close by, and just as John the footman walks in at the door Sir Henry
comes to himself, and lifts himself up on to his elbow off the floor.
'"Help Sir Henry Oxencourt up to his room," says she, cool as a
cucumber, "and tell Carruthers to attend to him, and to send for the
doctor, if necessary. A foil broke as we fenced, and Sir Henry, I
fear, has suffered through the accident."
'John stares with an open mouth, but a peremptory "Don't you
understand?" from his mistress wakes him up, and he goes and helps Sir
Henry up, who therewith slowly rises, and, resting one hand on John's
shoulder, without one word limps away.
'The door shuts, and Mistress Dennington turns slowly to the fire, her
eyes glued to them letters burning blackly amongst the coals. As she
watches she takes a cigarette from a box on the mantelshelf, lights
it, and I heard her say to herself, "You fool!" then she smokes a puff
or two and again she says, "You fool!" and therewith taps her foot
smartly on the floor.'
'But what do you think she meant by "fool"?' I here interrupted.
'Well,' replied Jake slowly, 'I've often asked myself that very
question, and what I believe she meant was something o' this sort:
"Fool not to take your chance--and such a chance!--when you had it,
and Fool again, for not knowing me better than to think that of me
when 'twas too late."'
'And now one more question,' I said, for Jake was preluding with his
weapon once again, evidently anxious to commence another bout. 'Did
you ever tell the Squire?'
'No, not exactly,' replied he, 'but I gave him a hint, and bank-notes
wouldn't have bought that rapier after that, and there it still hangs
in Dennington Hall in the armoury, I believe, though I haven't been
there since the Squire died and I set up as a Maître d'Armes in
Oldcastle here. The mistress, though, she's still alive, but she never
cared for Northumberland--"so dull," says she, and goes and diverts
herself in London town. And now no more talk. Gardez-vous, M'sieur--en
garde, s'il vous plaît,' and with a smile he struck my foil upon the
floor.
'T'OWD SQUIRE'
'No, I never saw him, not the old Squire--"t'owd Squire," as they
called him; but grandfather, he was thick with him, bein' the oldest
farmer in the dale an' pretty nigh a gentleman hisself in those days;
he was master of the 'ounds, d'ye see, when they was a trencher-fed
pack--that was before Squire Heron took them over to t' new kennels at
The Ford.
'Well, I done some pretty fair jumps myself at one time an' another in
t' ring or steeple-chasin', but 'twas nowt to what he done, not even
when a mare I was ridin' jumped over a wall an' fifteen feet into t'
quarry t' other side.
'There's a pretty tidy place at t' bottom o' that field'--pointing to
a low-lying, marshy expanse on the left that rose at the end to a high
bank--'that he jumped one afternoon in cold blood which five out of
six wouldn't have touched in warm, but at t' end of his time he was
reckless--almost to touch on madness, so grandfather always said. But
if ye'll bide here three minutes till I've seen the mare looked to
properly I'll tell ye a tale of t' Squire--same as grandfather told it
me.'
So saying Jack Skelton cantered round to the farm, where he was now
employed as horse-breaker and showyard rider, while I strolled down to
view the leap at the end of the field till he was free to join me. I
could see The Ford opposite to me as I walked along--a square keep
flanked with castellated wings rising proudly amongst its trees beyond
the winding river in a circle of fir-clad hills.
'The old Squire's' daughter lived there now with her husband, who had
taken her name on his marriage, but they were childless, and the
ancient race of Herons seemed destined to become extinct.
Arrived at the bank I saw a formidable gulf open below me, with a soft
and rotten landing on the further side, some fourteen feet across, the
space between oozy with marsh mud and choked drains. '"All hope
abandon ye who enter here,"' I quoted aloud, just as Jack Skelton came
up to me.
'Ay,' he chuckled, 'it would be a job for a contractor to get a horse
an' man out o' that, an' after that I'll lay odds but the laundry-maid
would give her notice.
'It was a great big, seventeen hands horse he had that he jumped it
with--an ugly devil to look at, light roan in colour, but up to any
weight an' absolutely fearless. All ye had to do, as grandfather used
to say, was to lay t' reins on his neck, and straight across country
he'd go like a bird.
'He hadn't always been such a fierce one to go, hadn't t' Squire, and
what changed his temper was what I was goin' to tell ye.
'There was a woman in it, d'ye see, an' that woman his wife. When
first they was married no couple in broad Yorkshire was happier, as
folk thought. She was a handsome lass and clever at book-larnin' an'
suchlike, ambitious, too, like the clever ones usually are; but at
first she was all for sport an' huntin', same as t'owd Squire, and
where he went she mostly followed him, bein' as well mounted as
himself. As for t'owd Squire, he was t' happiest man alive in those
days--used to slap grandfather on t' back an' cry, after a steaming
run, t' fox's mask in his hand ready to tie on to his missus's saddle,
"By ----, Skelton, but she's the straightest woman rider in England,
whether in or out o' t' shires."
'Yet for all that his happiness was short-lived, for after a son was
born to him Mistress Heron seemed to lose heart for huntin'--her
narves, she said, had gone wrong with her; but grandfather always
upheld that she'd grown tired of her husband. She was a clever woman,
as I said, an' ambitious; an' 'twas reported that she'd been forced to
marry wi' t'owd Squire by her mother in Lunnon town--he bein' as rich
as "Creases"--whilst the man she really favoured hadn't a penny beyond
what his wits might bring him in. For a bit the excitement of huntin'
had been enough for her, an' spendin' t' Squire's brass, t' big house,
an' t' novelty; but after t' son was born she grew dissatisfied an'
took a dislike to her life. Consequence was that she took up with a
young man called Cunliffe, that lived over at The Tower--right away on
that hillside over there, about two miles west of us--ye can see it
against trees from Heronsford easy.
'The place had been bought by his father, who made money in trade at
Ironopolis, an' he'd just got himself elected into Parliament, an' was
like to get on at it, 'twas said, bein' one of them ready-witted,
oily-tongued chaps that never go quite straight, but gallop along t'
roads an' sneak through gates, an' then swagger on at t' kill. Ay,
there's none "who-oops" an' "tally-hos" louder than them.
'T'owd Squire, on t'other hand, was one of t' owd-fashioned sort, and
said what he meant always, an' clapped an oath on t' back of it; hated
Lunnon, an' Lunnon ways, lived for huntin' an' shootin' an' country
pursuits, an' drank a bottle of port wine reg'lar every evenin' to his
own cheek. He wasn't over well educated neither, havin' all his life
lived almost entirely at home; no scholar savin' a vast knowledge of
the stud-book, farriery, an' horse-breedin', which was a sort o'
larnin' that Mistress Heron didn't care a button about. Well, things
went gradually askew between the two, she always wantin' fresh company
in t' house, an' him hatin' society ways like poison.
'Amongst others she took up with was this young Member o' Parliament,
Cunliffe, an' often he would be over an' dinin' with them; he could
sing a bit, an' she was fond of t' piano, an' they would play on
together in t' drawing-room while t' Squire sat over his mahog'ny
passin' t' bottle round, talkin' over t' 'untin', layin' wagers with
his own particular cronies of the red-faced, good-hearted,
rough-tongued, fox-'untin' Yorkshire style.
'Well, t'owd Squire couldn't stomach young Cunliffe at all; for in the
first place he was a poor rider to 'ounds, never jumped owt if he
could help it, was a mean chap with his brass, an' had a supercilious
way o' talk about him that angered t' Squire fearful. Add to this that
he was always comin' over to sweetheart his missus, an' you can
imagine how ill the two men would agree.
'Well, one night they was sitting playin' cards after dinner, an'
Mistress Heron was lookin' on at them. T' Squire was nowt of a
scholar, as I said before, but he had a good head for cards, an' loved
to take t' shekels off young Cunliffe, who hated losin', but was
generally the one who had to pay up.
'It was a game they call Pickit they were playin'; grandfather told
me--for in after days t' Squire let out a good bit of his troubles to
my grandfather, havin' been playmates together, an' grandfather bein'
a god-child o' t'owd Squire's father beside that--an' Cunliffe bein'
flustered had forgot when it came to t' last two cards--there bein' a
ticklish bit at stake--what had been played previously.
'He looked this way and that, then all of a sudden he catches Mistress
Heron's eye, sees something in it that tells him somewhat, claps doon
t' right card an' wins.
'T'owd Squire, he keeps extraordinary quiet, just gives one swift look
round under his eyelids at his wife standin' there above him, an' says
softly, "Ye've a wonderful memory, Mr. Cunliffe," says he, at which
the other gets very red, an' begins to talk of getting home.
'"Mistress Heron and I," says t' Squire, "were talking on this
afternoon about t' private steeplechase we're going to hold shortly in
t' Park here, an' she was all for layin' out t' course for first two
miles straight west till it almost touches Towers gates. 'It will just
take inside of ten minutes from t' Ford,' says she, 'to Towers turn,
and beautiful going all the way over grass with t' big jump an' t'
black beck in t' middle of it.' 'Ay,' says I, 'and that will stop one
or two that I know of--I'll lay a monkey.' 'Not a bit of it,' says
she, 'not a bit; an' I'll take evens with ye that everybody tries it.'
'"Now, as Mistress Heron is going to ask ye to ride one of her
nominations for her at the race, it might be helpful to ye to have a
preliminary trial, an' as t' night is bright as day wi' moonlight,
perhaps ye'd like a ride home to-night across country, an' I'll lay ye
double of what ye've won to-night that ye don't get to your own
gate-ends in, say, twelve minutes from t' Ford's paddock. An' ye can
have your pick o' what's in my stable," adds t' Squire, as he looks
from one to t' other of them, "while Mistress Heron an' I will watch
ye from t' battlements an' take time for ye; or, of course, if ye're
afraid," he adds, as Cunliffe, hemming an' hawing, says something
about "not likin' to take a horse out at that time o' night," an'
dwells heavy on the words, "we can send ye home in the landau, like a
lady," says t' Squire.
'"If Mr. Cunliffe accepts your proposal to ride a horse for me in the
steeplechase," interrupts Mistress Heron scornfully, "that is of
itself sufficient to falsify your insinuation."
'"I shall be only too proud," cries Cunliffe at once, with a bow, "to
ride for Mistress Heron."
'"Ay," says t' Squire, "an' t' night before a message will doubtless
come to say that Mr. Cunliffe has suddenly been called away on
important political business, an' he's much grieved to forego a
pleasure he had been so much looking forward to."
'"You've said quite enough, sir," cries Cunliffe, red an' passionate;
"kindly have your horse saddled--t' light-roan one for choice; for I
take your wager an' will ride your horse home this night."
'T' Squire goes out to t' stable himself, gives his orders, an' in
fifteen minutes' time t' horse is round at t' door.
'"Ye'll be wantin' a switch likely," says t' Squire, as he shows him
downstairs, "an' if ye'll come into t' gun-room here, ye can take your
pick o' crops, or cuttin' whips, or what ye will."
'T' room was dark, an' Cunliffe, he bumps up against a small pail o'
something an' upsets it on his trousers and all over t' floor before
t' Squire gets a candle lighted.
'"Never mind, never mind that," says t' Squire cheerily, "it's just
nowt to matter; it's just for to try my hounds with to-morrow, an'
shouldn't have been there. See, there's t' whip-stand; take your
choice," says he.
'Cunliffe, he takes a cuttin' whip, an' jumps on t' horse without more
ado, an' goes out into t' paddock with t' stud groom, who is to show
him where to start from when t' Squire shouts "off" from the roof of
the house.
'A minute or two later t' Squire shows himself on t' battlements, and
Mistress Heron's there too, to see the sport.
'"Are ye ready?" rings out t' Squire's voice.
'"Yes," comes back t' answer.
'"Then off!" he shouts down and drops t' handkerchief.
'Away he goes at a full gallop straight across t' wide-spreading west
park-land, then draws rein a moment as he approaches t' haha with a
drop of five feet or so, perhaps. Just as he pulls up there comes a
faint "you-yowin'," as of hounds upon a scent, from around t' corner
of t' house.
'"Whatever's that?" cries Mistress Heron quickly, as she catches the
sound of it.
'"Why, it's t' hounds," cries t' Squire, with a stabbing laugh. "I
thowt it might help him t' jump t' black beck an' win his wager to
have t' hounds after him, an' so it will, for there's a bit aniseed
sprinkled on Gamecock's fetlock bandages, an' Cunliffe's stepped into
some himself."
'"'Tis the deed of a savage!" says my lady, and with a proud contempt
of him she steps away from his side as far as t' battlements will
permit.
'Away go t' hounds wi' riotous music hot upon t' scent; on, forrard on
they go, right over t' haha and up and across t' pasture beyond, at t'
end of which, and beside t' beck, Cunliffe was galloping up an' down
trying to find an easier place. It appears he hadn't, in his
excitement, taken notice of t' hounds giving tongue, or looked behind
him, but all of a sudden he perceives it, and halting his horse
stockstill, looks behind him. Then it seemed to flash upon him what's
up, and he forces back t' horse some twenty yards or so--first hounds
racing towards him about hundred yards behind--rams in t' spurs, cuts
him with t' whip, and claps him at it. Gamecock tries it bravely, and
leaping high into the air just lands on t' further bank, but short a
bit, and on t' soft edge, and pecks forward badly on his head, sending
Cunliffe somersaulting over like a shot rabbit.
'"T' bet's won!" shouts the Squire, marking t' horse pick himself up
before his rider and gallop away by himself over t' far field; "t'
damned cockney cannot ride at all."
'"Yes, you've won your bet," replies my lady, gathering her skirts
together and holding them close as she passes him by, "but possibly
you may have lost remembrance that you were born a gentleman," and
with that she proudly turns her back and sweeps away down t' stairs.
'Well, t' hounds couldn't get across t' beck, and t' Squire's first
whip was ready wi' t' horn to fetch them back again; so Cunliffe was
safe enough, but sorely damaged an' bruised, an' 'twas a full week
before he left his house, when straight he goes abroad on foreign
travel.
'Things gradually went on from bad to worse twixt t' Squire and
Mistress Heron after that night's play; she used to lament for Lunnon
an' its fashions, an' on t' last night of all she set t'owd Squire's
blood blazin' by sneerin' at "country yokels" and their drunken ways.
'"Why, damn t' ----!" cries he, quite forgetting himself, and using a
word more suitable to t' kennels than t' drawing-room, "ain't we been
here since King Alfred? An' what can ye want more than that?"
'Swift as fire she answers him, "One might wish that they were
gentlemen," says she, an' cold an' contemptuous she walks past him out
of the drawing-room and up into her own room, where she orders her
maid to pack up for her at once, an' 'tis but an hour later when she
drives away in t' carriage an' never sees t'owd place again.
'Well, they separate by law, an' shortly after, when t' bairn comes to
live with his father, Mistress Heron gets much taken up with one of
those father parsons, famous as a preacher in Lunnon at that time.
'Finally, she goes into a sort of retirement and becomes head of a
sisterhood shortly, which gets to be very famous for its Good
Samaritan sort of deeds.
'Grandfather used to say that whatever she took up she would be sworn
to do better than anybody else. "Fox-'untin' she learnt clever in six
months' time, an' if ye can larn that ye can larn owt," says he.
'As for t'owd Squire, he hunts harder than ever he had done before;
an' nowt, positively nowt, can stop him across country, nor liquor
stagger him, so that many thought he was heartier an' happier than
ever he had been before.
'His son, as he grew up, was a bit trouble to him, certainly, as he
was a wild lad--just like himself, but with a touch of his mother's
pride, so that it was just as well when he went into t' army an' was
sent to t' Indies.
'Well, time sped on, and t'owd Squire's hair was turnin' gray, when
news came that his wife--Sister Eva, as they called her--had died
suddenly in her retreat or convent.
'Up goes t' Squire to Lunnon without a word, an' when the chief
mourners--all of them ladies of t' sisterhood, in their white
dresses--were liftin' up t' coffin ropes to carry it to t' graveside,
an' ancient gentleman, clad in a queer, long, bottle-green tail-coat,
with a high stock and beaver hat on t' back of his head, comes forward
an' quietly takes hold of t' head ropes.
'T' sisters remonstrate with him, and ask him who he is. "Mesdames,"
says he, "I was her unworthy husband," and he doffs his hat as he
speaks, and without another word spoken helps to carry her to her
grave.
''Twas said that they were t' same clothes he had worn on his
wedding-day.
'It would be some months after this that my grandfather was dinin'
with t'owd Squire, after t' opening meet of t' season.
'"Here's to fox-huntin'!" cries he, after t' cloth was removed; an' a
bit later he rises solemnly in his chair, an' he says, "And here's to
a saint in heaven!" an' as he drinks it down grandfather sees a tear
tricklin' on his cheek.
'Little by little he tells him all about t' quarrel and what had
completed it: "And she was right, by G----!" cries t' Squire at the
end of it, "as she always was, though I was too proud to say so then;
and now it's too late, for she's a saint in heaven."
'That was the only time he spoke of her; but for all that, grandfather
said it was clear that he was just broken-hearted, was t' poor owd
Squire, even though five minutes after he was challenging him to ride
for a fiver when 'ounds should find on t' morrow's mornin'.
'T'owd Squire never went better in his life, they said, than he did
that day; but just at t' close of it his horse made a mistake over
some timber, and he came a cropper in a ploughed field, with his horse
on top of him, and had three of his ribs broken.
'It was a baddish fall; but though the doctors pulled him through he
never got the better of it, and was taken away before t' season was
out; and he was glad to go, was poor owd Squire, for he said he
believed she had forgiven him, but he couldn't rest till he knew for
certain.'
AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE
'Tell me about that mysterious affair of "Tom the Scholar," and Jack
Jefferson's sudden death, and how you ran him to ground when suspicion
had given up the chase. If all I have heard is true, you ought to have
been at Bow Street, high up in the Criminal Investigation Department.
Tell me,' I said again, 'how you came to play the part of amateur
detective.'
'There was nowt o' the ammytoor aboot it,' retorted 'the Heckler' with
aggressive dignity, 'it was a proper perfessional bit o' wark, an' the
pollis was fine put oot that they hadn't had a hand in it. Wey, there
was Scott, wor pollis; he came to us an' he says, "If ye had only
tell't me about it I could hev made a job on 't," says he, "'stead o'
lettin' him gan an' commit a fellor, d' y' see?"
'"No," says I, "I divvn't see; it was him that done it, an' it was us
as copped him, an' if I hadn't taken it intiv hand, wey, thoo would
have still been usin' long words an' followin' up yor clue like an aad
blind man followin' efter his dog," says I, "for I've no sort o'
notion o' the pollis; they nivvor finds out nowt for themselves, ye
hev elwis ti tell them what it is ye want done, an' then at the finish
gan an' do it yorsel'."
'No, no; the pollis is just what the lawyer chaps call "accessories
efter the fac'"--meanin' they comes up ti ye when aal's ower an' done
wi', like the bairns at the school-sports, each one expectin' a prize.
'Well, as I was sayin', I copped "Tom the Scholar" aal maa lane, an' I
doot whether anyone else could hev done it but me. I had suspected him
a while back, for he was a mistetched[4] chap, ye ken, one o' the sort
that has a bit grudge against everythin', an' vicious same as horses
is sometimes, unforgettin', unforgivin'--just a nasty disagreeable
beggor, ye ken.
'He was a scholar, though--"Tom the Scholar" they called him--an' was
aye busy wi' books, nivvor had his head oot o' them, whether at the
Institute or at aad Mistress Swan's, where he lodged.
'Efter a bit he takes up wi' courtin' Mary Straughan, her who got
married on Jack Jefferson, an' I b'lieve she had a mind for him once,
but not for long, for he frightened her biv his strange ways, an' a
passionate way o' talk he had, an' she gave up walkin' wiv him an'
took up wi' Jack instead--a south-country chap that had come frae
Yorkshire--a big, burly, thick-headed sort o' chap, but tarr'ble
good-natured.
'Well, Tom, he takes it varry badly, an' just before they gets
"called" i' church he tarrifies Mary wi' vague threats as ti what'll
happen if she dares ti wed wi' Jack. Noo, Tom was a "spirritualist,"
ye ken, as weel as a scholar, an' he swears that the spirits forbade
the match, an' would be properly savage if they was disobliged.
'She was a narvious sort, was Mary, an' she tell't Jack ov't, an'
Jack, he says, iv his queer clipp't Yorkshire way o' talk, "T'
spirrits be d----d!" says he; "an' if that softy Tom comes interferin'
'twixt thoo an' me, I'll make him softier than ever," he says, shakin'
a great big hairy fist that looked like a bullock's head.
'Well, they gets theirsel's married wivoot askin' leave either o' the
"spirrits" or o' Tom, an' as nowt happened, an' Jack forbye was
tarr'ble lucky iv his cavils[5] just efter his marriage, even Mary
began ti laugh at the idea o' Tom an' his "spirrits" an' aal.
'They was tarr'ble happy those two, an' I mind well hoo proud and
triumphant-like Jack looked as he slapped us on the back one early
summer mornin' as we went ti the pit on the fore-shift, for I was only
a hewer then, same as himsel', an' not what I is now--checkweighman,
an' half ov a magistrate as well, bein' vice-chairman o' wor lokil
District Council[6]--an' he cries, "Geordie," he says, "Geordie, man,
I's that happy I can scarcely haud myself in. There's nowt I couldn't
do. I could hew as much in one shift as any five men together in two;
I could lepp ower a hoos, I's that cobby. I could challenge wee Bob
Aitchison, t' sprinter, to a quarter-mile, an' lay t' fortnight's
wages that I'd best him too. I could sing, I b'lieve," he says, an'
wiv a solemn voice on him he adds: "Ay, an' I could even put up a bit
prayer--though I's not much ov a Churchman--almost as weel as t'
priest himself. An' I'll tell thoo why. It's because Mary tells me
that there's likely gawin' to be an addition to the fam'ly party
sometime shortly. She's a rare well-bred un, too, is Mary, an' I'll
lay it's twins." "I'll gie ye the best o' luck," says I, "but twins is
tarr'ble expensive, for I've tried 'em," says I. "Man alive!" cries
he, holdin' up his arm--a proper colossyum ov a limb--"look at that.
If that cannot win bread for a dozen o' twins, then a lighted candle
cannot fire gas," says he.
'He was a fine brave man,' continued 'the Heckler' slowly, 'an' I can
see him still standin' on the heapstead, an' I mind hoo pleased he was
that he could hear a lark singin' high i' the air ower heid just as
the sun peeped up before we went doon i' the cage that mornin' for the
last time together--just as full o' life an' vigour he was as thoo is
noo--but for all that it was the last time I saw him alive i' this
world.