“Lard ha’ mercy me! What be doin’, Jan? You that’s only jist out o’
your bed! Whatever ’ud Doctor say? Boots too! Where be goin’?”
Old John Guppy cast a lowering glance at his spouse, and continued
to button his gaiters in silence. This task concluded, he stretched
out his hand and pointed imperatively to the gun slung over the
chimney-piece.
“Reach that down,” he commanded.
“Ye’re never goin’ out! You as has been four month and more on your
back! What’s the use on’t? There’s a new keeper yonder--new ways, and
strangers pretty nigh everywhere. I’d ha’ had a bit more sperrit nor to
go up there where I bain’t wanted.”
“I be goin’, woman. Squire do pay I money, an’ I’ll give en his money’s
worth. I must have an eye to things, or they’ll be gettin’ in a reg’lar
caddle up yon. New keeper, he’ll not know so very much about the place,
and Jim--he were always a terr’ble sammy--he never did seem to see what
was under his nose wi’out I were there to rub it into it.”
“Well, but Jan, the bit o’ money what Squire gives ’ee is a
pension--same as what soldiers an’ sick-like do get i’ their ancient
years. Squire don’t expect ’ee to do no more work for en now, and ye
be so fearful punished wi’ the rheumatics, an’ all. No--‘Mrs. Guppy,’
says Squire to I, so considerate as could be, ‘Mrs. Guppy,’ he says,
‘Jan have served I faithful nigh upon two score year--now he can take
a bit o’ rest,’ he says; ‘I’ve a-made sure as he’ll be comfortable
in’s old age. The pension ’ull be paid reg’lar so long as he do live,’
says he, ‘or so long as I do live,’ he says, laughin’ cheerful-like,
‘for ’pon my word, I do think your Jan ’ll very likely see I down--he
be uncommon tough, so old as he mid be,’ says Squire. ‘And if I do go
first, my son ’ll see as he wants for nothin’ in his time,’ he says. So
let I light your pipe, Jan, my dear, and sit ’ee down sensible like, i’
the chimbley corner--’tis the best place for ’ee, good man.”
“You can light my pipe, if you like,” said John, still gloomily, “but I
be goin’ up-along all the same. Things ’ull be goin’ to ruin if I don’t
tell ’em how they used to be carried on i’ my time.”
“I d’ ’low ye’ll not get so far,” said Mrs. Guppy; “but of all the
obstinate men--well, there, ’tis a good thing as the A’mighty made half
the world o’ women-folk, else everythin’ ’ud be fair topsy-turvy.”
John wedged his pipe firmly in the corner of his mouth, put his gun
under his arm, and, taking his thick stick from the chimney corner,
set forth, without vouchsafing any answer; he limped painfully as he
walked, and Mrs. Guppy, looking sorrowfully after him, opined that he’d
have had enough of it afore he’d gone half a mile. But though she had
been wedded to John for thirty-five years, she had not yet learned the
quality of his spirit; he uttered many groans as he shambled along, and
lifted the poor limb, which had so long been well-nigh useless, with
increasing effort, but he held bravely on his way until he reached his
destination, a vast stretch of land, half park, half down, peopled by
innumerable rabbits and furnished with copses and plantations, which no
doubt afforded cover to game of every kind. Here John paused for the
first time, turned his head on one side, clicked his tongue and jerked
forward his gun with a knowing air as a rabbit crossed his path.
“If ’t ’ad ha’ been loaded I’d ha’ made short work o’ thee, my bwoy,”
he remarked. “There don’t seem to be so many o’ you about as there did
used to be i’ my time, though--not by a long ways. That there noo chap
’ull ha’ let ye go down, I reckon. There bain’t many like poor old Jan
Guppy--nay, I’ll say that for ye, Jan. You was worth your salt while
you were about--’e-es, and so long as ye be above ground I d’ ’low
you’ll make it worth Squire’s while to keep ye.”
Having delivered this tribute to himself with a conscientiously
impartial air, he proceeded on his way, and presently came in sight of
the keeper’s cottage, or rather lodge, set midway in the long avenue
which led to the Squire’s mansion, and smiled to himself at the sudden
out-cry of canine voices which greeted his approach.
“There they be, the beauties! That’s Jet--I’d know her bark among a
thousand. I d’ ’low she knows my foot,” as one voice detached itself
from the chorus and exchanged its warning note for a strangled whine of
rapture. “She’ll break that chain o’ hers if they don’t let her loose.
’Ullo, Jet, old girl! Hi, Rover! Pull up, Bess!”
All the barks had now ceased, and a pointer came scurrying to the gate,
followed by a large retriever.
“There ye be, my lads--too fat, too fat. Ah, they be feedin’ o’ them
too well now--not so good for work, I d’ ’low! Poor old Jet! Ye be
tied-up, bain’t ye? There, we’ll come to ye.”
Passing through the wicket-gate, he was limping unceremoniously round
to the back of the cottage, when the door was thrown open and the
astonished figure of the keeper’s wife appeared in the aperture.
“Mornin’, mum,” said John, lifting his hand half-way to his forelock,
which was his nearest approach to a polite salutation when in parley
with folks of Mrs. Sanders’ degree. “I be Mr. Guppy, what was keeper
here afore your master. I be jist come to take a look about.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Sanders, who was a very genteel and superior
person; “my husband would have had great pleasure in taking you round,
Mr. Guppy, but he’s out just at present.”
“No matter for that, mum, I’ll go by myself. What, Jet! There ye be, my
beauty; dear, to be sure, a body ’ud never think ’twas the same dog.
She do seem to ha’ fell away terr’ble, mum.”
Jet, a curly-coated black spaniel, was at that moment straining wildly
at her chain, and wriggling her little black body in such spasms of
ecstasy at the sight of her old master that it would have needed a very
sharp eye to detect any alteration in her appearance, if, indeed, such
existed; but John spoke in a tone of conviction.
“She bain’t half the dog she were. What do you feed her on, mum? Jet,
she did used to be dainty--didn’t ye, Jet? Her coat do stare dreadful,
mum, now don’t it? A prize dog didn’t ought to have its coat neglected
like that. When I had the charge o’ she, dally! if I didn’t comb and
brush her morn an’ night, same as if she’d been a young lady. Be dalled
if I didn’t! Where be your master, mum?”
Mrs. Sanders’ face, always somewhat frosty in expression, had become
more and more pinched and supercilious during the colloquy, and she now
replied extremely distantly that she couldn’t say for certain where Mr.
Sanders might be, but that very likely he was looking after the young
pheasants.
“Ah!” commented John, with interest; “and where mid he ha’ got them
this year?”
“On this side of the North Plantation,” returned the lady unwillingly.
“A bad place, mum, a very bad place; no birds ’ull ever do well
there. If he’d a-come to I, I could ha’ telled en that. They’ll never
thrive up yon in that draughty place--no, that they won’t; and it’ll
be too cold for ’em. I’m afeared he’ll have a bad season. The North
Plantation--dear, some folks doesn’t know much! Well, I’ll go and have
a look at ’em, and if I do see your husband, I mid be able to gie en a
word or two o’ advice.”
“Ho! no need for that, I think,” cried Mrs. Sanders wrathfully.
“’Tisn’t very likely as my husband, wot ’as lived in the fust o’
families, and been keeper to a markis, ’ud want to take advice from an
old gentleman like you, Mr. Guppy, as has never left the one place all
your life.”
“I could have advised en agen the North Plantation, anyhow,” said John
stolidly. “Well, I’ll wish ’ee good-day, mum. I’ll be goin’ my ways
up-along.”
And he hobbled off, muttering to himself as he went: “The North
Plantation! The chap must be a fool!... They poor dogs, they was glad
to see I!--jist about; but bain’t he a sammy! There he do go and feed
up the shooting dogs so as they be for all the world like pigs, and
Jet, what we used to keep same as a little queen, he do seem to take no
more notice of nor if she was a cat! Poor Jet! How she did cry to get
to I! Well, well! I may be able to put things straight a bit.”
Proceeding at his slow pace, the pilgrimage to the North Plantation
was a matter of considerable time, and it was noon before he halted at
length beside the enclosure where hundreds of tiny pheasant chicks ran
in and out of their several coops, with a venturesomeness much deplored
by their distracted hen foster-mothers.
A tall, middle-aged man was walking about amid the pens, with a proudly
proprietary air which announced him to be the head-keeper.
Guppy wiped the sweat of weakness and fatigue from his brow and uttered
a quavering “Hullo!” Mr. Sanders turned and walked majestically towards
him.
“What do you want,” he inquired briefly.
“I be jist come up-along to have a look round,” announced John. “I’m
Mr. Guppy, what was here afore you. You be in my shoes now, I mid say,
but I don’t bear ’ee no grudge for ’t--no, I don’t bear ’ee no grudge,”
he repeated handsomely.
“Right,” said Sanders, who was a good-humoured fellow enough, if a
little puffed up by the dignity of his position. “Glad to see you, Mr.
Guppy. We’ve got a nice lot here, haven’t we?”
“’E-es,” agreed Guppy, with a note of reserve in his voice; “’e-es, a
tidyish lot; but you’ll not bring up the half o’ them.”
“Won’t I, indeed?” retorted Sanders, somewhat warmly. “What makes you
say that?”
“I could ha’ telled ’ee as this here weren’t a fit place for young
pheasants,” returned the ex-keeper, not without a certain triumph. “If
you’d ha’ come to I, I could ha’ telled ye. I’ve a-been thirty-nine
year and nine month i’ this place, and I’ve never put the young
pheasants here once--never once. What do you say to that?”
“Well, I say as every man has his own notions,” returned the other.
“You might have a fancy for one place, as very likely I’d take agen,
and, on the other hand, you seem to have some notion agen this ’ere
place, as _I_ think most suitable.”
“Well, ye’ll find out your mistake, I d’ ’low,” said Guppy
unflinchingly. “Done pretty well wi’ eggs this year?”
“Yes, pretty well on the whole. We had to buy a few hundreds, but, as I
told Mr.----”
“Buy ’em! Buy eggs! You must ha’ managed wonderful bad. I’ve a-been
here nigh upon farty year, and never bought so much as one--not one.
Dally! ’Twill come terr’ble expensive for Squire if ye do carry on
things that way.”
“Something had to be done, you see,” cried Sanders, who was now
beginning to be distinctly nettled. “You seem to have been such a
stick-in-the-mud lot--there was hardly any game about the place that I
could see when I come.”
“Oh! and weren’t there?” retorted John sarcastically. “Ye must ha’ poor
eyes, Maister Sanders. There, ’twas what I did use to say to a cousin
o’ Squire’s as used to come shooting here twenty-five years ago, and
couldn’t hit a haystack. ‘There don’t seem to be anything to shoot,
keeper,’ he’d say; and I’d answer back, ‘Ye must ha’ wonderful poor
eyes, sir.’ Ho, ho! he were a stuck-up sort o’ gentleman as were always
a-findin’ fault and a-pickin’ holes, but I mind I had a good laugh agen
him once. ’Twas a terr’ble hot day, and we’d walked miles and miles,
and I were a bit done-up at the end, and thankful for a sup o’ beer.
And he comes up to I, and says, laughin’ nasty-like, ‘Well, Guppy, you
don’t seem much of a walker. Now, I could go all day.’ ‘’E-es, sir,’
says I, ‘and so can a postman. I d’ ’low your bags ’ad much same weight
at the end o’ your rounds.’”
Sanders vouchsafed no comment on this anecdote, and John, propping
his stick against the paling, proceeded with much difficulty to climb
over it, and to hobble from one pen to the other, stooping stiffly to
inspect the young birds and the arrangements made for their comfort.
“They big speckly hens is too heavy for these here delicate little
fellows,” he remarked. “Game hens is the best--’twas what I did always
have. ’Tis more in nature as the game hens should make the best mothers
to young pheasants. They be a poor-looking lot, Maister Sanders. I
did use to have ’em a deal more for’ard at this time o’ year. What be
feedin’ ’em on?”
“Now look ’ere, I’m not going to stand any more o’ this,” thundered the
keeper, fairly losing his temper. “I’m not going to have you poking and
prying about this place no longer. You’ve got past your work, and I’m
doing it now. If the Squire’s satisfied, that’s all I need think about.
If he isn’t, he can tell me so.”
“Ha! no man likes bein’ found fault with,” returned Guppy
sententiously; “but sometimes ’tis for their own good. Now you take
a word o’ advice from I, what was workin’ here afore you was born or
thought of very like.”
“I’ll not, then!” cried the other angrily. “Get out o’ this, you old
meddler, or I’ll report you to the Squire!”
“You did ought to thank I for not reportin’ of you,” returned John
firmly. “The Squire do think a deal o’ I--a deal; but I’d be sorry
to get a man into trouble as do seem to be meanin’ well. You mind my
words, keeper, and you’ll find as they’ll come true--ye’ll have a bad
season this year, and maybe ye’ll be a bit more ready to take advice
from them as knows more nor you do. ’Tis the first year, so I’ll not be
hard on ye.”
He had now recrossed the wire, repossessed himself of his stick,
and with a nod of farewell at his irate successor, turned his steps
homewards.
He spent the rest of that day lamenting the direful changes which had
taken place since his own withdrawal from active life, and privately
resolved to be astir early on the morrow in order to proceed further
with his tour of investigation.
With the first dawn, therefore, of a lovely spring morning he left his
bed cautiously, dressed in silence, and made his way out of doors. The
cottage which he had occupied since his resignation of the keepership
was situated at the very end of the village, and as he glanced up
the quiet street he could detect few signs of life. No smoke was yet
stealing upwards into the still air, no cows lowing in the bartons; the
pigeons, indeed, were astir, preening themselves somewhat sleepily,
and cooing in a confidential undertone, and the clucking of hens was
audible here and there, while more musical bird-voices resounded
from trees and hedgerows. The dew lay heavy on the long grass by the
roadside as John set forth. The morning mists had not yet disappeared,
and the glamour of dawn still enfolded the world. The dew-washed leaves
seemed to be on fire, as they caught the rosy rays of the morning sun;
every little wayside pool gleamed and glittered. The air was full of
sweet scents, the delicate, distinctive odour of the primrose being
predominant, though here and there a gush of almost overpowering
perfume greeted the old man’s nostrils, as he passed a wild apple-tree.
A kind of aromatic undertone came forth from damp moss, trunks of
fir-trees, springing young herbage, yet the exquisite fragrance of the
morning itself seemed to belong to none of these things in particular,
but rather to emanate from the very freshness of the dawn.
Old John, however, plodded onwards, without appearing to take heed of
his surroundings; once, indeed, he paused to sniff with a perturbed
expression; a fox had passed that way. His eyes peered warily into
the undergrowth, over the banks, beneath the hedgerows; he paused in
traversing a copse, stooped, uttering an exclamation of astonished
disgust, and some few moments later emerged from the brake with a
bulging pocket and an air of increased importance.
Jim Neale, the under-keeper, had not long started on his morning beat
when he was hailed by a familiar voice, and turning beheld his former
chief.
“Hullo, Maister Guppy, I be pure glad to see you on your legs again.
You be afoot early.”
John surveyed him for a moment with an air of solemn indignation.
“’Tis jist so well I were afoot a bit early, Jim. You do want I at your
back, I d’ ’low. Which way have you been a-goin’?”
“Why, same as usual--across the big mead, from our place, and up-along
by top side o’ the park.”
“Jist what I did fancy. You do seem to use your eyes wonderful well,
Jim--jist so well as ever. D’ye mind how I used to tell ’ee ‘some folks
has eyes and some has none’?”
“Why, what be amiss?”
John, without speaking, put his hand in his pocket, and drew forth a
number of rabbit snares, sticks and all, which he had picked up and
secreted in the copse before-mentioned.
“Oh!” said Jim. “Humph! I wonder who could have put them there?”
“Why, Branstone folks what be always a-hangin’ about seekin’ what they
can pick up.”
“Well, ’twas a good job ye did chance to come along, Mr. Guppy. I d’
’low they didn’t have time to catch nothin’. There weren’t no rabbits
in ’em, was there?”
“There was a rabbit in one of them though,” retorted John triumphantly;
“I’ve a-got en here i’ my pocket.”
“Oh, and have ye?” queried John, eyeing the pocket in question somewhat
askance. “Well, it’s lucky I’ve a-met ye--ye can hand en over to me
i’stead o’ going all the way up to Sanders.”
“I can hand en over to you, can I? Thank ye kindly, Maister Jim;
‘findins’ is keepins’--or used to be i’ my day. Well, of all the cheek!
‘Hand en over,’ says he to I what has been his maister, I mid say, for
fifteen year and more. Hand en over, indeed!”
Jim, temporarily abashed, pushed his hat a little to the back of his
head, and stared for a moment or two in silence; then his features
relaxed into a slow grin.
“’Pon my word, if it do come to cheek, be dalled if I could say which
of us has the most of it! Ye bain’t keeper here no longer, Mr. Guppy,
and I don’t know as Squire ’ud be altogether pleased if he was to catch
you a-pocketin’ one of his rabbits.”
John laughed derisively.
“Squire ’ud know a bit better nor that,” he remarked, as soon as he had
sufficiently composed himself. “Squire ’ud know better than grudge I a
rabbit arter all them hundreds as I’ve a-had the years and years as I
were here. Be ye a-goin’ on now?”
“’E-es I be,” returned Jim, somewhat sulkily.
“Then look sharp, else you’ll very like miss a good few more things
what be under your nose.”
Jim walked away growling to himself that he wasn’t a-goin’ to have two
masters if he knew it, and that it was enough to be at one man’s beck
and call without being hauled over the coals by folks what had no right
to be there at all.
John, leaning on his stick, watched the receding form, still with an
air of lofty sovereignty, till it had disappeared, and then took his
way homewards, feeling that he had done a good morning’s work.
It was marvellous how one so decrepit as he could manage to be as
ubiquitous as he thenceforth became. His bent figure and wrinkled face
were perpetually turning up in most unexpected quarters, to the wrath
and occasional dismay of Mr. Sanders and his underlings, his small
keen eyes frequently detecting some small error or omission which his
quavering voice was immediately uplifted to denounce and reprehend.
Matters reached a climax when, one sunshiny morning, he discovered the
eldest hope of the Sanders family in the act of climbing a tree in
search of a bird’s nest, and, not content with boxing the urchin’s ears
as soon as he descended to earth again, hauled him off by the collar to
the parental abode. The boy’s outcries brought his father to the door,
accompanied by Jim, who had chanced to call in for orders.
“See here what I’ve a-caught your bwoy a-doin’ of. His pocket be
chock-full o’ eggs--pigeon eggs. He ha’n’t a-got no right to go into
the woods arter pigeons’ eggs. I’ve brought en to ’ee, Maister
Sanders, so as ye may gie en a dressin’. I be too old to do it myself.
Nay, nay, at one time I could ha’ fetched him a crack or two what ’ud
ha’ taught en manners. But I bain’t strong enough for that now.”
“Let go of him--let go at once, I say,” shouted the indignant parent.
“Who gave you leave to interfere? The lad’s my lad, and it’s none o’
your business to go meddlin’ with him. Come here, Philip-James; go in to
your mother, boy. He’s mauled you fearful.”
“Well, you must be a soft fellow,” ejaculated John in a tone of deep
disgust. “I couldn’t ha’ believed it! If _I_ had a-caught a bwoy
a-trespassin’ i’ my woods when I was here, I’d ha’ thrashed him well
for ’t--let him be my son twenty times over.”
“Trespassin’ indeed! You’re a trespasser yourself,” cried the keeper.
“You’ve no business in these woods at all; you’ve no business to come
near the place. I’ll summons you, see if I don’t.”
“Well, that is a tale!” exclaimed John, leaning against the gate-post
that he might the better indulge in a kind of crow of ironical
laughter. “Trespass--_me_ trespass; me what was keeper here for nigh
upon farty year. Lard ha’ mercy me! What’ll ye say next?”
“Well, but it _be_ trespassin’, you know, Maister Guppy,” remarked Jim,
thrusting his head round the lintel of the door; “it be trespassin’
right enough. If you was head-keeper once, you bain’t head-keeper no
more. You ha’n’t got no call to be here at all. It _be_ trespassin’.”
“You hold your tongue, Jim Neale,” retorted John fiercely--“hold your
tongue! Who asked you to speak--you as did ought to be ashamed of
yourself for neglectin’ the ferrets same as you do. The big dog-ferret
have a-got the mange terr’ble bad. You bain’t the man to give a
opinion, I d’ ’low.”
Jim, incensed at this sudden home-thrust, uttered a forcible
exclamation, and proceeded with much warmth: “You’ve a-got a wrong
notion i’ your head altogether, Maister Guppy; you be a-trespassin’
jist the same as you was a-poachin’ t’other marnin’.”
“Poachin’!” cried John, his face purple with wrath and his voice
well-nigh strangled--“poachin’! Dall ’ee, Jim, I’ll not stand here to
be insulted. There, I’ve a-passed over a deal--a deal I have. I’ve
overlooked it on account of the many years as we’ve a-worked here
together, but this here be too much. I’ll report ye, Jim Neale, see if
I don’t; and I’ll report you too, Maister Sanders, for insultin’ of I
same as you’ve a-done. There’s things as a body can’t overlook, let him
be so good-natured as he mid be, and there’s times when a man’s dooty
do stare en i’ the face. I’ll report ye this very hour.”
“That’s pretty good,” laughed Sanders. “Upon my word, that’s pretty
good. Maybe Jim an’ me will have something to report to the Squire
too. You’d best come along with me, Jim, and we’ll see who the Squire
listens to.”
“Come along then,” cried John valiantly, before Neale had time to
answer. “Come along; we’ll see. I bain’t afeard o’ the Squire. The
Squire do know I so well as if I was his own brother. Come on, if you
be a-comin’.”
The three set out, walkin’ shoulder to shoulder in grim silence, the
younger perforce accommodating their pace to the slow gait of the old
man, who hobbled along between them, leaning heavily upon his stick,
his face set in resolute lines.
They were kept waiting for some little time until the Squire had
finished his breakfast, but were presently admitted into the
billiard-room where they found him smoking by a blazing wood fire, for
he was of a chilly temperament, and though the morning was sunny, the
air was still sufficiently sharp.
“Hallo, Guppy!” he cried cheerily, as his eyes fell on the old man.
“What! you’re about again, are you? You’re a wonderful old fellow!
You’ll see me down, I’m sure, though there are twenty years or so
between us.”
John pulled his forelock and then laid his gnarled hand in the Squire’s
outstretched palm.
“You’re a splendid old chap,” said his former master, as he shook it
warmly. “I must own I never thought to see you on your legs again after
that stroke, coming as it did on the top of the rheumatics. How are the
rheumatics, John?”
“Very bad, thank ye, sir. There, I can scarce turn i’ my bed, and when
I do try for to walk my limbs do seem to go all twisty-like. I be fair
scraggled wi’ it, Squire.”
“Well, men, what brought you here?” inquired their master, turning for
the first time to the keepers, and addressing them with some surprise.
“Why, a rather unpleasant matter, sir, I am sorry to say,” returned
Sanders respectfully, but a trifle tartly. “’Tis a bit difficult
to explain, seein’ as you seem so taken up with Mr. Guppy here. I
understood, sir, when I accepted your sitooation as I was to have a
free hand. I didn’t look for no interference from anybody but you
yourself, sir.”
“Well, haven’t you got a free hand? I’m sure I don’t interfere,”
replied the Squire, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“’Tis Maister Guppy what be al’ays a-meddlin’, sir!” put in Jim, with
a pull at his forelock. “He do come up-along mostly every mornin’,
a-horderin’ and a-pickin’ holes here, there, and everywhere. Mr.
Sanders and me do find it terr’ble ill-conwenient.”
“I was just going to say, sir,” resumed Sanders, “when Neale
interrupted me”--here he paused to glare at his inferior--“as it was
what I was never accustomed to--outside people comin’ and pokin’ and
pryin’ and fault-findin’ and interferin’----”
“Oh, dear, how much more!” exclaimed the Squire, looking from one to
the other in affected dismay, mingled with a little real vexation.
“Guppy, what’s all this about?”
“Playse ye, sir, I couldn’t a-bear to see you a-treated same as ye be
treated by them as ye puts your trust in. Everythin’ be in a reg’lar
caddle all over the place--everythin’ be a-goin’ wrong, sir, and when
I sees it, I tells ’em of it. I can’t do no different--’tis my dooty.
You do pay I by the week reg’lar, and I bain’t a-goin’ to eat the bread
o’ idleness--’t ’ud stick i’ my in’ards--’e-es, that it would. ‘So soon
as I do get upon my legs,’ says I, ‘I’ll have a look round;’ and I did
have a look round, and what did I find? Every blessed thing a-goin’
wrong--so I sarces ’em for ’t. I wasn’t a-goin’ to hold my tongue,
and see you tricked and abused. I was easy wi’ ’em--a dalled sight too
easy--I did ought to have reported of ’em before, but to-day I couldn’t
stand it no longer; when I did speak to ’em they up and insulted me,
both on ’em. ’E-es, they did. They insulted of I shameful.”
“I am sorry to hear that----” the Squire was beginning, when Mr.
Sanders, losing patience, interrupted him.
“Begging your pardon, sir, ’tis more than flesh and blood can stand;
’tis got to be him or me--that’s all I can say. Nobody could put up
with it. I found things in a very bad state when I came, and I’m
getting them better gradual, sir, and doing my dooty in all respects as
well as I can; but if Guppy is to be allowed to come pryin’ and spyin’
after me, and findin’ fault with all my arrangements----”
“He did call I a trespasser,” broke out John, who had been ruminating
over his private woes, without taking heed of the keeper’s indictment.
“He did call I a trespasser; he did say I was trespassin’ when I told
en I’d a-been walkin’ through the Long Wood yonder where I did catch
his little rascal of a son a-bird’s-nestin’ so bold as you playse. And
Jim there, what did ought to know better, up and said I was poachin’
last week. _Me_ poachin’! Me what brought him back that very day a
dozen o’ snares what I had picked up i’ the hedge as he went gawkin’
past without taking a bit o’ notice of.”
“’E-es, but you found a rabbit in one and popped it into your pocket!”
cried Jim irefully. “Popped it into your pocket and walked off wi’ it,
let I say what I would.”
“In course I did,” retorted John, with great dignity, “in course I did.
’Tweren’t very likely as I’d leave it wi’ you. As I telled ’ee at the
time--says I: ‘Squire wouldn’t grudge me a rabbit now arter all the
hundreds as I’ve a-had while I was keeper up yonder.’”
The Squire covered his mouth with his hand, but tell-tale wrinkles
appeared about his eyes, and the points of his moustache curled
significantly upwards. After a moment he recovered himself sufficiently
to desire the keepers to withdraw, announcing that he would have a
quiet talk with John Guppy, and that no doubt the matter could be
arranged.
“So you had hundreds of rabbits while you were in my service, John,” he
remarked, crossing one leg over the other, and looking at the old man
with a smile. “Didn’t you get very tired of them?”
“Well, sir, my old woman be wonderful with the cookin’, and she did do
’em up in a-many different ways. ’E-es, we did use to have a rabbit for
dinner four days out of seven.”
“Did you indeed?” returned his former master, much interested in these
revelations. “Do you suppose, John, the other men had hundreds of
rabbits every year, too?”
“Well, sir, it be a matter o’ taste. Some folks doesn’t fancy rabbit;
but, of course, they can take so many as they do want.”
“Of course,” agreed the Squire.
“’E-es; keepers takes rabbits same as gardeners helps theirselves to
cabbages. I knowed you’d never begrudge me that there little un.”
“No, to be sure; but we mustn’t be too hard on Jim. Jim was doing what
he thought to be his duty. Now, you know, no matter how many rabbits a
keeper may take for himself, he is not supposed to allow other people
to take any.”
“Nay, sir, nay; I wouldn’t expect it--not other folks. But I d’ ’low it
be different wi’ I, what was head over en for so many year. He didn’t
ought to ha’ gone and insulted of I.”
“No, no, of course not; but then, you see, you had vexed him. He was
too angry to discriminate between poaching and--just helping yourself.”
“And t’other chap, ’ee telled I I was trespassin’!” resumed John
wrathfully.
“Well, my dear John, we must consider the point of view. Every man has
his own, you know. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid, from Sanders’s
point of view, you were trespassing.”
John’s face was a study.
“I never thought to live to hear you say that, Squire.”
“I only said from his point of view,” cried the Squire, hastily. “He’s
naturally, perhaps, a little jealous; you were here so many years, you
know, and of course, like all young men--young men will have foolish
notions, John--he thinks his way is the best way. We old fogies must
just give in for the sake of peace and comfort.”
“Noo ways,” agreed the old man, sorrowfully; “noo folks and noo ways.”
“As you heard me say just now,” resumed his master, “_I_ don’t
interfere with him, and, upon my life, I think it’s better you
shouldn’t interfere, John. I fancy it would be wiser if you could just
keep away for a little bit--then no one could say you were trespassing,
you know.”
“I’ll keep away, Squire,” said John. “No fear; I’ll keep away. Ye’ll
not have to tell I that twice.”
“You and I are free to have our own opinions, of course,” urged the
Squire, smiling, “but we’ll keep them to ourselves--these young folks
you know----”
But John did not smile in return; his head, always bent, drooped almost
to his breast, his lips moved, but uttered no sound. After a moment or
two, he pulled his forelock, scraped his leg, and turned to depart.
“You’re not going, John?”
“’E-es, sir, I be goin’, I bain’t wanted here no more. As you do say,
noo times----”
“Now, now, I can’t have you going away offended. Don’t you see how it
is, John?”
“Nay, sir, I don’t see nothin’ but what you’ve a-gone and thrown over a
old servant for a noo un. That be all as I can see. You didn’t check en
for insultin’ of I, and you did uphold him and made little of I. I be
goin’, and you’ll never be troubled wi’ I again. I’m fit for nothin’. I
be a-eatin’ of your bread and a-takin’ of your money and doin’ nothin’
for ’t. Eatin’ the bread o’ idleness! I d’ ’low it ’ull fair choke I.”
The Squire, vexed and perplexed, in vain sought to soothe him, but he
waved aside all attempts at consolation, and made his way slowly out of
the room and out of the house.
The Squire watched him as he went tottering down the avenue. “What’s to
be done?” he said to himself. “The poor old chap is past his work; it
would be cruelty to allow him to attempt it. Sanders is an excellent
fellow, on the other hand--more go-ahead than dear old John, and, it
must be owned, a better keeper. He would certainly have given notice
if I had allowed John to continue his visitations here. It is the only
thing to be done, but I can’t bear to see the poor old fellow so cut
up.”
As Guppy passed the keeper’s lodge the dogs ran forward, leaping upon
him and whining. He patted them absently, and then pushed them off.
“Down, Rover, down! There, Bessie, off wi’ you; you should learn a
lesson fro’ your betters. Stick to the noo folks, and get rid of the
wold. Poor beasts! they be fain to see I, I d’ ’low. Dogs bain’t
like Christians. They don’t seem to know when a man be down. They be
faithful, all the same; they haven’t a-got no sense, poor things.”
He was spent and trembling when he arrived at his own home, and sank
down in his chair by the hearth.
“There, missis, put away my gun; I’ll not want it no more; I be done
wi’ it--I be done wi’ everythin’. I could wish that there stroke had
a-carried I off. I bain’t no use i’ this world as I can see. It do seem
a strange thing as the Lard ’ll leave ye to live on and on when folks
be tired o’ ye, and be a-wishin’ of ye under the sod. I wish I were i’
my long home--aye, that I do.”
Mrs. Guppy was at first alarmed, then affected, and finally burst into
tears.
“I’m sure I never did hear a man go on the same as you do, Jan; there,
I be all of a tremble. What’s amiss? What’s come to ye? What’s it all
about?”
“Gi’ I my pipe,” said John; “there’s things a woman can’t understand.”
Not another word could she extract from him till dinner-time, when she
summoned him to table.
He gazed at the food sourly. “All charity!” he murmured. “Charity,
woman. I be eatin’ what I haven’t earned. I may jist so well go to the
Union.”
A few days later the Squire’s dogcart drew up at the little gate, and
the Squire himself descended therefrom, carrying a couple of rabbits
which he extracted from under the seat.
“Good-day, John; good-day, Mrs. Guppy. Well, John, how are you?
Cheering up a bit, I hope.”
John shook his head slowly.
“I’ve brought you a couple of rabbits,” continued the Squire. “It never
struck me till the other day how you must miss them. I’ll send you some
every week. There are enough, Heaven knows.”
“I don’t want no rabbits,” growled Guppy; “I bain’t a-goin’ to eat of
’em.”
“John!” gasped his wife, hardly believing her ears.
“Put ’em back i’ the cart, woman,” he continued; “I bain’t a-goin’ to
eat no rabbits what they chaps up yonder have a-ketched.”
“Why, John,” said the Squire, sitting down beside him, “can’t you get
over it? I thought you would be all right by this time.”
“I bain’t all right, Squire, and I can’t get over it. Nay, look at it
which way I will, I can’t. Here be I, John Guppy, a bit scram and a bit
wambly; but so sound i’ the head as ever I was, whatever my legs mid
be. Here be I, anxious for to do my dooty, and able for to do my dooty,
and you won’t let I do it. You do give me money what I haven’t earned;
you do want I to sit here idle when I’m as ready for a day’s work as
any o’ they new-fangled chaps what you’ve a-set up yonder i’ my place.”
The Squire sighed and looked hopelessly at Mrs. Guppy, who stood with
her hands folded limply at her waist, and a most dolorous expression
on her countenance, shaking her head emphatically at every pause in
her husband’s speech. After a few further attempts at consolation, the
Squire rose and went to the door, followed by his hostess.
“What is to be done, Mrs. Guppy?” he inquired, when they were out of
earshot. “I positively can’t have him back up there--he isn’t fit for
it; and he has been setting all the other men by the ears.”
“He’s fair breakin’ ’is ’eart,” murmured Mrs. Guppy dolefully. “He
thinks he bain’t o’ no use--and he bain’t--and it’s killin’ ’im. If he
could even fancy he was doing summat and ockipy hisself in any way he’d
be a different man. ’Tis the thought as nobody wants en what do cut en
so.”
The Squire cogitated, and then a sudden light broke over his face.
“I have it,” he cried. “I have thought of a job for the old fellow!
We’ll put him to rights yet, Mrs. Guppy--see if we don’t!”
He re-entered the cottage, and approached the inglenook where John
still sat, leaning forward, and slowly rubbing the knees of his
corduroys.
“John,” he said, “I was almost forgetting a most important thing I
wanted to say to you. Sanders and Jim have got their hands pretty full
up there, as you know.”
“I d’ ’low they have,” agreed Guppy; “they’re like to have ’em too
full, seein’ as they don’t know how to set about their work nohow.”
“Yes, yes. Well, Sanders is very busy all day and Jim has a wide beat.
Neither of them ever find time to go near the river. It’s my private
belief, John, that that river is dreadfully poached. We’ve next to no
wild duck, you know.”
“We never did have none, sir,” interrupted Guppy.
“Just what I say,” agreed his master; “we never had the chance. You had
_your_ hands pretty full when you were head-keeper, hadn’t you?”
“I weren’t one what ’ud ever ha’ let ’em get empty,” growled Guppy.
“Well, I was thinking, now that you haven’t very much to do, you might
undertake the control of those meadows down there by the river, if you
feel up to it, and it’s not asking too much of you.”
“Oh! I could do it,” returned John, in a mollified tone; “I could do it
right enough if I was let.”
“I should be very much obliged to you,” resumed the Squire, “very
much obliged indeed. All that part of the property has got shamefully
neglected. I imagine the people think they’ve got a right-of-way.”
“Very like they do,” agreed John, whose countenance was gradually
clearing; “but I can soon show ’em whether they have or not.”
“Just so. Well, will you undertake to look after that part of the
estate for me? It will be a great relief to my mind. Don’t overtire
yourself, you know; but any day that you are feeling pretty fit you
might stroll round, and just keep a sharp look-out.”
“’E-es, I could do that,” said John, after considering for a moment; “I
could do it all right, Squire. I will look into the matter.”
“That’s right. Thank you very much, John. I shall feel quite satisfied
about it now.”
He nodded, and went away, John looking after him with a satisfied
expression.
“I never did mind obligin’ the Squire,” he remarked to his wife, “and
I’m glad to do en a bit of a good turn i’ my ancient years. ’Tis true
what he do say, that there bit down by the river have a-been fearful
neglected. I myself could never make time to go down there, and ’t
ain’t very likely as these here chaps ’ull go out of their way to look
round. I’ll put it to rights, though.”
“I’m sure it’s very good o’ you, John,” said Mrs. Guppy, who had
listened to the foregoing colloquy with a somewhat mystified air. “I
shouldn’t ha’ thought that there was anything worth lookin’ arter down
there. Why, the town boys do bathe there reg’lar i’ the summer.”
“They’ll not bathe there any more,” returned her lord resolutely. “I’ll
teach Mr. Sanders a lesson--I’ll larn ’em how to see arter a place as
it did ought to be looked arter! Reach me down that gun, woman!”
He sallied forth that very hour, drawing up his little, bent form to
as close an approach to straightness as he could manage.
His first care on reaching his destination was to examine the gates
that gave access to this stretch of meadow-land. He pursed his nether
lip and shook his head disapprovingly at their shaky condition, making
a mental resolution to repair them at the earliest opportunity, and
moreover to see that they were provided with padlocks. After diligently
hunting in the neighbouring wood, he discovered a half-defaced
board, which had at one time borne the legend, “Trespassers will be
prosecuted,” and, with a sigh of satisfaction, placed it in a more
prominent position.
His joy was extreme when, late in the afternoon, he discovered an
honest labouring man in the act of climbing a gate, which, owing to the
rickety condition of its hinges, could not be opened without risk of
falling flat upon the ground.
“Where be goin’ to?” inquired John, sternly.
“Why, jist home-along,” returned the other, with a good-humoured smile;
“’tis a bit of a short cut this way.”
“There’s to be no more short cuts here,” cried John, with a certain
almost malignant triumph. “These here meadows belongs to Squire. They’m
his private property.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “That’ll be summat noo,” he said doubtfully, but
still good-humouredly.
“’Tis noo times all round,” replied Guppy, with an odd contraction of
the face, “but these ’ere reg’lations ’ull be carried out strict. You
jist turn about, my bwoy.”
“I be three parts there now,” protested the other.
“Then you’ll have to step back three parts, that’s all,” responded
Guppy unmoved.
The man scratched his head, stared, and finally recrossed the gate, and
walked away, grumbling to himself, Guppy looking after him with a sense
of well-nigh forgotten dignity. He had vindicated the majesty of the
law.
All hitherto unconscious trespassers had thenceforth a bad time of it
under the reign of the new river-keeper. Would-be bathers, small boys
on bird’s-nesting intent, tired women with market-baskets, labourers on
their way to and from their daily work, were ruthlessly turned back by
old Guppy, whose magisterial air carried conviction with it. The other
keepers, laughing perhaps in their sleeves, let him pursue his tactics
unmolested, and the Squire was careful to congratulate him from time
to time on the success of his labours. John Guppy’s greatest triumph
was, perhaps, when he actually did discover a wild duck’s nest amid
the sedges of the now tranquil river. How tenderly he watched over it;
how proudly he noted the little brood of downy ducklings when they
first paddled from one group of reeds to another in the wake of their
mother; with what delight he imparted his discovery to the Squire, and
with what supreme joy did he invite him to set about the destruction of
these precious charges when they were sufficiently grown! Almost equal
rapture was his when, having struggled along the avenue with a brace of
ducks dangling from each hand, he encountered the head-keeper in the
shrubbery.
“Those are fine ones,” remarked Sanders, good-naturedly; he was a
good-hearted fellow in the main, and did not grudge the old man his
small successes.
“I should think they was,” returned Guppy, swelling with pride. “They
be uncommon fine uns, Maister Sanders; they be the only wild duck what
was ever seen on this here property. I be glad to hear,” he added,
condescendingly, “as you’ve done pretty well wi’ the pheasants, too.
Squire was a-tellin’ me about the good season ye did have.”
“Yes,” rejoined the keeper, with a twinkle in his eye; “they didn’t
turn out so bad, you see, Mr. Guppy.”
“I be very glad on’t, I’m sure,” said John, still condescendingly; “of
course it be easy to rear a good few pheasants if you do go in for
buyin’ eggs; it bain’t so very easy to get wild duck to take to a place
where they never did come afore.”
“No, to be sure,” agreed Sanders affably. “It was a wonderful piece of
luck, that was.”
“It wasn’t luck, Maister Sanders,” said John impressively, “it was
knowledge.”
And he walked on, with conscious pride in every line of face and
figure, leaving his successor chuckling.