"YOU HERE!"
"Before Colonel Neville, Mr Pagnell and the Rev John Croft, Stephen
Devine, a notorious offender, charged with snaring two leverets in a
field on the outskirts of Cranston Manor Farm"--began the reporter for
the local news, scratching away vigorously with his spluttering quill.
The hall in which Petty Sessions were held at Wandsborough was not by
its imposing dimensions calculated to impress anybody with the majesty
of the law. It was small, low ceiled and badly lighted. Prisoner and
witnesses, constables and magistrates' clerk all seemed jumbled up
together in the cramped space; while their worships themselves were only
separated from the common herd by a long, narrow table. A most
inconvenient room in fact, and times out of number had the Bench
agitated for its enlargement, or better still, for the construction of
another. All in vain. The justices had to go on sitting in the stuffy
den, an infliction sufficient to bring them together in a state of
ill-humour most unpropitious to the culprit. Even their genial and
kind-hearted chairman, Colonel Neville, was wont to wax irritable under
the circumstances--while constitutionally sterner stuff such as Mr
Pagnell or General Dorrien was more than likely to err on the side of
severity.
"Well, Devine, and what have you got to say for yourself?" said the
chairman. There had been no defence set up; the prisoner had doggedly
pleaded guilty. Indeed he could hardly have done otherwise, seeing that
he had been caught red-handed in the act of taking one of the leverets
out of the "hang," while the other was found upon him. The head-keeper
of Cranston and his subordinate had just been stating to the Bench under
what circumstances they had made their capture; moreover, that the
culprit was an excessively leery bird, who had long dodged the sharp
watch they had kept upon him--and now the justices, having conferred
together, were prepared to pass sentence.
"Please your warshups," said the prisoner sullenly, "I'd bin out o' work
for nigh three weeks, and rent owin', and nothin' to keep the pot bilin'
at home. And I set the `hangs' for rabbits, your warshups, which isn't
game, an' I thowt as how that bit o' furze were common land, and didn't
belong to nobody. And somehow when the hares got cotched, I took 'em,
cos my gal had just come home, and there weren't nothin' in the house."
An eager look came into the man's swarthy hang-dog countenance. He was
a heavy, powerfully built fellow of middle height, and his dark
complexion and jet-black hair had gained for him the sobriquet "Gipsy
Steve;" that, and the fact that no one knew where he came from, or
anything about him. Among his own class he was popularly supposed to be
"a man who had committed a murder," for no reason apparently, unless it
were his foreign and uncommon aspect, and a terribly evil look which
would come over his dark features when crossed or roused.
Again the magistrates conferred together.
"Gaol's the word," said Mr Pagnell decisively. "No fine this time.
The fellow's an out-and-out knave, and now he's trying to humbug us into
the bargain. Why he's been up numberless times before us for one thing
or another, and twice already for poaching."
"But he was acquitted the first time, and the second there was a doubt,"
expostulated the clerical justice--a kindly-hearted man who, although
his commission of the peace was congenial to a harmless vanity, disliked
punishing his fellow men. "I think we might give him another chance."
So two of the trio being in favour of mercy, stern justice was outvoted.
"Now look here, Devine," said Colonel Neville, "even if we believed
every word of your story--which you can't expect us to do, considering
that you have already been up twice before us on similar charges--it
would be no excuse, and you know that as well as we do. If you can't
get work here--and it's your own fault if you can't, because you quarrel
with everyone who employs you--the best thing to do is to go to some
other place, where you can. Anyhow, you've broken the law this time and
we can't overlook it, but we are going to give you another chance,
though at first we had fully intended sending you to gaol. You will be
fined ten shillings, that is five shillings for each act of poaching,
and costs; in default a month's hard labour."
The prisoner's countenance, which had lightened considerably at the
words "another chance," now fell again.
"Please, Kurnel," he began, "I haven't got five halfpence, let alone
ten--"
"Well, we can't help that," testily retorted Colonel Neville, who was
feeling the effects of the close, stuffy room. "We have dealt with you
very leniently as it is. Next case, Mr Inspector."
So Stephen Devine was removed, and a yokel took his place, charged with
cruelty to a horse, then came a couple of disputed paternity cases, the
particulars of which, though highly instructive to the student of the
manners and customs of the lower orders in rural districts, are in no
wise material to this narrative; and so the business of the day
proceeded, until at length the three magnates who had sacrificed
themselves to the cause of justice in Wandsborough were emancipated and
free to return to their respective homes.
"Upon my word, Neville, you do let those rascals down uncommonly easy,"
observed Mr Pagnell to his brother magistrate, as the two rode
homewards. "Poaching is the very thing we ought to stamp out ruthlessly
in these days. Why, that ruffian Devine has simply got off scot free."
"Poor devil," answered the kind-hearted Colonel, who under the influence
of fresh air and the prospects of no more Sessions for a month, had
quite recovered his good humour. "Poor devil, I believe he's been
trying to keep square since his daughter came back. But he'll have to
do his month, for he'll never be able to pay his fine."
"Won't he! You'll see that he will, and we shall have him up before us
again next Bench day. The fellow's an irreclaimable scamp. Well, our
ways part here. Good-bye."
About half way between Cranston and Wandsborough, but in the latter
parish, and in an angle formed by the footpath across the fields with a
deep lane, stands a cottage--one of those picturesque, snug-looking
nests which you shall see in no other country in the world--thatched,
diamond-paned, and a bit of half garden, half orchard in front, and a
background of elder trees and high hawthorn bushes. But, for all its
external picturesqueness, an exploration of the interior of this abode
would reveal a very poverty-stricken state of things. There is a
neglected look about everything, and the rooms, bare of all but a few
worthless sticks of furniture--too worthless even for the bailiffs or
the pawnshop, seem to point eloquently to the sort of person their
occupier would be--shiftless, hang-dog, ne'er-do-well, and not
unfrequently drunken. It is the abode of Stephen Devine, _alias_ Gipsy
Steve, whose acquaintance we have just made.
At the moment when that worthy learns his fate in the Wandsborough
Sessions room, there stands in the doorway of his abode a girl. Her
dress, appearance, and the rough dusting-cloth in her hand seem to show
that she has paused in the commonplace but laudable occupation of
tidying up, and is there at the door for a breath of fresh air and a
look round; and her coarseness of garb and surroundings notwithstanding,
the girl would assuredly attract from the passer-by no mere casual
glance, for she is of striking and uncommon beauty. Her almost swarthy
complexion ought by all rules to go with jetty locks and dark flashing
eyes, but it does not. The masses of hair crowning her well-carried
head are light brown, just falling short of golden, and harmonise
wonderfully with the smooth tawny skin, and her eyes are large, limpid
and blue. The mouth, too, is not the least beautiful feature--full, red
and sensuous. She is a tall girl, of splendid build and proportions,
and the light, closely-fitting gown displays a figure which would have
commanded a fabulous price in the slave-markets of old, and the easy,
restful, leaning attitude as she stands in the doorway defines the
swelling lines of her finely moulded form. A magnificent animal truly,
and withal a dangerous one. Such is Lizzie Devine, the poacher's
daughter.
The passer-by referred to above would assuredly pronounce her to be no
ordinary cottage girl, and he would be right. She had not inhabited the
humble abode where we find her more than a fortnight; for she had only
just returned from what the neighbours vaguely termed "foreign parts,"
which vagueness neither Lizzie nor her father were disposed to reduce to
definition. Here she was, anyhow, beneath "Gipsy Steve's"
poverty-stricken and highly disreputable roof, and the neighbours looked
at her askance, as in duty bound. For this did Lizzie care not one
rush. Her movements and pursuits were as mysterious as the antecedents
of her father. The gossips hate mystery--therefore, said the gossips,
she must have been after no good. Some thought she had been "a
play-actress," some thought even worse. Some thought one thing, some
another--but Lizzie didn't care what they thought. Neither she nor
Steve mixed with their neighbours--she from choice, he from necessity;
for he was disliked and feared as a quarrelsome and dangerous man. One
thing was certain, whatever occupation Lizzie had been pursuing, she had
returned home with empty pockets, and this ought to have told in her
favour, for the ways of evil are lucrative.
She stands in the doorway looking out over the sunlit fields, and her
thoughts are chaotic. At first she wearily wonders whether her father
will be discharged with a reprimand, and if not what she can pawn in
order to pay his fine. Then her reflections fly off at a tangent. Away
in the distance, the chimneys of Cranston Hall appear above the trees,
and on these the girl's clear blue eyes are fixed, while she indulges in
a day-dream. Yet she is a hard, practical young party enough, for she
is twenty-four, and has seen a very considerable slice of this habitable
globe.
Suddenly her frame becomes rigid, and the blood surges to her face, then
falls back, leaving it ashy pale. What has she spied to bring about
this convulsion? Only a man, of course.
He is advancing along the field path with an easy swinging stride. As
she gazes, a large red and white dog comes tearing over the further
stile and scampers joyously past his master. The girl stands in a state
of strange irresolution, her heart beating like a hammer. He has not
seen her--one step inside and he will have passed by. But her chance of
retreat is gone. While she is doubting, the man passes the gate, and as
he does so looks carelessly up.
Roland Dorrien is not wont to exhibit wild surprise over anything, but
the start which he gives as his eyes meet those of the girl before him,
proves that his astonishment is genuine.
"Lizzie!"
"You don't seem overmuch glad to see me anyhow," says the girl in a hard
tone, her self-possession now quite in hand again.
"I don't know about `glad.' But what on earth are you doing here, and
where have you dropped from?" And his eye ran over her from head to
foot, taking in her rough, though scrupulously clean, attire.
"Ha! ha! You may well look astonished. Rather different to when we
last met," she said bitterly. "But come inside and we can talk. Don't
be afraid," seeing him hesitate; "I'm quite alone."
"Oh, that alters the case materially. You see, I never was one to mince
matters. Therefore I don't mind telling you that this isn't New York,
but a confoundedly gossipy little English provincial place. Moral--One
must be circumspect. And now, Lizzie," he went on, sliding into a big
wooden chair, "tell me all about yourself--and--and how it is you're
trying the _role_ of cottage maiden--and here above all places in the
world."
"That's soon said. I'm keeping house for father."
"`For father'? I don't quite see. If it's a fair question, who the
deuce is he?"
"Stephen Devine--and he's now up before the magistrates for catching
some of your hares. Yours, mind."
Roland whistled. Surprise followed upon surprise. Surprise one--to
find this girl here at all. Surprise two--that she should turn out to
be the daughter of Stephen Devine, the greatest rascal on the whole
countryside. He had known her under another name.
"Lizzie, I'll be quite candid with you. The fact is, this unexpected
parent of yours enjoys the reputation of being--well, a `bad lot.' Do
you intend to take up your quarters here with him altogether?"
"That's as may be. Didn't you know I was here?"
"Know it? How should I?"
"I don't believe you did. I'm pretty sharp, you see, and the jump you
gave when you saw me was no make-believe. I've only been here a
fortnight, no longer than you have. I came over in the `Balearic,' the
steamer before yours. It was queer that we should both have returned
home at the same time, wasn't it? And how do you think I'm looking?"
There was a world of mingled emotions in her tones. Distrust,
resentment, bitterness, and a strong undercurrent of passion. A
stranger would have been puzzled by this daughter of the people, who
talked and looked so far above her station. Her auditor, for his part,
was not a little discomfited. The first surprise over, the situation
held out endless complications. It was one thing for the prodigal in a
far country to pick up a beautiful nobody for his amusement--quite
another for the future Squire of Cranston to return home and find that
inconvenient young person domiciled at his very door, and owning
parentage with a skulking, drunken and poaching rascal, at whom even his
own squalid class looked askew. A unit in the crowd at American
pleasure resorts was one thing; Dorrien of Cranston at home, quite
another. He foresaw grave difficulties.
"How do I think you are looking? Why, first-rate, of course," he
answered. "Improved, if anything."
"Thanks. I can't say the same of you. I liked you better yonder in the
States. I'm candid, too, you see. But you're a very great person here,
while I--well never mind. And now I had better tell you. I hadn't the
smallest idea that you belonged here when I came--so don't think I came
on purpose. I don't want to trouble you or get in your way--no--not I.
But I can't quite forget old times."
The summer air was soft and slumbrous, the place was isolated, and the
stillness of the dreamy forenoon unbroken by the sound of voice or
footstep to tell of the outer world. Roland's strong pulses shook his
frame with overmastering violence, and his temples throbbed as he gazed
on the splendid, sensuous beauty and magnificent outlines of the girl,
standing there talking to him in tones and words that contained three
parts reproach. And she was gifted with an extraordinarily soft and
attractive voice. In a second she was beside him.
"Darling!" she whispered, winding her arms round him, her words coming
in passionate torrent. "Darling--I could call you that in the old
times, you know. Do you remember those nights at the Adirondacks--the
beautiful lake and the moonlight--and ourselves? I see you remember.
Why not again--here? The cottage is out of the way--scarcely anyone
ever passes even--at night, no one. Father is in trouble. I shall be
alone here--perhaps for weeks. You are your own master, are you not--
you can come--often, always? It was not so long ago--only a few months.
You can't have grown weary. No one need know--and when it is dark this
way is quite deserted--I don't want to keep you altogether--I don't want
to injure you with anybody. But only one week--one short week if you
wish it. Then I'll go away--right away."
Her words came in fitful, incoherent gasps, and there was something of
the fierce grip of a wild beast in her tight embrace. Like lightning, a
consciousness of this flashed through the other's fired brain, a
consciousness of his very senses slipping from him. Would he still
yield to the terrible fascination?
"Two's company, three's a crowd," is a sound proverb, even when the
third is a dog. Roy, who had been lying in the doorway, suddenly sprang
up with a threatening growl, and darted in pursuit of a passer-by,
barking loudly. The incident was sufficient. It was a rude
interruption, but salutary, so thought at least one of the two.
"This won't do, Lizzie. As I said before, this isn't New York, and one
can't be too careful. Now I had better go, at any rate. Good-bye."
He spoke hurriedly, and acted on his words before she had time to
remonstrate. It was a lame conclusion to a stirring interview. All the
better--for him, at any rate.
Left alone, the girl stood rigid as stone. Here was the loadstar of her
vehemently passionate nature. She had spoken truth in disclaiming all
knowledge of Roland Dorrien's whereabouts when she came to Wandsborough.
Pure chance had brought her there. Once there, however, she was not
long in ignorance as to who dwelt at Cranston--and day by day she had
watched that field path as we saw her watching it to-day. Now she was
rewarded. Well, was she?
Roland, hurrying down the lane to recall Roy, who was attacking the
pedestrian with unwonted savagery, discovered with no little surprise
that the latter was Turner, the curate; and it struck him that his
apologies for Roy's ill-behaviour were received very stiffly. Then it
flashed across him--Roy had rushed out of Devine's cottage--that
domicile contained an exceptionally handsome girl, and Turner was a
parson and presumably knew everybody. Moreover, parsons were always
suspicious fellows, apt to ferret out all kinds of things that didn't
concern them--apt, moreover, to ride the high horse if permitted to do
so. Thus reflecting, Roland cut short his apologies and left Turner,
with a greeting every bit as stiff as his own.