ACROSS THE THRESHOLD.
A day or two passed by, and nothing more was heard of Carew's combat
with the young watcher; some other mad frolic had doubtless entered into
the Squire's head and driven that one out. The hot punch imbibed after
his swim in the Decoy Pond seemed to have averted all evil consequences,
or perhaps he was case-hardened to such things. It was not uncommon with
him to spend whole winter nights on a neighboring "broad," in pursuit of
the mere-fowl that haunted it, in water or ice or swamp. He treated his
body as an enemy, and strove to subdue it--though not for the good
reasons of the Apostle--by every sort of harshness and imprudence; or
rather he behaved toward it as a wayward father toward his child--at one
time with cruel severity, at another with the utmost luxury and
indulgence. No rich man, probably, ever gave his heir so many chances of
inheritance, or excited in him so many false hopes, as did the Squire of
Crompton, who had no heir.
The hunting season had begun with him after its usual fashion; he seldom
troubled himself to find a fox, but turned one out of a bag to insure
sport, or ran a drag over the most difficult and dangerous country that
could be selected.
Yorke had almost made up his mind to take the keeper's advice, and
distinguish himself by putting his neck to the same risks as Carew, on
horseback, in order to recommend himself to his notice, when an event
occurred by which he attained his end in another way.
Tired of the park, wherein he had dwelled so long, and which every day
the approach of winter made more bare and desolate, he had taken a
solitary walk along the highway which led to the market-town. He was
returning, and had reached the top of the long hill where the park fence
began, and a high solid gate--so that no dogs could enter--gave access
to that wild domain, when a confused murmur in the keen blue air caused
him to look back. For a mile or more the road was straight, and the
leafless trees and hedges left the prospect open to him in all
directions; at the extremity of the road was some huge moving object,
which, advancing at great speed, disclosed the Squire's mail phaeton,
drawn by four antlered stags, and followed at some distance by three or
four mounted grooms, apparently unable to keep up with him. Carew
himself was standing up like some charioteer of old, and, although he
already outstripped the very wind, was laying about him frantically with
his whip, as up the hill the frightened creatures tore as if the ground
were level. The reason of this headlong speed was at the same time made
evident by the appearance of a pack of hounds, which, followed by a
numerous field in scarlet, was coming across the grass-land in full cry.
The spectacle, though weird and strange, was by no means without a
certain grandeur--like some barbarous pageant. Yorke understood the
situation at a glance. He had heard the keeper say that, not content
with his wild progresses through the park, the Squire had sworn to drive
his stags one day into the market-town, and this he had doubtless
actually accomplished; but, on his return, he had had the misfortune to
be caught sight of by one of his own packs of hounds, which were now in
full pursuit of him, like another Actaeon. The terrified stags, with
that deep-mouthed menace of their natural enemies ringing in their ears,
at once threw off all control, and had left their grooms behind them in
half a dozen bounds. If only the harness held, they would be at the
lodge gate in a very few minutes; but, on the other hand, the hounds
were nearer to that point, which they were approaching diagonally. They
were running, of course, by sight, like greyhounds, and with greyhounds'
speed. Above their eager mellow notes, and the mad shouting of the
excited sportsmen, and the ceaseless winding of the disregarded horn,
above the thunder of his own wheels, and of the hoofs of his strange
steeds upon the wintry road, rang out Carew's hoarse tones: "The gate,
the gate!" If only that wooden wall could be interposed between his
stags and their pursuers, all might yet be well. But, though the
lodge-keeper had been drawn by the tumult to his door, he stood there
like one amazed and fascinated by the spectacle before him, and
paralyzed with the catastrophe that seemed impending.
"Gate, gate, you gaping idiot!" roared the Squire, with a frightful
curse; but the poor shaking wretch had not the power to stir; it was
Yorke himself who dashed at the latch, and threw the long gate wide to
let the madman pass, and then slammed it back upon the very jaws of the
hounds. They rushed against the solid wood like a living battering-ram,
and howled with baffled rage; and some leaped up and got their fore-paws
over it, and would have got in yet, but that Richard beat them back with
his bare hands.
In the mean time Carew and his stags swept up the park like a whirlwind,
and presently, coming to a coppice, the frightened creatures dashed into
it, doubtless for covert, where wheel and rein and antler, tangling with
trunk and branch, soon brought them to a full stop.
"Good lad!" exclaimed Carew, as Yorke hurried up to help him; "you are a
good plucked one, you are; you shall keep the lodge, if you will,
instead of that lily-livered scoundrel who was too frightened to move.
Oh, I ask pardon; you are a gentleman, are you?"
"Sir, I hope so," answered the young man, stiffly, his anger only half
subdued by the necessity for conciliation.
"Then, come up to the house and dine, whoever you are; I'll lend you a
red coat. Curse those grooms! what keeps them? One can't sit upon a
stag's head to quiet him as though he were a horse." (Two of the stags
were down, and butting, at one another with their horns.) "What a pace
we came up White Hill! I tried to time them, but I could not get my
watch out. You moved yourself like a flash of lightning, else I thought
we must have pinned you against the gate. It was well done, my lad, well
done; and I'm your debtor."
The Squire held out his hand, for the first time, for Yorke to shake.
"Why, what's this?" said he, peering into the other's eyes. "I have
seen your face before, my friend."
"Yes, Sir; a week or two ago I played the part of night-watcher in your
preserves--it was a mad prank; but"--and here the young fellow smiled
roguishly--"it was better than poaching, you must admit."
"What!" cried the Squire, delighted, "are you the fellow that had that
bout with me in the Decoy Pond? Why, I thought you were one of my own
men, and sent you something; but, of course, my scoundrels drank it. I'm
glad to see you, Sir, by daylight. It was the uncertain moonshine that
hampered me, else, by Jove, I'd have given you 'one, two!' We must have
it out another day, for a drawn battle is just the thing I hate. What's
your name, young gentleman, and where do you live?"
"I live close by, Sir; I am in lodgings for the present."
"Ay, ay, for the hunting, I suppose," said the impetuous Squire. "Hark
to those devils of dogs; they are howling yet; they would have had my
stags by this time but for you. Well, well; send for your portmanteau,
and take up your quarters at Crompton; you shall have a hearty welcome;
only don't be late for dinner--seven, Sir, sharp. Here are my knavish
grooms at last."
And, under cover of the fire of imprecations which the Squire poured
upon his approaching retainers, the young landscape-painter withdrew. He
had obtained his end at last, and he wished to retire before Carew
should put that question to him for a second time--what is your
name?--which, at such a moment, it would, for certain reasons, have been
embarrassing to answer.
He betook himself at once to the keeper's lodge, and packing up his
wardrobe, which, though of modest dimensions, comprised all that was
requisite for a gentleman's costume, dispatched it to the great house.
He followed it himself shortly afterward, only waiting to dash off a
note by the afternoon's post for town. It was literally a "hurried
line," and would have better suited these later telegraphic days, when
thoughts, though wire-drawn, are compressed, and brevity is the soul of
cheapness, as of wit. "_I have got my foot in, and however it may be
pinched, will keep the door open. Direct to me at Crompton_."
It was not a nice trait in the young man, if it was a characteristic
one, that he did not take the trouble even to leave so much word as that
for the old keeper, who was engaged in his outdoor duties, but simply
inclosed the few shillings in which he was indebted to him inside an
envelope, addressed to Walter Grange. The old man liked him, as he well
knew, and would have prized a few words of farewell; but Yorke was in a
hurry to change his quarters for the better; he had climbed from low to
high, and gave no further thought to the ladder which had so far served
him. But yet he had some prudence too. Though he had dwelled so long in
the Carew domains, so careful had he been not to intrude his presence
inopportunely on its master, that he had never so much as seen, except
at a distance, the mansion to which he was now an invited guest. How
grand it showed, as his elastic step drew near it, with tower and turret
standing up against the gloomy November sky, and all its broad-winged
front alive with light! How good it would be to call so fine a place his
home! How excellent to be made heir to the childless man who ruled it,
and who could leave it to whomsoever his whim might choose!
It was unusual for a guest to approach Crompton for the first time on
foot. The Squire's jovial friends used for the most part strange
conveyances, such as tandems and randoms, and the great flower-beds in
the lawn in front gave sign that some such equipage had been lately
driven up not altogether with dexterity. It is difficult at all times to
drive "unicorn," and more so if the horses are not used to that method
of progression, and still more so if the charioteer is somewhat
inebriated; and all these conditions had been fulfilled a few minutes
previously in the case of Mr. Frederick Chandos, a young gentleman of
twenty-one years of age, but of varied experience, who had just arrived
that day on his first visit. But when Yorke appeared at the front-door,
there was no less attention paid to him than if he had driven up with
four-in-hand. Obsequious footmen assisted him to take off his wrappers
in the great hall, whose vastness dwarfed the billiard-table in its
centre to bagatelle proportions. A profusion of wax-lights--and no
others were permitted at Crompton, save in the servants' offices--showed
eight shining pillars of rare marble, and a grand staircase broad enough
for a coach-and-four, and up which, indeed, Carew _had_ ridden horses
for a wager; while all the walls were hung with huge-figured
tapestry--"The Tent of Darius" and "The Entry of Alexander into
Babylon," both miracles of patient art. The grandeur of the stately
place was marred, however, by signs of revel and rough usage. The
Persian monarch, spared by his Grecian conqueror, had been deprived, by
some more modern barbarian, of his eyes; while the face of his royal
consort had been cut out of the threaded picture, to judge by the ragged
end of the canvas, by a penknife. The very pillars were notched in
places, as though some mad revelers had striven to climb to the pictured
ceiling, from which gods and men looked down upon them with amaze; the
thick-piled carpet of the stairs was cut and torn, doubtless by horses'
hoofs; and here and there a gap in the gilt balusters showed where they
had been torn away in brutal frolic. A groom of the chambers preceded
the new guest up stairs, and introduced him to a bachelor's apartment,
small, but well furnished in the modern style, whither his portmanteau
had been already taken. "Squire has given orders, Sir," said he,
respectfully, "that he should be informed as soon as you arrived. What
name shall I say, Sir? But here he is himself."
As the groom withdrew, Carew made his appearance at the open door. He
was smoking a cigar, although it was within an hour of dinner-time; and
at his heels slouched a huge bull-dog, who immediately began to growl
and sniff at the new guest. "Quiet, you brute!" exclaimed the Squire,
with his customary garnish of strong expletive. "Welcome to Crompton,
Mr.--I forget your name; or rather you forgot, I think, to favor me with
it."
"My name is Richard Yorke, Sir."
"Yorke, Yorke--that sounds easterly. You are of the Cambridgeshire
stock, I reckon, are you not?"
"No, Sir," returned the other, with a slight tremor in his voice, which
he could not control; "I come from nearer home. Your wife's first
husband was called Yorke, if you remember, and I bear his name,
although I am her lawful son, by you, Sir."