"Quiet, Roy, old man! Don't lift up that beautiful voice of yours, or
your gallant grandparent will be for abolishing you altogether on the
ground that you disturb his slumbers." It seemed hard to restrain the
affectionate creature's delighted barks over the restoration to his
master and temporary liberty. The dog pranced and squirmed; springing
up at his master, and whining in suppressed glee. Then he would career
up and down the sward, his white ruff gleaming in the moonlight. His
master, however, strolled leisurely on. Leaving the ornamental water on
his left, he turned out of the drive into a narrow secluded path through
the shrubbery, which soon led him into the heart of one of the home
coverts. The pathway lay in gloom overshadowed by black firs; the
moonlight throwing a pale band across it here and there, when a gap
occurred in the trees. Tangled bushes grew on either side right up to
the pedestrian's shoulder, and the air was heavy with a moist
fungus-like odour, exuding from the dewy earth and luxuriant vegetation.
"Flap-flap."
Away went a couple of startled cushats from their dark roost in the
firs, followed by a dozen more, the flapping of their wings resounding
like pistol-shots in the stillness of the covert. Then a faint rustle
in the brake, as of a prowling stoat or weasel making off with stealthy
glide. Rabbits scurried off down the path, and Roy, tremulous with
excitement, looked up in his master's face with an appealing whine,
though he knew perfectly well that the least movement towards giving
chase would be sternly checked. Suddenly the stroller stopped, and, as
he gazed straight in front of him, a faint whistle of astonishment
escaped his lips. What did he see?
Only a light.
He had reached a point where the ground fell away in front. Some thirty
yards further the covert ended, and beyond lay the open fields. From
where he stood the light was visible, and might be half a mile away.
Seen through the focus of the narrow covert path it twinkled in the
distance, looking like an ordinary candle placed in the latticed window
of a cottage--which, in fact, it was.
But whatever it was, after gazing at it in astonishment for a few
moments, the stroller turned and began to retrace his steps. As he did
so the moon slowly soared over the tree-tops, flooding the narrow
footpath with light. Suddenly Roy lifted his head, and uttering a
quick, short bark, started off from his master's side, growling
ominously.
The path, being in moonlight, enhanced the blackness of the undergrowth.
Roland, gazing eagerly in the direction of the cause of his dog's
alarm, could discern nothing in the cavernous gloom.
"Poachers," he decided uneasily, with a rapid thought of the long odds
against him in the event of his conjecture proving a true one; for only
a large and daring gang of such marauders would venture to raid into the
Cranston home coverts.
The dog's rage increased. With every hair of his thick coat bristling
and erect, he darted forward into the darkness, baying furiously; and in
a moment the snap-snap of his jaws, together with a continuous and
savage snarling, proclaimed him to be at very close quarters with
something or somebody, who had the greatest difficulty in warding off
his attack.
"Cawl the dorg off, master," adjured a thick, gruff voice, not untinged
with trepidation.
With some difficulty Roland complied, and in obedience to his peremptory
mandate to come out and show himself, there stepped into the moonlight a
powerful, thickset ruffian, armed with a cudgel. Mightily astonished,
he recognised in the swarthy and scowling features no less a personage
than Stephen Devine, the poacher, whom if he had thought of at all it
would have been as in Battisford Gaol, doing a month's hard labour, less
about ten days already served.
"Didn't expect to see me, eh, master?" said the fellow, with a grin, the
other not breaking silence.
"Right you are--I didn't. And now, may I ask, what the devil are you
doing here?"
"Thort I was safe in quod, didn't 'ee, young Squire?" rejoined Devine,
advancing a step nearer, with the same evil grin. Roy, who had been
crouching at his master's feet, keeping up a running fire of growls,
sprang up at this move, and with his fangs fixed would have made at the
intruder, but found himself held by main force.
"Down, Roy! Quiet, sir! I think you'll be safe in that institution
again by this time to-morrow," answered Roland. "Meanwhile, how the
deuce did you get out of it to-day?"
"Haw-haw! Mr Turner 'e paid my fine and got me out. 'E's a genelman,
'e is. 'E said I ort to be at home, lookin' after my darter."
"H'm! A fool and his money are soon parted. However, it's a thousand
pities the cash should be so utterly thrown away. Thrown away, because
to-morrow you'll return to your old quarters. For trespassing here, you
understand."
"Haw-haw! Oh, no, I won't, sir--not I. You'll say nuthin' about
to-night--not you?"
"No? And why not?"
"Because," answered the fellow, lowering his voice, but speaking in an
insolent tone--"because I should have such a nice little story to tell
their warshups the beaks, and the laryers, and the parties wot comes to
see poor coves tried. I should be able to tell how young Squire Dorrien
wasn't above steppin' down to my cottage o' nights to keep my gal
company like, while her poor old dad's in trouble. I could tell 'em how
I went to get a breath o' fresh air the night I come out o' quod, and as
how I see young Squire Dorrien a steppin' along in the dark to see my
gal. I could tell as how I follered him until he cotched sight of the
bit of light my gal had stuck in the winder to let him know her old
dad's come home again, and young Squire wouldn't be adsackly welcome
that night--and as how 'stonished he looked when he seed it? Fine gal,
my Lizzie, ain't she, Squire?"
"Devilish fine girl! Since you ask my opinion, you've got it frankly,
and for what it's worth. And so that's the little story you are going
to amuse the court with, is it?"
"That's the little story, Squire. No two mistakes about it," retorted
the other, with an impudent leer. "And strike me blind, but it'll be
worth doin' another month for the fun o' seein' the old Squire's face
when I'm a-tellin' of it."
Roland laughed quietly, contemptuously--and there was something in his
laugh that seemed to undermine the other's self assurance.
"You may tell your story, Devine--and then--"
"And then, Squire?"
"And then--you may go and be damned." The perfect nonchalance of this
reply was disconcerting in the extreme. The growing uneasiness which it
inspired in the poacher found vent in bluster.
"Blast and blind me!" he snarled. "You don't seem to care over-much.
Yer don't seem to have heard of Gipsy Steve. But there's them here as
has, and there's them elsewhere as has, and to their cost. So mind me,
Master Squire Dorrien, I say, and you'll hear more o' me yet."
Roland slowly emitted a puff of smoke, and watched it mounting in blue
circles upon the damp night air. Then he answered with sneering
calmness:
"You were perfectly right in saying I didn't seem to care over-much. I
don't--and for these among other reasons. In the first place, you won't
tell that story, because, if you do, it isn't another month you'll find
yourself in for, but several years. Libel, with a view to blackmailing,
means penal servitude in this country, remember. In the next place, if
you do tell it your daughter will go into the witness-box and deny the
whole thing on oath--for even granted the truth of your discovery, I
needn't remind a man of your 'cuteness that she would rather see you
hung than give a word of evidence likely to damage me."
He paused for a moment, noting with a sneer the fury depicted in his
listener's convulsed features.
"Lastly," he went on, "such a tale told by a person of your well-known
respectability, friend Gipsy Steve, wouldn't affect me in the slightest
degree, since nobody would believe a word of it, or at the worst would
pretend not to. By the way, Devine, were you ever in the States?"
The start, and the sudden lividness of the other's countenance plainly
visible in the moonlight, were answer enough. With a slight smile
Roland went on.
"Ah, I see you have been there. And that being the case you have an
advantage over those who have not--that of knowing who's got the drop.
I've got the drop on you, friend Stephen Devine, and I mean to keep it.
So you shall be in quod to-morrow, and will have an opportunity of
entertaining the Bench with your little romance next Petty Sessions."
The poacher was shrewd enough to recognise the force of every one of
Roland's assertions. So he changed his tone to the inevitable one of
the beaten rough. He cringed.
"Don't be 'ard on a pore feller, Squire. I only wanted to try your
grit--and it's real grit it is. And yer won't 'ave a pore cove up afore
the beaks jest as 'e's out o' quod, will yer, Squire. I won't give you
any more trouble--I swear I won't. Blind me if I do! Say you won't
'ave me run in, Squire!"
Roland, who could hardly restrain his laughter, eyed the fellow for a
moment contemptuously.
"Well, Devine, I'll let you down easy this time, but don't let me catch
you loafing round here again. And don't let me hear that you've made
any capital or mischief out of this in any sort of way," he added
significantly.
"Carn't ye spare a sovereign or two, Squire? I'm mortal 'ard up,"
whined the poacher.
"Not a red cent. Now off you go, left foot foremost. March!" He was
determined the other should never have it in his power to say he had
given him money, were it but the price of a pint. "And no tricks,
friend Gipsy Steve. Clear right away. Why, the dog here would throttle
you in a minute at a word from me--and I'm not sure I hadn't best let
him do it--but he'd be certain to get a knock or two over the job, so
that it's hardly worth while."
"Good-night, Squire," said Devine sullenly, as he took himself off.
Roland watched the retreating form of the poacher for about fifty yards,
and turned to resume his way homewards. With Roy by his side he had no
fear of foul play at the hand of the baffled and exasperated ruffian,
and his mind was free to think over the recent encounter. Turner's
motive in releasing Devine was clear, and if the curate turned out to be
worth powder and shot he would be even with him yet. And the poacher's
release was not an unmixed evil--at any rate so it seemed at that
moment; for, with this low rascal's voice still fresh in his ears, he
felt more than ever inclined to break free from the besetting
temptation: as to which it was a case of "needs must"--unless he chose
to retain that execrable blackguard in his pay--a thing that he would
rather hang himself than do. It struck him, however, that during the
short time since his return he had made two enemies, Devine and Turner--
the last more powerful for evil, being his own social equal, and because
as a parson any mischief he might work would be set down to motives of
Christian duty.
Once out of sight, the poacher turned round and shook his fist in the
direction of the man who had so thoroughly turned his flank.
"Wait a bit, master!" he snarled through a volley of curses. "Just wait
a bit, and blast me dead if I don't cut that fine cock's-comb of yours
one of these days. And if I don't, call me a blanked sodger!"
Whether he did or did not earn that martial appellation will hereinafter
appear.