"_No_, Archie, but you _thought_ it."
"I'm afraid, dad, the emphasis fell on the wrong word."
"Never mind, Archie, where the emphasis falls; but if you let Tell fall
the emphasis will fall where you won't like it."
"All right, dad, I'll chance the emphasis. Hurrah!"
The Squire and Mr Walton went off early next day to a distant town, and
Branson had orders to bring Tell round to the hall door at nine sharp;
which he did. The keeper was not groom, but he was the tallest man
about, and Archie thought he would want a leg up.
Archie's mother was there, and Elsie, and Rupert, and old Kate, and
little Peter, to say nothing of Bounder and Fuss, all to see "t' young
Squire mount." But no one expected the sight they did see when Archie
appeared; for the lad's sense of fun and the ridiculous was quite
irrepressible. And the young rascal had dressed himself from top to toe
in his father's hunting-rig--boots, cords, red coat, hat, and all
complete. Well, as the boots were a mile and a half too big for him--
more or less, and the breeches and coat would have held at least three
Archie Broadbents, while the hat nearly buried his head, you may guess
what sort of a guy he looked. Bounder drew back and barked at him. Old
Kate turned her old eyes cloudwards, and held up her palms. Branson for
politeness' sake _tried_ not to laugh; but it was too much, he went off
at last like a soda-water cork, and the merriment rippled round the ring
like wildfire. Even poor Rupert laughed till the tears came. Then back
into the house ran Archie, and presently re-appeared dressed in his own
velvet suit.
But Archie had not altogether cooled down yet. He had come to the
conclusion that having an actual leg up, was not an impressive way of
getting on to his hunter; so after kissing his mother, and asking Rupert
to kiss Elsie for him, he bounded at one spring to Branson's shoulder,
and from this elevation bowed and said "good morning," then let himself
neatly down to the saddle.
"Tally ho! Yoicks!" he shouted. Then clattered down the avenue,
cleared the low, white gate, and speedily disappeared across the fields.
Archie had promised himself a rare day's run, and he was not
disappointed. The fox was an old one and a wily one--and, I might add,
a very gentlemanly old fox--and he led the field one of the prettiest
dances that Dawson, the greyest-headed huntsman in the North, ever
remembered; but there was no kill. No; Master Reynard knew precisely
where he was going, and got home all right, and went quietly to sleep as
soon as the pack drew off.
The consequence was that Archie found himself still ten miles from home
as gloaming was deepening into night. Another hour he thought would
find him at Burley Old Farm. But people never know what is before them,
especially hunting people.
It had been observed by old Kate, that after Archie left in the morning,
Bounder seemed unusually sad. He refused his breakfast, and behaved so
strangely that the superstitious dame was quite alarmed.
"I'll say naething to the ladies," she told one of the servants, "but,
woe is me! I fear that something awfu' is gain tae happen. I houp the
young laddie winna brak his neck. He rode awa' sae daft-like. He is
just his faither a' ower again."
Bounder really had something on his mind; for dogs do think far more
than we give them credit for. Well, the Squire was off, and also Mr
Walton, and now his young master had flown. What did it mean? Why he
would find out before he was many hours older. So ran Bounder's
cogitations.
To think was to act with Bounder; so up he jumped, and off he trotted.
He followed the scent for miles; then he met an errant collie, and
forgetting for a time all about his master, he went off with him. There
were many things to be done, and Bounder was not in a hurry. They
chased cows and sheep together merely for mischief's sake; they gave
chase to some rabbits, and when the bunnies took to their holes, they
spent hours in a vain attempt to dig them out. The rabbits knew they
could never succeed, so they quietly washed their faces and laughed at
them.
They tired at last, and with their heads and paws covered with mould,
commenced to look for mice among the moss. They came upon a wild bees'
home in a bank, and tore this up, killing the inmates bee by bee as they
scrambled out wondering what the racket meant. They snapped at the bees
who were returning home, and when both had their lips well stung they
concluded to leave the hive alone. Honey wasn't _very_ nice after all,
they said. At sunset they bathed in a mill-dam and swam about till
nearly dusk, because the miller's boy was obliging enough to throw in
sticks for them. Then the miller's boy fell in himself, and Bounder
took him out and laid him on the bank to drip, neither knowing nor
caring that he had saved a precious life. But the miller's boy's mother
appeared on the scene and took the weeping lad away, inviting the dogs
to follow. She showered blessings on their heads, especially on "the
big black one's," as the urchin called Bounder, and she put bread and
milk before them and bade them eat. The dogs required no second
bidding, and just as Bounder was finishing his meal the sound of hoofs
was heard on the road, and out bounced Bounder, the horse swerved, the
rider was thrown, and the dog began to wildly lick his face.
"So it's you, is it, Bounder?" said Archie. "A nice trick. And now
I'll have to walk home a good five miles."
Bounder backed off and barked. Why did his master go off and leave him
then? That is what the dog was saying.
"Come on, boy," said Archie. "There's no help for it; but I do feel
stiff."
They could go straight over the hill, and through the fields and the
wood, that was one consolation.
So off they set, and Archie soon forgot his stiffness and warmed to his
work.
Bounder followed close to his heels, as if he were a very old and a very
wise dog indeed; and harrying bees' hives, or playing with millers'
boys, could find no place in his thoughts.
Archie lost his way once or twice, and it grew quite dark. He was
wondering what he should do when he noticed a light spring up not far
away, and commenced walking towards it. It came from the little window
of a rustic cottage, and the boy knew at once now in which way to steer.
Curiosity, however, impelled him to draw near to the window. He gave
just one glance in, but very quickly drew back. Sitting round a table
was a gang of half a dozen poachers. He knew them as the worst and most
notorious evil-doers in all the country round. They were eating and
drinking, and guns stood in the corners, while the men themselves seemed
ready to be off somewhere.
Away went Archie. He wanted no nearer acquaintance with a gang like
that.
In his way home he had to pass Bob Cooper's cottage, and thought he
might just look in, because Bob had a whole book of new flies getting
ready for him, and perhaps they were done.
Bob was out, and his mother was sitting reading the good Book by the
light of a little black oil lamp. She looked very anxious, and said she
felt so. Her laddie had "never said where he was going. Only just went
away out, and hadn't come back."
It was Archie's turn now to be anxious, when he thought of the gang, and
the dark work they might be after. Bob was not among them, but who
could tell that he would not join afterwards?
He bade the widow "Good-night," and went slowly homewards thinking.
He found everyone in a state of extreme anxiety. Hours ago Tell had
galloped to his stable door, and if there be anything more calculated to
raise alarm than another, it is the arrival at his master's place of a
riderless horse.
But Archie's appearance, alive and intact, dispelled the cloud, and
dinner was soon announced.
"Oh, by the way," said Archie's tutor, as they were going towards the
dining-room, "your old friend Bob Cooper has been here, and wants to see
you! I think he is in the kitchen now."
Away rushed Archie, and sure enough there was Bob eating supper in old
Kate's private room.
He got up as Archie's entered, and looked shy, as people of his class do
at times.
Archie was delighted.
"I brought the flies, and some new sorts that I think will do for the
Kelpie burn," he said.
"Well, I'm going to dine, Bob; you do the same. Don't go till I see
you. How long have you been here?"
"Two hours, anyhow."
When Archie returned he invited Bob to the room in the Castle Tower.
Kate must come too, and Branson with his fiddle.
Away went Archie and his rough friend, and were just finishing a long
debate about flies and fishing when Kate and Peter, and Branson and
Bounder, came up the turret stairs and entered the room.
Archie then told them all of what he had seen that night at the cottage.
"Mark my words for it," said Bob, shaking his head, "they're up to some
black work to-night."
"You mustn't go yet awhile, Bob," Archie said. "We'll have some fun,
and you're as well where you are."
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE WIDOW'S LONELY HUT.
Bob Cooper bade Archie and Branson good-bye that night at the bend of
the road, some half mile from his own home, and trudged sturdily on in
the starlight. There was sufficient light "to see men as trees
walking."
"My mother'll think I'm out in th' woods," Bob said to himself. "Well,
she'll be glad when she knows she's wrong this time."
Once or twice he started, and looked cautiously, half-fearfully, round
him; for he felt certain he saw dark shadows in the field close by, and
heard the stealthy tread of footsteps.
He grasped the stout stick he carried all the firmer, for the poacher
had made enemies of late by separating himself from a well-known gang of
his old associates--men who, like the robbers in the ancient ballad--
"Slept all day and waked all night,
And kept the country round in fright."
On he went; and the strange, uncomfortable feeling at his heart was
dispelled as, on rounding a corner of the road, he saw the light
glinting cheerfully from his mother's cottage.
"Poor old creature," he murmured half aloud, "many a sore heart I've
given her. But I'll be a better boy now. I'll--"
"Now, lads," shouted a voice, "have at him!"
"Back!" cried Bob Cooper, brandishing his cudgel. "Back, or it'll be
worse for you!"
The dark shadows made a rush. Bob struck out with all his force, and
one after another fell beneath his arm. But a blow from behind disabled
him at last, and down he went, just as his distracted mother came
rushing, lantern in hand, from her hut. There was the sharp click of
the handcuffs, and Bob Cooper was a prisoner. The lantern-light fell on
the uniforms of policemen.
"What is it? Oh, what has my laddie been doin'?"
"Murder, missus, or something very like it! There has been dark doin's
in th' hill to-night!"
Bob grasped the nearest policeman by the arm with his manacled hands.
"When--when did ye say it had happened?"
"You know too well, lad. Not two hours ago. Don't sham innocence; it
sits but ill on a face like yours."
"Mother," cried Bob bewilderingly, "I know nothing of it! I'm
innocent!"
But his mother heard not his words. She had fainted, and with rough
kindness was carried into the hut and laid upon the bed. When she
revived some what they left her.
It was a long, dismal ride the unhappy man had that night; and indeed it
was well on in the morning before the party with their prisoner reached
the town of B--.
Bob's appearance before a magistrate was followed almost instantly by
his dismissal to the cells again. The magistrate knew him. The police
had caught him "red-handed," so they said, and had only succeeded in
making him prisoner "after a fierce resistance."
"Remanded for a week," without being allowed to say one word in his own
defence.
The policeman's hint to Bob's mother about "dark doin's in th' hill" was
founded on fearful facts. A keeper had been killed after a terrible
_melee_ with the gang of poachers, and several men had been severely
wounded on both sides.
The snow-storm that came on early on the morning after poor Bob Cooper's
capture was one of the severest ever remembered in Northumbria. The
frost was hard too all day long. The snow fell incessantly, and lay in
drifts like cliffs, fully seven feet high, across the roads.
The wind blew high, sweeping the powdery snow hither and thither in
gusts. It felt for all the world like going into a cold shower-bath to
put one's head even beyond the threshold of the door. Nor did the storm
abate even at nightfall; but next day the wind died down, and the face
of the sky became clear, only along the southern horizon the white
clouds were still massed like hills and cliffs.
It was not until the afternoon that news reached Burley Old Farm of the
fight in the woods and death of the keeper. It was a sturdy old postman
who had brought the tidings. He had fought his way through the snow
with the letters, and his account of the battle had well-nigh caused old
Kate to swoon away. When Mary, the little parlour maid, carried the
mail in to her master she did not hesitate to relate what she had heard.
Squire Broadbent himself with Archie repaired to the kitchen, and found
the postman surrounded by the startled servants, who were drinking in
every word he said.
"One man killed, you say, Allan?"
"Ay, sir, killed dead enough. And it's a providence they caught the
murderer. Took him up, sir, just as he was a-goin' into his mother's
house, as cool as a frosted turnip, sir."
"Well, Allan, that is satisfactory. And what is his name?"
"Bob Cooper, sir, known all over the--"
"Bob Cooper!" cried Archie aghast. "Why, father, he was in our room in
the turret at the time."
"So he was," said the Squire. "Taken on suspicion I suppose. But this
must be seen to at once. Bad as we know Bob to have been, there is
evidence enough that he has reformed of late. At all events, he shall
not remain an hour in gaol on such a charge longer than we can help."
Night came on very soon that evening. The clouds banked up again, the
snow began to fall, and the wind moaned round the old house and castle
in a way that made one feel cold to the marrow even to listen to.
Morning broke slowly at last, and Archie was early astir. Tell, with
the Shetland pony and a huge great hunter, were brought to the door, and
shortly after breakfast the party started for B--.
Branson bestrode the big hunter--he took the lead--and after him came
the Squire on Tell, and Archie on Scallowa. This daft little horse was
in fine form this morning, having been in stall for several days. He
kept up well with the hunters, though there were times that both he and
his rider were all but buried in the gigantic wreaths that lay across
the road. Luckily the wind was not high, else no living thing could
long have faced that storm.
The cottage in which widow Cooper had lived ever since the death of her
husband was a very primitive and a very poor one. It consisted only of
two rooms, what are called in Scotland "a butt and a ben." Bob had been
only a little barefooted boy when his father died, and probably hardly
missed him. He had been sent regularly to school before then, but not
since, for his mother had been unable to give him further education.
All their support was the morsel of garden, a pig or two, and the fowls,
coupled with whatever the widow could make by knitting ribbed stockings
for the farmer folks around. Bob grew up wild, just as the birds and
beasts of the hills and woods do. While, however, he was still a little
mite of a chap, the keepers even seldom molested him. It was only
natural, they thought, for a boy to act the part of a squirrel or
polecat, and to be acquainted with every bird's nest and rabbit's burrow
within a radius of miles. When he grew a little older and a trifle
bigger they began to warn him off, and when one day he was met marching
away with a cap full of pheasant's eggs, he received as severe a
drubbing as ever a lad got at the hands of a gamekeeper.
Bob had grown worse instead of better after this. The keepers became
his sworn enemies, and there was a spice of danger and adventure in
vexing and outwitting them.
Unfortunately, in spite of all his mother said to the contrary, Bob was
firmly impressed with the notion that game of every kind, whether fur or
feather, belonged as much to him as to the gentry who tried to preserve
them. The fresh air was free; nobody dared to claim the sunshine. Then
why the wild birds, and the hares and rabbits?
Evil company corrupts good manners. That is what his copy-book used to
tell him. But Bob soon learned to laugh at that, and it is no wonder
that as he reached manhood his doings and daring as a poacher became
noted far and near.
He was beyond the control of his mother. She could only advise him,
read to him, pray for him; but I fear in vain. Only be it known that
Bob Cooper really loved this mother of his, anomalous though it may
seem.
Well, the keepers had been very harsh with him, and the gentry were
harsh with him, and eke the law itself. Law indeed! Why Bob was all
but an outlaw, so intense was his hatred to, and so great his defiance
of the powers that be.
It was strange that what force could not effect, a few soft words from
Branson, and Archie's gift of the hare he had shot on his birthday,
brought about. Bob Cooper's heart could not have been wholly
adamantine, therefore he began to believe that after all a gamekeeper
might be a good fellow, and that there might even exist gentlefolks
whose chief delight was not the oppression of the poor. He began after
that to seek for honest work; but, alas! people looked askance at him,
and he found that the path of virtue was one not easily regained when
once deviated from.
His quondam enemy, however, Branson, spoke many a good word for him, and
Bob was getting on, much to his mother's delight and thankfulness, when
the final and crashing blow fell.
Poor old widow Cooper! For years and years she had but two comforts in
this world; one was her Bible, and the other--do not smile when I tell
you--was her pipie.
Oh! you know, the poor have not much to make them happy and to cheer
their loneliness, so why begrudge the widow her morsel of tobacco?
In the former she learned to look forward to another and a better world,
far beyond that bit of blue sky she could see at the top of her chimney
on a summer's night--a world where everything would be bright and
joyful, where there would be no vexatious rheumatism, no age, and
neither cold nor care. From the latter she drew sweet forgetfulness of
present trouble, and happy recollections of bygone years.
Sitting there by the hearth all alone--her son perhaps away on the
hill--her thoughts used oftentimes to run away with her. Once more she
would be young, once again her hair was a bonnie brown, her form little
and graceful, roses mantling in her cheeks, soft light in her eyes. And
she is wandering through the tasselled broom with David by her side.
"David! Heigho!" she would sigh as she shook the ashes from her pipie.
"Poor David! it seems a long, long time since he left me for the better
land," and the sunlight would stream down the big, open chimney and fall
upon her skinny hands--fall upon the elfin-like locks that escaped from
beneath her cap--fall, too, on the glittering pages of the Book on her
lap like a promise of better things to come.
Before that sad night, when, while sitting up waiting for her son, she
was startled by the sudden noise of the struggle that commenced at her
door, she thought she had reason to be glad and thankful for the
softening of her boy's heart.
Then all her joy collapsed, her hopes collapsed--fell around her like a
house of cards. It was a cruel, a terrible blow.
The policeman had carried her in, laid her on the bed with a rough sort
of kindness, made up the fire, then gone out and thought no more about
her.
How she had spent the night need hardly be said; it is better imagined.
She had dropped asleep at last, and when she awoke from fevered dreams
it was daylight out of doors, but darkness in the hut. The window and
door were snowed up, and only a faint pale light shimmered in through
the chimney, falling on the fireless hearth--a dismal sight.
Many times that day she had tried to rise, but all in vain. The cold
grew more intense as night drew on, and it did its work on the poor
widow's weakened frame. Her dreams grew more bright and happy though,
as her body became numbed and insensible. It was as though the spirit
were rejoicing in its coming freedom. But dreams left her at last.
Then all was still in the house, save the ticking of the old clock that
hung against the wall.
The Squire speedily effected Bob Cooper's freedom, and he felt he had
really done a good thing.
"Now, Robert," he told him, "you have had a sad experience. Let it be a
lesson to you. I'll give you a chance. Come to Burley, and Branson
will find you honest work as long as you like to do it."
"Lord love you, sir!" cried Bob. "There are few gentry like you."
"I don't know so much about that, Robert. You are not acquainted with
all the good qualities of gentlefolks yet. But now, Branson, how are we
all to get home?"
"Oh, I know!" said Archie. "Scallowa can easily bear Branson's weight,
and I will ride the big hunter along with Bob."
So this was arranged.
It was getting gloamed ere they neared the widow's lonesome hut. The
Squire with Branson had left Archie and Bob, and cut across the frozen
moor by themselves.
"How glad my mother will be!" said Bob.
And now they came in sight of the cottage, and Bob rubbed his eyes and
looked again and again, for no smoke came from the chimney, no signs of
life was about.
The icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; one side of the hut was
entirely overblown with drift, and the door in the other looked more
like the entrance to some cave in Greenland north. Bad enough this was;
but ah, in the inside of the poor little house the driven snow met them
as they pushed open the door! It had blown down the wide chimney,
covered the hearth, formed a wreath like a sea-wave on the floor, and
even o'er-canopied the bed itself. And the widow, the mother, lay
underneath. No, not dead; she breathed, at least.
When the room had been cleared and swept of snow; when a roaring fire
had been built on the hearth, and a little warm tea poured gently down
her throat, she came gradually back again to life, and in a short time
was able to be lifted into a sitting position, and then she recognised
her son and Archie.
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Bob, the tears streaming over his
sun-browned face, "the Maker'll never forgive me for all the ill I've
done ye."
"Hush! Bobbie, hush! What, lad, the Maker no' forgive ye! Eh, ye
little know the grip o' His goodness! But you're here, you're innocent.
Thank Him for that."
"Ye'll soon get better, mother, and I'll be so good. The Squire is to
give me work too."
"It's o'er late for me," she said. "I'd like to live to see it, but His
will be done."
Archie rode home the giant hunter, but in two hours he was once more
mounted on Scallowa, and feathering back through the snow towards the
little cottage. The moon had risen now, and the night was starry and
fine.
He tied Scallowa up in the peat shed, and went in unannounced.
He found Bob Cooper sitting before the dying embers of the fire, with
his face buried in his hands, and rocking himself to and fro.
"She--just blessed me and wore away."
That was all he said or could say. And what words of comfort could
Archie speak? None. He sat silently beside him all that livelong
night, only getting up now and then to replenish the fire. But the
poacher scarcely ever changed his position, only now and then he
stretched out one of his great hands and patted Archie's knee as one
would pet a dog.
A week passed away, and the widow was laid to rest beneath the frozen
ground in the little churchyard by the banks of the river. Archie went
slowly back with Bob towards the cottage. On their way thither, the
poacher--poacher now no more though--entered a plantation, and with his
hunting-knife cut and fashioned a rough ash stick.
"We'll say good-bye here, Master Archie."
"What! You are not going back with me to Burley Old Farm?"
Bob took a small parcel from his pocket, and opening it exposed the
contents.
"Do you know them, Master Archie?"
"Yes, your poor mother's glasses."
"Ay, lad, and as long as I live I'll keep them. And till my dying day,
Archie, I'll think on you, and your kindness to poor poacher Bob. No,
I'm not goin' back to Burley, and I'm not going to the cottage again.
I'm going away. Where? I couldn't say. Here, quick, shake hands,
friend. Let it be over. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
And away went Bob. He stopped when a little way off, and turned as if
he had forgotten something.
"Archie!" he cried.
"Yes, Bob."
"Take care of my mother's cat."
Next minute he leapt a fence, and disappeared in the pine wood.
CHAPTER NINE.
THE WHOLE YARD WAS ABLAZE AND BURNING FIERCELY.
One year is but a brief span in the history of a family, yet it may
bring many changes. It did to Burley Old Farm, and some of them were
sad enough, though some were glad. A glad change took place for
instance in the early spring, after Bob's departure; for Rupert appeared
to wax stronger and stronger with the lengthening days; and when Uncle
Ramsay, in a letter received one morning, announced his intention of
coming from London, and making quite a long stay at Burley, Rupert
declared his intention of mounting Scallowa, and riding over to the
station to meet him. And the boy was as good as his word. In order
that they might be both cavaliers together, Uncle Ramsay hired a horse
at D--, and the two rode joyfully home side by side.
His mother did not like to see that carmine flush on Rupert's cheeks,
however, nor the extra dark sparkle in his eyes when he entered the
parlour to announce his uncle's arrival, but she said nothing.
Uncle Ramsay Broadbent was a brother of the Squire, and, though
considerably older, a good deal like him in all his ways. There was the
same dash and go in him, and the same smiling front, unlikely to be
dismayed by any amount of misfortune.
"There are a deal of ups and downs in the ocean of life," Archie heard
him say one day; "we're on the top of a big wave one hour, and in the
trough of the sea next, so we must take things as they come."
Yes, this uncle was a seafarer; the skipper of a sturdy merchantman that
he had sailed in for ten long years. He did not care to be called
captain by anyone. He was a master mariner, and had an opinion, which
he often expressed, that plain "Mr" was a gentleman's prefix.
"I shan't go back to sea again," he said next morning at breakfast.
"Fact is, brother, my owners think I'm getting too old. And maybe
they're right. I've had a fair innings, and it is only fair to give the
young ones a chance."
Uncle Ramsay seemed to give new life and soul to the old place. He
settled completely down to the Burley style of life long before the
summer was half over. He joined the servants in the fields, and worked
with them as did the Squire, Walton, and Archie. And though more
merriment went on in consequence, there was nevertheless more work done.
He took an interest in all the boys' "fads," spent hours with them in
their workshop, and made one in every game that was played on the grass.
He was dreadfully awkward at cricket and tennis however; for such games
as these are but little practised by sailors. Only he was right willing
to learn.
There was a youthfulness and breeziness about Uncle Ramsay's every
action, that few save seafarers possess when hair is turning white. Of
course, the skipper spent many a jolly hour up in the room of the Castle
Tower, and he did not object either to the presence of old Kate in the
chair. He listened like a boy when she told her weird stories; and he
listened more like a baby than anything else when Branson played his
fiddle.
Then he himself would spin them a yarn, and hold them all enthralled,
especially big-eyed Elsie, with the sterling reality and graphicness of
the narrative.
When Uncle Ramsay spoke you could see the waves in motion, hear the
scream of the birds around the stern, or the wind roaring through the
rigging. He spoke as he thought; he painted from life.
Well, the arrival of Uncle Ramsay and Rupert's getting strong were two
of the pleasant changes that took place at Burley in this eventful year.
Alas! I have to chronicle the sad ones also. Yet why sigh? To use
Uncle Ramsay's own words, "You never know what a ship is made of until
stormy seas are around you."
First then came a bad harvest--a terribly bad harvest. It was not that
the crops themselves were so very light, but the weather was cold and
wet; the grain took long to ripen. The task of cutting it down was
unfortunately an easy one, but the getting it stored was almost an
impossibility. At the very time when it was ripe, and after a single
fiercely hot day, a thunder-storm came on, and with it such hail as the
oldest inhabitant in the parish could not remember having seen equalled.
This resulted in the total loss of far more of the precious seed, than
would have sown all the land of Burley twice over.
The wet continued. It rained and rained every day, and when it rained
it poured.
The Squire had heard of a Yankee invention for drying wheat under cover,
and rashly set about a rude but most expensive imitation thereof. He
first mentioned the matter to Uncle Ramsay at the breakfast-table. The
Squire seemed in excellent spirits that morning. He was walking briskly
up and down the room rubbing his hands, as if in deep but pleasant
thought, when his brother came quietly in.
"Hullo! you lazy old sea-dog. Why you'd lie in your bed till the sun
burned a hole in the blanket. Now just look at me."
"I'm just looking at you."
"Well, I've been up for hours. I'm as hungry as a Caithness Highlander.
And I've got an idea."
"I thought there was something in the wind."
"Guess."
"Guess, indeed! Goodness forbid I should try. But I say, brother,"
continued Uncle Ramsay, laughing, "couldn't you manage to fall asleep
somewhere out of doors, like the man in the story, and wake up and find
yourself a king? My stars, wouldn't we have reforms as long as your
reign lasted! The breakfast, Mary? Ah, that's the style!"
"You won't be serious and listen, I suppose, Ramsay."
"Oh, yes; I will."
"Well, the Americans--"
"The Americans again; but go on."
"The Americans, in some parts where I've been, wouldn't lose a straw in
a bad season. It is all done by means of great fanners and heated air,
you know. Now, I'm going to show these honest Northumbrian farmers a
thing or two. I--"
"I say, brother, hadn't you better trust to Providence, and wait for a
fair wind?"
"Now, Ramsay, that's where you and I differ. You're a slow Moses. I
want to move ahead a trifle in front of the times. I've been looking
all over the dictionary of my daily life, and I can't find such a word
as 'wait' in it."
"Let me give you some of this steak, brother."
"My plan of operations, Ramsay, is--"
"Why," said Mrs Broadbent, "you haven't eaten anything yet!"
"I thought," said Uncle Ramsay, "you were as hungry as a Tipperary
Highlander, or some such animal."
"My plan, Ramsay, is--" etc, etc.
The two "etc, etc's" in the last line stand for all the rest of the
honest Squire's speech, which, as his sailor brother said, was as long
as the logline. But for all his hunger he made but a poor breakfast,
and immediately after he jumped up and hurried away to the barn-yards.
It was a busy time for the next two weeks at Burley Old Farm, but, to
the Squire's credit be it said, he was pretty successful with his
strange operation of drying wheat independent of the sun. His ricks
were built, and he was happy--happy as long as he thought nothing about
the expense. But he did take an hour or two one evening to run through
accounts, as he called it. Uncle Ramsay was with him.
"Why, brother," said Ramsay, looking very serious now indeed, "you are
terribly down to leeward--awfully out of pocket!"
"Ah! never mind, Ramsay. One can't keep ahead of the times now-a-days,
you know, without spending a little."
"Spending a little! Where are your other books? Mr Walton and I will
have a look through them to-night, if you don't mind."
"Not a bit, brother, not a bit. We're going to give a dance to-morrow
night to the servants, so if you like to bother with the book-work I'll
attend to the terpsichorean kick up."
Mr Walton and Uncle Ramsay had a snack in the office that evening
instead of coming up to supper, and when Mrs Broadbent looked in to say
good-night she found them both quiet and hard at work.
"I say, Walton," said Uncle Ramsay some time after, "this is serious.
Draw near the fire and let us have a talk."
"It is sad as well as serious," said Walton.
"Had you any idea of it?"
"Not the slightest. In fact I'm to blame, I think, for not seeing to
the books before. But the Squire--"
Walton hesitated.
"I know my brother well," said Ramsay. "As good a fellow as ever lived,
but as headstrong as a nor'-easter. And now he has been spending money
on machinery to the tune of some ten thousand pounds. He has been
growing crop after crop of wheat as if he lived on the prairies and the
land was new; and he has really been putting as much down in seed,
labour, and fashionable manures as he has taken off."
"Yet," said Walton, "he is no fool."
"No, not he; he is clever, too much so. But heaven send his pride,
honest though it be, does not result in a fall."
The two sat till long past twelve talking and planning, then they opened
the casement and walked out on to the lawn. It was a lovely autumn
night. The broad, round moon was high in the heavens, fighting its way
through a sky of curdling clouds which greatly detracted from its
radiance.
"Look, Walton," said the sailor, "to windward; yonder it is all blue
sky, by-and-by it will be a bright and lovely night."
"By-and-by. Yes," sighed Walton.
"But see! What is that down yonder rising white over the trees? Smoke!
Why, Walton, the barn-yards are all on fire!"
Almost at the same moment Branson rushed upon the scene.
"Glad you're up, gentlemen," he gasped. "Wake the Squire. The servants
are all astir. We must save the beasts, come of everything else what
will."
The farm-steading of Burley was built in the usual square formation
round a centre straw-yard, which even in winter was always kept so well
filled that beasts might lie out all night. To the north were the
stacks, and it was here the fire originated, and unluckily the wind blew
from that direction. It was by no means high; but fire makes its own
wind, and in less than half an hour the whole yard was ablaze and
burning fiercely, while the byres, stables, and barns had all caught.
From the very first these latter had been enveloped in dense rolling
clouds of smoke, and sparks as thick as falling snowflakes, so that to
save any of the live stock seemed almost an impossibility.
With all his mania for machinery, and for improvements of every kind
possible to apply to agriculture, it is indeed a wonder that the Squire
had not established a fire brigade on his farm. But fire was an
eventuality which he had entirely left out of his reckoning, and now
there was really no means of checking the terrible conflagration.
As soon as the alarm was given every one did what he could to save the
live stock; but the smoke was blinding, maddening, and little could be
done save taking the doors off their hinges.
Who knows what prodigies of valour were performed that night by the
humble cowmen even, in their attempts to drive the oxen and cows out,
and away to a place of safety? In some instances, when they had nearly
succeeded, the cattle blocked the doorways, or, having got out to the
straw-yard, charged madly back again, and prevented the exit of their
fellows. Thus several servants ran terrible risks to their lives.
They were more successful in saving the horses, and this was greatly
owing to Archie's presence of mind. He had dashed madly into the stable
for his pet Scallowa. The Shetland pony had never looked more wild
before. He sniffed the danger, he snorted and reared. All at once it
occurred to Archie to mount and ride him out. No sooner had he got on
his back than he came forth like a lamb. He took him to a field and let
him free, and as he was hurrying back he met little Peter.
"Come, Peter, come," he cried; "we can save the horses."
The two of them rushed to the stable, and horse after horse was bridled
and mounted by little Peter and ridden out.
But a fearful hitch occurred. Tell, the Squire's hunter, backed against
the stable door and closed it, thus imprisoning Archie, who found it
impossible to open the door.
The roof had already caught. The horses were screaming in terror, and
rearing wildly against the walls.
Peter rushed away to seek assistance. He met Branson, and in a word or
two told him what had happened.
Luckily axes were at hand, and sturdy volunteers speedily smashed the
door in, and poor Archie, more dead than alive, with torn clothes and
bleeding face, was dragged through.
The scene after this must be left to imagination. But the Squire
reverently and fervently thanked God when the shrieks of those
fire-imprisoned cattle were hushed in death, and nothing was to be heard
save the crackle and roar of the flames.
The fire had lit up the countryside for miles around. The moonlight
itself was bright, but within a certain radius the blazing farm cast
shadows against it.
Next morning stackyards, barn-yards, farm-steading, machinery-house, and
everything pertaining to Burley Old Farm, presented but a smouldering,
blackened heap of ruins.
Squire Broadbent entertained his poor, frightened people to an early
breakfast in the servants' hall, and the most cheerful face there was
that of the Squire. Here is his little speech:
"My good folks, sit down and eat; and let us be thankful we're all here,
and that no human lives are lost. My good kinswoman Kate here will tell
you that there never yet was an ill but there might be a worse. Let us
pray the worse may never come."
CHAPTER TEN.
"AFTER ALL, IT DOESN'T TAKE MUCH TO MAKE A MAN HAPPY."
For weeks to come neither Uncle Ramsay nor Walton had the heart to add
another sorrow to the Squire's cup of misery. They knew that the fire
had but brought on a little sooner a catastrophe which was already
fulling; they knew that Squire Broadbent was virtually a ruined man.
All the machinery had been rendered useless; the most of the cattle were
dead; the stacks were gone; and yet, strange to say, the Squire hoped
on. Those horses and cattle which had been saved were housed now in
rudely-built sheds, among the fire-blackened ruins of their former
wholesome stables and byres.
One day Branson, who had always been a confidential servant, sent Mary
in to say he wished to speak to the Squire. His master came out at
once.
"Nothing else, Branson," he said. "You carry a long face, man."
"The wet weather and the cold have done their work, sir. Will you walk
down with me to the cattle-sheds?"
Arrived there, he pointed to a splendid fat ox, who stood in his stall
before his untouched turnips with hanging head and dry, parched nose.
His hot breath was visible when he threw his head now and then uneasily
round towards his loin, as if in pain. There was a visible swelling on
the rump. Branson placed a hand on it, and the Squire could hear it
"bog" and crackle.
"What is that, Branson? Has he been hurt?"
"No, sir, worse. I'll show you."
He took out his sharp hunting-knife.
"It won't hurt the poor beast," he said.
Then he cut deep into the swelling. The animal never moved. No blood
followed the incision, but the gaping wound was black, and filled with
air-bubbles.
"The quarter-ill," said the cowman, who stood mournfully by.
That ox was dead in a few hours. Another died next day, two the next,
and so on, though not in an increasing ratio; but in a month there was
hardly an animal alive about the place except the horses.
It was time now the Squire should know all, and he did. He looked a
chastened man when he came out from that interview with his brother and
Walton. But he put a right cheery face on matters when he told his
wife.
"We'll have to retrench," he said. "It'll be a struggle for a time, but
we'll get over it right enough."
Present money, however, was wanted, and raised it must be.
And now came the hardest blow the Squire had yet received. It was a
staggering one, though he met it boldly. There was then at Burley Old
Mansion a long picture gallery. It was a room in an upper story, and
extended the whole length of the house--a hall in fact, and one that
more than one Squire Broadbent had entertained his friends right royally
in. From the walls not only did portraits of ancestors bold and gay,
smile or frown down, but there hung there also many a splendid landscape
and seascape by old masters.
Most of the latter had to be sold, and the gallery was closed, for the
simple reason that Squire Broadbent, courageous though he was, could not
look upon its bare and desecrated walls without a feeling of sorrow.
Pictures even from the drawing-room had to go also, and that room too
was closed. But the breakfast-room, which opened to the lawn and rose
gardens, where the wild birds sang so sweetly in summer, was left
intact; so was the dining-room, and that cosy, wee green parlour in
which the family delighted to assemble around the fire in the winter's
evenings.
Squire Broadbent had been always a favourite in the county--somewhat of
an upstart and iconoclast though he was--so the sympathy he received was
universal.
Iconoclast? Yes, he had delighted in shivering the humble idols of
others, and now his own were cast down. Nobody, however, deserted him.
Farmers and Squires might have said among themselves that they always
knew Broadbent was "going the pace," and that his new-fangled American
notions were poorly suited to England, but in his presence they did all
they could to cheer him.
When the ploughing time came round they gave him what is called in the
far North "a love-darg." Men with teams of horses came from every farm
for miles around and tilled his ground. They had luncheon in a marquee,
but they would not hear of stopping to dinner. They were indeed
thoughtful and kind.
The parson of the parish and the doctor were particular friends of the
Squire. They often dropped in of an evening to talk of old times with
the family by the fireside.
"I'm right glad," the doctor said one evening, "to see that you don't
lose heart, Squire."
"Bless me, sir, why should I? To be sure we're poor now, but God has
left us a deal of comfort, doctor, and, after all, _it doesn't take much
to make a man happy_."
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Boys will be boys. Yes, we all know that. But there comes a time in
the life of every right-thinking lad when another truth strikes home to
him, that boys will be men.
I rather think that the sooner a boy becomes cognisant of this fact the
better. Life is not all a dream; it must sooner or later become a stern
reality. Life is not all pleasant parade and show, like a field-day at
Aldershot; no, for sooner or later pomp and panoply have to be exchanged
for camp-life and action, and bright uniforms are either rolled in blood
and dust, or come triumphant, though tarnished, from the field of glory.
Life is not all plain sailing over sunlit seas, for by-and-by the
clouds bank up, storms come on, and the good ship has to do battle with
wind and wave.
But who would have it otherwise? No one would who possesses the
slightest ray of honest ambition, or a single spark of that pride of
self which we need not blush to own.
One day, about the beginning of autumn, Rupert and Archie, and their
sister Elsie, were in the room in the tower. They sat together in a
turret chamber, Elsie gazing dreamily from the window at the beautiful
scenery spread out beneath. The woods and wilds, the rolling hills, the
silvery stream, the half-ripe grain moving in the wind, as waves at sea
move, and the silvery sunshine over all. She was in a kind of a
daydream, her fingers listlessly touching a chord on the harp now and
then. A pretty picture she looked, too, with her bonnie brown hair, and
her bonnie blue eyes, and thorough English face, thorough English
beauty. Perhaps Archie had been thinking something of this sort as he
sat there looking at her, while Rupert half-lay in the rocking-chair,
which his brother had made for him, engrossed as usual in a book.
Whether Archie did think thus or not, certain it is that presently he
drew his chair close to his sister's, and laying one arm fondly on her
shoulder.
"What is sissie looking at?" he asked.
"Oh, Archie," she replied, "I don't think I've been looking at anything;
but I've been seeing everything and wishing!"
"Wishing, Elsie? Well, you don't look merry. What were you wishing?"
"I was wishing the old days were back again, when--when father was rich;
before the awful fire came, and the plague, and everything. It has made
us all old, I think. Wouldn't you like father was rich again?"
"I am not certain; but wishes are not horses, you know."
"_No_," said Elsie; "only if it could even be always like this, and if
you and Rupert and I could be always as we are now. I think that, poor
though we are, everything just now is so pretty and so pleasant. But
you are going away to the university, and the place won't be the same.
I shall get older faster than ever then."
"Well, Elsie," said Archie, laughing, "I am so old that I am going to
make my will."
Rupert put down his book with a quiet smile.
"What are you going to leave me, old man? Scallowa?"
"No, Rupert, you're too long in the legs for Scallowa, you have no idea
what a bodkin of a boy you are growing. Scallowa I will and bequeath to
my pretty sister here, and I'll buy her a side-saddle, and two
pennyworth of carrot seed. Elsie will also have Bounder, and you,
Rupert, shall have Fuss."
"Anything else for me?"
"Don't be greedy. But I'll tell you. You shall have my tool-house, and
all my tools, and my gun besides. Well, this room is to be sister's
own, and she shall also have my fishing-rod, and the book of flies that
poor Bob Cooper made for me. Oh, don't despise them, they are all
wonders!"
"Well really, Archie," said Elsie, "you talk as earnestly as if you
actually were going to die."
"Who said I was going to die? No, I don't mean to die till I've done
much more mischief."
"Hush! Archie."
"Well, I'm hushed."
"Why do you want to make your will?"
"Oh, it isn't wanting to make my will! I am--I've done it. And the
'why' is this, I'm going away."
"To Oxford?"
"No, Elsie, not to Oxford. I've got quite enough Latin and Greek out of
Walton to last me all my life. I couldn't be a doctor; besides father
is hardly rich enough to make me one at present. I couldn't be a
doctor, and I'm not good enough to be a parson."
"Archie, how you talk."
There were tears in Elsie's eyes now.
"I can't help it. I'm going away to enter life in a new land. Uncle
Ramsay has told me all about Australia. He says the old country is used
up, and fortunes can be made in a few years on the other side of the
globe."
There was silence in the turret for long minutes; the whispering of the
wind in the elm trees beneath could be heard, the murmuring of the
river, and far away in the woods the cawing of rooks.
"Don't you cry, Elsie," said Archie. "I've been thinking about all this
for some time, and my mind is made up. I'm going, Elsie, and I know it
is for the best. You don't imagine for a single moment, do you, that
I'll forget the dear old times, and you all? No, no, no. I'll think
about you every night, and all day long, and I'll come back rich. You
don't think that I _won't_ make my fortune, do you? Because I mean to,
and will. So there. Don't cry, Elsie."
"_I'm_ not going to cry, Archie," said Rupert.
"Right, Rupert, you're a brick, as Branson says."
"I'm not old enough," continued Rupert, "to give you my blessing, though
I suppose Kate would give you hers; but we'll all pray for you."
"Well," said Archie thoughtfully, "that will help some."
"Why, you silly boy, it will help a lot."
"I wish I were as good as you, Rupert. But I'm just going to try hard
to do my best, and I feel certain I'll be all right."
"You know, Roup, how well I can play cricket, and how I often easily
bowl father out. Well, that is because I've just tried my very hardest
to become a good player; and I'm going to try my very hardest again in
another way. Oh, I shall win! I'm cocksure I shall. Come, Elsie, dry
your eyes. Here's my handkie. Don't be a little old wife."
"You won't get killed, or anything, Archie?"
"No; I won't get killed, or eaten either."
"They do tell me," said Elsie--"that is, old Kate told me--that the
streets in Australia are all paved with gold, and that the roofs of the
houses are all solid silver."
"Well, I don't think she is quite right," said Archie, laughing.
"Anyhow, uncle says there is a fortune to be made, and I'm going to make
it. That's all."
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Archie went straight away down from that boy's room feeling every inch a
man, and had an interview with his father and uncle.
It is needless to relate what took place there, or to report the
conversation which the older folks had that evening in the little green
parlour. Both father and uncle looked upon Archie's request as
something only natural. For both these men, singular to say, had been
boys once themselves; and, in the Squire's own words, Archie was a son
to be proud of.
"We can't keep the lad always with us, mother," said Squire Broadbent;
"and the wide world is the best of schools. I feel certain that, go
where he will, he won't lose heart. If he does, I should be ashamed to
own him as a son. So there! My only regret is, Ramsay, that I cannot
send the lad away with a better lined pocket."
"My dear silly old brother, he will be better as he is. And I'm really
not sure that he would not be better still if he went away, as many have
gone before him, with only a stick and a bundle over his shoulder. You
have a deal too much of the Broadbent pride; and Archie had better leave
that all behind at home, or be careful to conceal it when he gets to the
land of his adoption."
The following is a brief list of Archie's stock-in-trade when he sailed
away in the good ship _Dugong_ to begin the world alone: 1. A good stock
of clothes. 2. A good stock of assurance. 3. Plenty of hope. 4. Good
health and abundance of strength. 5. A little nest egg at an Australian
bank to keep him partly independent till he should be able to establish
a footing. 6. Letters of introduction, blessings, and a little pocket
Bible.
His uncle chose his ship, and sent him away round the Cape in a good
old-fashioned sailing vessel. And his uncle went to Glasgow to see him
off, his last words being, "Keep up your heart, boy, whatever happens;
and keep calm in every difficulty. Good-bye."
Away sailed the ship, and away went Archie to see the cities that are
paved with gold, and whose houses have roofs of solid silver.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.