TENANTRY.
By two o’clock next day, Coverdale and Hazlehurst had walked for some
six hours, and conjointly taken the lives of seven couple of rabbits,
ten unfortunates having fallen victims to the new double-barrel, while
Hazlehurst had disposed of the remaining four. A sumptuous luncheon,
with unlimited pale ale and brown stout, awaited them at the
gamekeeper’s cottage, to which repast they did ample justice.
“I tell you what it is, Harry,” exclaimed Hazlehurst, setting down an
empty tumbler, “if I eat any more luncheon, you will have to send me
home in a wheelbarrow, for to walk I shall not be able--as it is, I
feel like an alderman after a city feast.”
“In that case, you’d require a very capacious wheelbarrow, and I should
pity the individual who had to trundle it. Come! finish the bottle--you
won’t? then I will--and now we’ll be off--it strikes me, fatigue
has something to do with it, as well as the luncheon; you’ve been
smoke-drying in London, young man, till you’re out of condition,”
returned Coverdale, laughing, as he remarked the stiff manner in which
his friend rose and walked across the cottage.
Another hour’s striding through high grass and fern proved the
correctness of this assertion; for Hazlehurst, unaccustomed to such
severe exercise, began to show unmistakable symptoms of knocking up. His
friend observed him with attention--“You really are tired, Arthur,” he
said, good naturedly, “you’ll be fit for nothing to-morrow, if you
walk much farther. Go back, Markum, and send one of your boys for the
shooting pony; let him bring it to us at the bridge foot--I am going
over Wild Acre farm next: I shall try through the spinney and round
the large meadow, so you can cut across and join us again in
half-an-hour--and Markum--wait one moment:--What sort of person is this
man Styles? How should I know him if I should happen to run against
him?”
“Well, he be a tall, broad-shouldered, roughish-looking chap, rather an
orkard customer for to tackle, Mr. Coverdale, sir, and he generally have
a sort of cross-bred, lurcher-like dog along with him, if you please Mr.
’Enry, that is, Mr. Coverdale, sir”--and so saying, Markum started at
a swinging trot to execute his master’s wishes.
“The fellow looks as if he could go on at that pace for a fortnight
without turning a hair,” observed Hazlehurst, pausing to wipe his brow;
“I never saw such a cast-iron animal.”
“He’s at it every day, and that keeps him in good order,” replied
Coverdale; “but I’ve walked him down before now, and should not wonder
if I were to do so to-day--I’m just getting what the jockeys call my
‘second wind,’ and am good for the next four hours at least--ha! there’s
a rabbit sitting, pull at it when I clap my hands.”
“It’s too long a shot for me,” replied Hazlehurst, “bag him yourself.”
Thus urged, Coverdale brought his gun to his shoulder and drew the
trigger, but the cap was a bad one, and would not go off, and his
second barrel being loaded with small shot, in the hope of picking up
a landrail (of which Markum had reported the probable whereabouts), the
rabbit skipped away uninjured. It had not proceeded ten paces, however,
when it sprang into the air, and rolled over dead--at the same moment
the report of a gun rang out from behind some low bushes, and a lurcher
dog dashed forward, and picked up the defunct rabbit. Coverdale’s face
flushed with anger, and hastily exchanging the defective percussion cap
for a sound one, he raised his gun with the intention of shooting the
dog; but, though quick-tempered, Harry was a thoroughly kind-hearted
fellow, and a moment’s reflection caused him to relinquish his purpose;
recovering his gun, he muttered--
“Poor brute, why should I kill it?--it’s not his fault, but his
master’s.”
As he spoke a tall figure rose from behind the bushes, whence the shot
had proceeded, and whistling to the dog, took the rabbit from him, and
put it in the pocket of a voluminous-skirted shooting-jacket.
“That’s the redoubtable Mr. Styles, _in propriâ personâ_, I imagine,”
observed Hazlehurst.
“And a cool hand he seems too,” returned Coverdale, scowling at the
delinquent, who stood quietly reloading his gun, as though _he_ were
“monarch of all he surveyed,”--“however, I’m not going to lose my temper
about it; it’s a great object with me, just now, to conciliate all the
neighbouring farmers.”
“Then are you going to give him _carte blanche_ to spiflicate rabbits
when and where he likes?” inquired his friend.
“Not a bit of it!” was the reply, “I mean to put a stop once for all
to such practices; but there is a _quiet_ way of managing these matters
quite as effectual as putting oneself into a rage.”
“Don’t be a week about it, that’s all--come to the point at once,
there’s a good fellow, for I want to knock over another rabbit or two
before my Bucephalus arrives,” rejoined Hazlehurst.
Thus urged, Coverdale
advanced towards the stranger, and slightly raising his wide-awake as he
approached him, said with an air of Grandisonian politeness--“Mr. Styles
I presume?”
“Yes, young man, my name’s Styles. What’s yourn?” was the unceremonious
reply.
He does not know me, thought Harry: now for astonishing him--rather!
“_My_ name, sir, is--ahem!--Henry Coverdale, of Coverdale Park, at your
service.” He paused to watch the effect of this announcement. Ha!
I thought so, he trembles, he is--why, confound the scoundrel! I
do believe he’s grinning--he can’t have understood me--“My name is
Coverdale, I say, sir.”
“Well then, Mr. Coverdale, if that’s your name, the sooner you take
yourself back to Coverdale Park the better I shall be pleased, for I’m
a shooting rabbits, and your jabbering scares the creeturs,” was the
astounding rejoinder.
Coverdale could scarcely believe his ears; however, he contrived by a
strong effort to subdue his rising passion, as he answered; “If, as I
imagine, you are the son of old Farmer Styles, of Wild Acre, you must be
aware, sir, that the farm your father rents is _my_ property, and
that the rabbits you are shooting are _my_ rabbits; I must, therefore,
trouble you to hand over the one you have just killed, and to abstain
from shooting entirely, except on any occasion when I may invite you to
join me, or otherwise give you permission.”
“I knows this, that father and I have got a thirty years’ lease to run,
and that when I wants a day’s rabbiting, I means to take it, whether you
likes it, or whether you doesn’t. Why, the old Admiral never said a word
agen it; but he _was_ something like a gentleman, he was!” was the surly
answer.
Harry’s eyes flashed fire. “Do you mean to insinuate that _I_ am _not_
one then, fellow?” he asked in a voice that trembled with passion.
“And suppose I does, what then? feller!” returned the other insolently.
“This!” was the reply, as springing hastily forward, Coverdale struck
Styles so violent a blow on the cheek with the back of his open hand,
that he staggered and nearly fell;--recovering himself with difficulty,
and holding one hand to his injured jaw, he muttered with an oath, “If
it wasn’t for the confounded guns, I’d give you the heartiest thrashing
ever you had in your life.”
“Or get one yourself,” replied Harry, now thoroughly roused; “but, if
you’re at all inclined that way, don’t disturb yourself about the guns;
if you will discharge yours, I and my friend will do the same by ours,
it’s only wasting a charge or two of powder”--and, as he spoke, he fired
both barrels in the air. Styles paused a moment, to assure himself that
no stratagem was contemplated, and then discharged his gun also, while
Hazlehurst having glanced at his friend with an expression of the
deepest astonishment, hastened to follow their example. At this moment
the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard, and Markum, the keeper,
cantered up on the shooting pony. “Ah! that’s right!” exclaimed
Coverdale, who appeared suddenly to have regained his good temper--“tie
the pony up to a tree and come here. Hazlehurst, you will pick me up if
I require it, and Markum will do the same kind office by Mr. Styles, and
I don’t intend him to have a sinecure either,” he added, _sotto voce_.
“You don’t mean seriously you’re going to fight the fellow:” inquired
Hazlehurst.
“Indeed, I do, and, what’s more, nobody shall prevent me, unless he
shows the white feather,” was the positive answer.
“But--but you’ll get knocked about so: besides, the brute’s a bigger,
heavier man than you, and as strong as an elephant. Suppose he should
injure you,” remonstrated Hazlehurst.
“He may if he can,” was the confident reply; “why Arthur, you’re as
nervous as a girl; this is not the first time you’ve seen me use my
fists, and I’ve taken lessons from Ben Caunt since the old Eton days.”
“Go in and win, then, if you _will_ make a fool of yourself,” rejoined
Hazlehurst moodily, as he helped his friend to divest himself of his
shooting-jacket and waistcoat.
“Now, Mr. Styles, I’m at your service,” remarked Coverdale, addressing
his antagonist politely.
“So you mean fighting do you?” inquired Styles, half incredulously.
“I mean to try and give you the thrashing with which you have threatened
me,” was the reply.
“And if you do, I’ll promise never to shoot another rabbit without your
permission; but if I’m best man, blest if I don’t smash ’em when and
where I likes,” was the rejoinder.
“It’s a bargain,” returned Coverdale, “so come on.”--As his antagonist
bared his brawny arms and muscular throat, Harry felt that, if his skill
were at all commensurate with his strength, he had cut himself out a
somewhat troublesome task, and he began to own, in his secret soul, that
Hazlehurst was right, and that he was about to do a very foolish thing.
However, he had great confidence in his own skill and activity, and to
these qualities did he trust to relieve him from his difficulties.
If those amiable philanthropists, whose ranks, once numbering a
large majority of the aristocracy and gentry of the land, have, as
civilisation has spread, grown “small by degrees and beautifully
less” (we allude to the “Patrons of the Ring,”)--if these humane and
enlightened individuals expect a detailed account, _à la Bell’s Life_,
of the “stunning mill between the Coverdale Cove and the Stylish
Farmer,” they must be doomed to the pangs of disappointment; for
unfortunately neither our taste, nor our talent, lies in that direction.
Suffice it then to relate, that Mr. Styles’ science proving an article
of the very roughest country manufacture, while his antagonist went to
work with the skill and composure of a finished artist, Coverdale soon
perceived that he had only to stop or avoid his opponent’s blows,
to keep cool and to abide his time, in order to insure him an easy
victory--and the event justified his expectations. After six rounds--in
the course of which the farmer acquired two beautiful black eyes, while
Coverdale had not got a scratch--time was called, and the seventh round
commenced. Styles, smarting from the punishment he had received, and
irritated to the highest degree by his adversary’s coolness, rushed on
so furiously, and hailed such a shower of blows upon his opponent, that
Coverdale found it would be impossible entirely to ward them off, and,
not wishing to be disfigured by a black eye or flattened nose, was
forced to exert himself in real earnest to endeavour to bring the battle
to a conclusion;--watching his opportunity, therefore, he drew back;
stopped a terrific hit cleverly with his left hand, and then flinging
out his right arm straight from the shoulder, and bounding forward
at the same moment, he struck his antagonist a crashing blow, which,
catching him full on the side of the head, sent him down like a shot.
“That has terminated the case for the defendant, I expect,” observed
Hazlehurst, sententiously, as, breathless and with bleeding knuckles,
his friend seated himself on his extended knee--“he had had nearly
enough before, and he has got rather too much now. You hit him an awful
crack!”
“It was his own fault,” returned Coverdale. “I did not want to hurt the
man if he would have fought quietly, and like a civilised Christian,
instead of a raging lunatic;--but he’s only stunned--see he’s reviving
already. Confound the fellow, his head is as hard as a cannon-ball, to
which fact my knuckles bear witness.” So saying, Coverdale rose, and
resuming his coat and waistcoat, approached his fallen foe, who, with
his head leaning against Markum’s shoulder, was staring vacantly at the
sky.
“He’s as unconscionable as a hinfant, Mr. Coverdale, sir: you’ve been
and knocked his hintellects slap out of him, which only sarves him
right, and is what all poachers ’andsomely desarves,” remarked the
gamekeeper cheerfully.
“I know what will be the medicine to cure him,” exclaimed Hazlehurst,
producing a pocket-flask, and applying it to the lips of the vanquished
Styles. At first the patient seemed inclined to resist; but as soon as
he tasted the flavour of the contents of the pocket-pistol, he raised
his hand, and pushing aside Hazlehurst’a fingers, drained it to the
bottom.
“Gently, my friend,” remonstrated the young barrister, “that’s Kinahan’s
best whisky--fortunately I supplied the vacuum created at luncheon with
spring water. Ah, I thought as much, that’s the true elixir vitæ,” he
continued, as Styles, relinquishing the flask, sat up and began to stare
wildly about him.
“Styles, my good fellow; how do you feel now? You were stunned, you
know; but I shall be very sorry if I’ve hurt you,” observed Coverdale,
good-naturedly. As he spoke, Styles turned and regarded him attentively,
measuring his tall, active figure with his glance from top to toe.
At length he muttered, “Well, I didn’t think he had it in him, that I
didn’t;” he then rubbed his head, with a look of thorough perplexity,
once more fixing his eyes on his late opponent, as if he were some
strange monster wonderful to behold: having, apparently, satisfied
himself that he was a real flesh and blood man, and not some newfangled,
cast-iron boxing-machine, he turned to the gamekeeper, observing,
“Markum, lend us a fin, old man, for I feels precious staggery-like,
I can tell you. Your guv’nor hits hard.” On obtaining the required
assistance, he rose, not without difficulty, approached Coverdale, and
holding out a hand somewhat smaller than a shoulder of mutton, said,
“Shake hands, sir, you’re a gentleman, and what’s far more in my eyes,
you’re _a man_ every inch of you, and I humbly begs your pardon for
insulting of you.”
“Say no more about it, my good friend,” returned Coverdale, heartily
shaking his proffered hand, “we did not understand each other before,
but we do now, and shall get on capitally for the future I don’t doubt.”
“I shan’t disturb your rabbits again, sir,” continued the penitent
Styles, entirely subdued by Coverdale’s hearty manner, “and if the
creeturs should do any damage to the crops, why I know a gentleman like
you will bear it in mind on the rent-day.”
“Certainly,” was the eager reply; “my object now is to get up the game,
and no tenant who assists me in this will find me a hard landlord.”
And so, after an amicable colloquy, they parted the best friends
imaginable; Styles observing, as he turned to go, “I did not think there
was a man living who could have sewn me up in ten minutes like that;
but you are unaccountable quick with your fists, to be sure, Mustur
Coverdale.”
“Pray Harry, is this to be considered a specimen of your ‘quiet manner’
with your tenantry?” inquired Hazlehurst dryly, as he bestrode the broad
back of his shooting pony.
His friend coloured as he replied with a forced laugh, “Well, I must
confess that for once in my life I a little lost temper;--but you see,
old boy.” he continued, bringing his hand down upon Hazlehurst’s knee
with a smack which caused that delicate youth to spring up in his
saddle--“but you see _I managed to conciliate him after all_.”