SHOWING HOW THE FATES SELECTED THE FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY TO TRY THE
STRENGTH OF THE SYSTEM
October shone royally on Richard's fourteenth birthday. The brown
beechwoods and golden birches glowed to a brilliant sun. Banks of
moveless cloud hung about the horizon, mounded to the west, where
slept the wind. Promise of a great day for Raynham, as it proved to
be, though not in the manner marked out.
Already archery-booths and cricketing-tents were rising on the lower
grounds towards the river, whither the lads of Bursley and Lobourne,
in boats and in carts, shouting for a day of ale and honour, jogged
merrily to match themselves anew, and pluck at the living laurel
from each other's brows, like manly Britons. The whole park was
beginning to be astir and resound with holiday cries. Sir Austin
Feverel, a thorough good Tory, was no game-preserver, and could be
popular whenever he chose, which Sir Miles Papworth, on the other
side of the river, a fast-handed Whig and terror to poachers, never
could be. Half the village of Lobourne was seen trooping through the
avenues of the park. Fiddlers and gipsies clamoured at the gates for
admission; white smocks, and slate, surmounted by hats of serious
brim, and now and then a scarlet cloak, smacking of the old country,
dotted the grassy sweeps to the levels.
And all the time the star of these festivities was receding further
and further, and eclipsing himself with his reluctant serf Ripton,
who kept asking what they were to do and where they were going, and
how late it was in the day, and suggesting that the lads of Lobourne
would be calling out for them, and Sir Austin requiring their
presence, without getting any attention paid to his misery or
remonstrances. For Richard had been requested by his father to
submit to medical examination like a boor enlisting for a soldier,
and he was in great wrath.
He was flying as though he would have flown from the shameful
thought of what had been asked of him. By-and-by he communicated his
sentiments to Ripton, who said they were those of a girl: an
offensive remark, remembering which, Richard, after they had
borrowed a couple of guns at the bailiff's farm, and Ripton had
fired badly, called his friend a fool.
Feeling that circumstances were making him look wonderfully like
one, Ripton lifted his head and retorted defiantly, "I'm not!"
This angry contradiction, so very uncalled for, annoyed Richard, who
was still smarting at the loss of the birds, owing to Ripton's bad
shot, and was really the injured party. He therefore bestowed the
abusive epithet on Ripton anew, and with increase of emphasis.
"You shan't call me so, then, whether I am or not," says Ripton, and
sucks his lips.
This was becoming personal. Richard sent up his brows, and stared at
his defier an instant. He then informed him that he certainly should
call him so, and would not object to call him so twenty times.
"Do it, and see!" returns Ripton, rocking on his feet, and breathing
quick.
With a gravity of which only boys and other barbarians are capable,
Richard went through the entire number, stressing the epithet to
increase the defiance and avoid monotony, as he progressed, while
Ripton bobbed his head every time in assent, as it were, to his
comrade's accuracy, and as a record for his profound humiliation.
The dog they had with them gazed at the extraordinary performance
with interrogating wags of the tail.
Twenty times, duly and deliberately, Richard repeated the obnoxious
word.
At the twentieth solemn iteration of Ripton's capital shortcoming,
Ripton delivered a smart back-hander on Richard's mouth, and squared
precipitately; perhaps sorry when the deed was done, for he was a
kind-hearted lad, and as Richard simply bowed in acknowledgment of
the blow he thought he had gone too far. He did not know the young
gentleman he was dealing with. Richard was extremely cool.
"Shall we fight here?" he said.
"Anywhere you like," replied Ripton.
"A little more into the wood, I think. We may be interrupted." And
Richard led the way with a courteous reserve that somewhat chilled
Ripton's ardour for the contest. On the skirts of the wood, Richard
threw off his jacket and waistcoat, and, quite collected, waited for
Ripton to do the same. The latter boy was flushed and restless;
older and broader, but not so tight-limbed and well-set. The Gods,
sole witnesses of their battle, betted dead against him. Richard had
mounted the white cockade of the Feverels, and there was a look in
him that asked for tough work to extinguish. His brows, slightly
lined upward at the temples, converging to a knot about the well-set
straight nose; his full grey eyes, open nostrils, and planted feet,
and a gentlemanly air of calm and alertness, formed a spirited
picture of a young combatant. As for Ripton, he was all abroad, and
fought in schoolboy style--that is, he rushed at the foe head
foremost, and struck like a windmill. He was a lumpy boy. When he
did hit, he made himself felt; but he was at the mercy of science.
To see him come dashing in, blinking and puffing and whirling his
arms abroad while the felling blow went straight between them, you
perceived that he was fighting a fight of desperation, and knew it.
For the dreaded alternative glared him in the face that, if he
yielded, he must look like what he had been twenty times
calumniously called; and he would die rather than yield, and swing
his windmill till he dropped. Poor boy! he dropped frequently. The
gallant fellow fought for appearances, and down he went. The Gods
favour one of two parties. Prince Turnus was a noble youth; but he
had not Pallas at his elbow. Ripton was a capital boy; he had no
science. He could not prove he was not a fool! When one comes to
think of it, Ripton did choose the only possible way, and we should
all of us have considerable difficulty in proving the negative by
any other. Ripton came on the unerring fist again and again; and if
it was true, as he said in short colloquial gasps, that he required
as much beating as an egg to be beaten thoroughly, a fortunate
interruption alone saved our friend from resembling that substance.
The boys heard summoning voices, and beheld Mr. Morton of Poer Hall
and Austin Wentworth stepping towards them.
A truce was sounded, jackets were caught up, guns shouldered, and
off they trotted in concert through the depths of the wood, not
stopping till that and half-a-dozen fields and a larch plantation
were well behind them.
When they halted to take breath, there was a mutual study of faces.
Ripton's was much discoloured, and looked fiercer with its natural
war-paint than the boy felt. Nevertheless, he squared up dauntlessly
on the new ground, and Richard, whose wrath was appeased, could not
refrain from asking him whether he had not really had enough.
"Never!" shouts the noble enemy.
"Well, look here," said Richard, appealing to common sense, "I'm
tired of knocking you down. I'll say you're not a fool, if you'll
give me your hand."
Ripton demurred an instant to consult with honour, who bade him
catch at his chance.
He held out his hand. "There!" and the boys grasped hands and were
fast friends. Ripton had gained his point, and Richard decidedly had
the best of it. So they were on equal ground. Both could claim a
victory, which was all the better for their friendship.
Ripton washed his face and comforted his nose at a brook, and was
now ready to follow his friend wherever he chose to lead. They
continued to beat about for birds. The birds on the Raynham estates
were found singularly cunning, and repeatedly eluded the aim of
these prime shots, so they pushed their expedition into the lands of
their neighbours, in search of a stupider race, happily oblivious of
the laws and conditions of trespass; unconscious, too, that they
were poaching on the demesne of the notorious Farmer Blaize, the
free-trade farmer under the shield of the Papworths, no worshipper
of the Griffin between two Wheatsheaves; destined to be much allied
with Richard's fortunes from beginning to end. Farmer Blaize hated
poachers, and especially young chaps poaching, who did it mostly
from impudence. He heard the audacious shots popping right and left,
and going forth to have a glimpse at the intruders, and observing
their size, swore he would teach my gentlemen a thing, lords or no
lords.
Richard had brought down a beautiful cock-pheasant, and was
exulting over it, when the farmer's portentous figure burst upon
them, cracking an avenging horsewhip. His salute was ironical.
"Havin' good sport, gentlemen, are ye?"
"Just bagged a splendid bird!" radiant Richard informed him.
"Oh!" Farmer Blaize gave an admonitory flick of the whip.
"Just let me clap eye on't, then."
"Say, please," interposed Ripton, who was not blind to doubtful
aspects.
Farmer Blaize threw up his chin, and grinned grimly.
"Please to you, sir? Why, my chap, you looks as if ye didn't much
mind what come t'yer nose, I reckon. You looks an old poacher, you
do. Tall ye what 'tis!" He changed his banter to business, "That
bird's mine! Now you jest hand him over, and sheer off, you dam
young scoundrels! I know ye!" And he became exceedingly opprobrious,
and uttered contempt of the name of Feverel.
Richard opened his eyes.
"If you wants to be horsewhipped, you'll stay where y'are!"
continued the farmer. "Giles Blaize never stands nonsense!"
"Then we'll stay," quoth Richard.
"Good! so be't! If you will have't, have't, my men!"
As a preparatory measure, Farmer Blaize seized a wing of the bird,
on which both boys flung themselves desperately, and secured it
minus the pinion.
"That's your game," cried the farmer. "Here's a taste of horsewhip
for ye. I never stands nonsense!" and sweetch went the mighty whip,
well swayed. The boys tried to close with him. He kept his distance
and lashed without mercy. Black blood was made by Farmer Blaize that
day! The boys wriggled, in spite of themselves. It was like a
relentless serpent coiling, and biting, and stinging their young
veins to madness. Probably they felt the disgrace of the contortions
they were made to go through more than the pain, but the pain was
fierce, for the farmer laid about from a practised arm, and did not
consider that he had done enough till he was well breathed and his
ruddy jowl inflamed. He paused, to receive the remainder of the
cock-pheasant in his face.
"Take your beastly bird," cried Richard.
"Money, my lads, and interest," roared the farmer, lashing out
again.
Shameful as it was to retreat, there was but that course open to
them. They decided to surrender the field.
"Look! you big brute," Richard shook his gun, hoarse with passion,
"I'd have shot you, if I'd been loaded. Mind! if I come across you
when I'm loaded, you coward, I'll fire!"
The un-English nature of this threat exasperated Farmer Blaize, and
he pressed the pursuit in time to bestow a few farewell stripes as
they were escaping tight-breeched into neutral territory. At the
hedge they parleyed a minute, the farmer to inquire if they had had
a mortal good tanning and were satisfied, for when they wanted a
further instalment of the same they were to come for it to Belthorpe
Farm, and there it was in pickle: The boys meantime exploding in
menaces and threats of vengeance, on which the farmer contemptuously
turned his back. Ripton had already stocked an armful of flints for
the enjoyment of a little skirmishing. Richard, however, knocked
them all out, saying, "No! Gentlemen don't fling stones; leave that
to the blackguards."
"Just one shy at him!" pleaded Ripton, with his eye on Farmer
Blaize's broad mark, and his whole mind drunken with a sudden
revelation of the advantages of light troops in opposition to
heavies.
"No," said Richard, imperatively, "no stones," and marched briskly
away. Ripton followed with a sigh. His leader's magnanimity was
wholly beyond him. A good spanking mark at the farmer would have
relieved Master Ripton; it would have done nothing to console
Richard Feverel for the ignominy he had been compelled to submit to.
Ripton was familiar with the rod, a monster much despoiled of his
terrors by intimacy. Birch-fever was past with this boy. The
horrible sense of shame, self-loathing, universal hatred, impotent
vengeance, as if the spirit were steeped in abysmal blackness, which
comes upon a courageous and sensitive youth condemned for the first
time to taste this piece of fleshly bitterness, and suffer what he
feels is a defilement, Ripton had weathered and forgotten. He was
seasoned wood, and took the world pretty wisely; not reckless of
castigation, as some boys become, nor oversensitive as to dishonour,
as his friend and comrade beside him was.
Richard's blood was poisoned. He had the fever on him severely. He
would not allow stone-flinging, because it was a habit of his to
discountenance it. Mere gentlemanly considerations had scarce
shielded Farmer Blaize, and certain very ungentlemanly schemes were
coming to ghastly heads in the tumult of his brain; rejected solely
from their glaring impracticability even to his young intelligence.
A sweeping and consummate vengeance for the indignity alone should
satisfy him. Something tremendous must be done, and done without
delay. At one moment he thought of killing all the farmer's cattle;
next of killing him; challenging him to single combat with the arms,
and according to the fashion of gentlemen. But the farmer was a
coward; he would refuse. Then he, Richard Feverel, would stand by
the farmer's bedside, and rouse him; rouse him to fight with powder
and ball in his own chamber, in the cowardly midnight, where he
might tremble, but dare not refuse.
"Lord!" cried simple Ripton, while these hopeful plots were raging
in his comrade's brain, now sparkling for immediate execution, and
anon lapsing disdainfully dark in their chances of fulfilment, "how
I wish you'd have let me notch him, Ricky! I'm a safe shot. I never
miss. I should feel quite jolly if I'd spanked him once. We should
have had the best of him at that game. I say!" and a sharp thought
drew Ripton's ideas nearer home, "I wonder whether my nose is as bad
as he says! Where can I see myself?"
To these exclamations Richard was deaf, and he trudged steadily
forward, facing but one object.
After tearing through innumerable hedges, leaping fences, jumping
dykes, penetrating brambly copses, and getting dirty, ragged, and
tired, Ripton awoke from his dream of Farmer Blaize and a blue nose
to the vivid consciousness of hunger; and this grew with the
rapidity of light upon him, till in the course of another minute he
was enduring the extremes of famine, and ventured to question his
leader whither he was being conducted. Raynham was out of sight.
They were a long way down the valley, miles from Lobourne, in a
country of sour pools, yellow brooks, rank pasturage, desolate
heath. Solitary cows were seen; the smoke of a mud cottage; a cart
piled with peat; a donkey grazing at leisure, oblivious of an unkind
world; geese by a horse-pond, gabbling as in the first loneliness of
creation; uncooked things that a famishing boy cannot possibly care
for, and must despise. Ripton was in despair.
"Where _are_ you going to?" he inquired with a voice of the last
time of asking, and halted resolutely.
Richard now broke his silence to reply, "Anywhere."
"Anywhere!" Ripton took up the moody word. "But ain't you awfully
hungry?" he gasped vehemently, in a way that showed the total
emptiness of his stomach.
"No," was Richard's brief response.
"Not hungry!" Ripton's amazement lent him increased vehemence. "Why,
you haven't had anything to eat since breakfast! Not hungry? I
declare I'm starving. I feel such a gnawing I could eat dry bread
and cheese!"
Richard sneered: not for reasons that would have actuated a similar
demonstration of the philosopher.
"Come," cried Ripton, "at all events, tell us where you're going to
stop."
Richard faced about to make a querulous retort. The injured and
hapless visage that met his eye disarmed him. The lad's nose, though
not exactly of the dreaded hue, was really becoming discoloured. To
upbraid him would be cruel. Richard lifted his head, surveyed the
position, and exclaiming "Here!" dropped down on a withered bank,
leaving Ripton to contemplate him as a puzzle whose every new move
was a worse perplexity.