THE POACHER’S WIFE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
LYING PROPHETS
CHILDREN OF THE MIST
SONS OF THE MORNING
THE STRIKING HOURS
THE RIVER
THE AMERICAN PRISONER
THE SECRET WOMAN
KNOCK AT A VENTURE
THE PORTREEVE
THE HUMAN BOY
FANCY FREE
MY DEVON YEAR
UP ALONG AND DOWN ALONG
THE POACHER’S WIFE
BY
EDEN PHILLPOTTS
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1906_
_This story originally appeared in the Weekly Edition of THE
TIMES, and is now issued in book form by arrangement with the
Proprietors of that journal._
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. AT THE “WHITE HART” 1
II. HANGMAN’S HUT 15
III. GUNS IN THE NIGHT 27
IV. THE WEDDING DAY 40
V. A GHOST OF A CHANCE 53
VI. THE WEDDING NIGHT 70
VII. THE BAD SHIP “PEABODY” 85
VIII. MR SIM TELLS A LIE 99
IX. IN MIDDLECOTT LOWER HUNDRED 116
X. DAN’S LETTER 130
XI. THE LAST OF THE “PEABODY” 146
XII. HENRY VIVIAN TRIES TO DO HIS DUTY 160
XIII. THE OBI MAN 177
XIV. JESSE’S FINGER-NAIL 195
XV. DANIEL EXPLAINS 210
XVI. “OBI” AT MORETON 225
XVII. THE CONFESSION 238
XVIII. A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE 247
XIX. MR SIM TELLS THE TRUTH 264
XX. FIVE MILES IN FIVE MINUTES 279
XXI. JOHNNY BEER’S MASTERPIECE 293
THE POACHER’S WIFE
CHAPTER I
AT THE “WHITE HART”
The bar of the “White Hart,” Moretonhampstead, was full, and, in the
atmosphere of smoke and beer, a buzz of sound went up from many throats.
In one corner, round a table, men sat and laughed, but the object of
their amusement did not share the fun. He was a powerful, bull-necked man
with a clean-shorn face, grey whiskers, and dark eyes that shone brightly
under pent-house brows, bushy and streaked with grey.
Mr Matthew Sweetland heard the chaff of his companions and looked grim.
He was head gamekeeper at Middlecott Court, and no man had a worthier
reputation. From his master to his subordinates, all spoke well of him.
His life prospered; his autumn “tips” were a splendid secret known only
to himself and his wife. He looked forward presently to retiring from the
severe business of a gamekeeper and spending the end of life in peace.
One thorn alone pricked Matthew; and from that there was no escape.
His only son, Daniel Sweetland, had disappointed him. The keeper’s
wife strove to make her husband more sanguine; neighbours all foretold
pleasant things concerning Daniel; but the lad’s reputation was not good.
His knowledge of sport and his passion for sport had taken a sinister
turn. They were spiced with a love of adventure and very vague ideas
on the law of property. Flogging had not eradicated these instincts.
When the time came to make choice of a trade, Daniel decided against
gamekeeping.
“I be too fond of sport,” he said.
And now he worked at Vitifer Mine on Dartmoor, and was known to be the
cleverest poacher in the district.
On coming of age, the youth made his position clear to his parents.
“I don’t think the same as you, father, because I’ve larned my lessons
at the Board School, an’ ideas be larger now than they was in your time.
I must have my bit o’ sport; an’ when they catches me, ’twill be time
enough to pull a long face about it. But this I’ll promise on my oath;
that never do I set foot inside Middlecott woods, an’ never will I help
any man as does. I’ll not lift a gun against any bird of your raising;
but more I won’t say. As to game in general--well, I’ve got my opinions;
an’ being a Radical with large ideas about such things, I’ll go my way.”
“Go your way to the gallows,” said Matthew Sweetland. “If I’d knowed what
I was breeding you for, I’d have sent you to your uncle the cobbler to
London, an’ never taught you one end of a gun from t’other. ’Tis poor
payment for a good father’s care to find his only one be an ungrateful
toad of a boy, an’ a disgrace to the nation.”
“Sporting will out,” answered Daniel, calmly. “I ban’t a bad sort; an’
I’ll disgrace nobody. I’m a honest, plain dealer--according to my own
lights; an’ if I don’t agree with you about the rights of property in
wild things like birds an’ fish, an’ a hare now an’ again--well, what of
it?”
“’Tis the beginning,” declared his father. “From the day I catched you
setting a wire in a hedge unbeknownst to me, I felt that I’d done wrong
to let you bide in the country.”
And now Matthew Sweetland’s beer tasted sour as he heard the talk of his
neighbours in the bar of the “White Hart.”
A handsome, fair man was speaking. He looked pale for a country dweller,
and indeed his business kept him much within doors; for he was a
footman at Middlecott Court. His eyes were blue, his face was long,
and his features regular. He spoke slowly and with little accent, for
he had copied his master’s guests carefully and so mended the local
peculiarities of his speech.
“’Tis said without doubt, Sweetland, that the burglars must have been
helped by somebody--man or maid--who knew the house and grounds. What did
Bartley here think when first he heard about it?”
The footman turned to a thin, weak-faced, middle-aged person who sat next
to him. Luke Bartley was a policeman, at present off duty, and a recent
burglary of valuable plate was the subject they now discussed.
Mr Bartley had a feeble mouth and shifty eye. He avoided the gamekeeper’s
scowling glance and answered the footman.
“Well, we must judge of folks by their records. I don’t say Dan
Sweetland’s ever been afore the Bench; but that’s thanks to his own
wicked cleverness. His father may flash his eyes at me; but I will say
that taking into account Dan’s character an’ pluck an’ cheek, I ban’t
going to rule him out of this job. He might have helped to do it very
easily. He knows Westcombe so well as anybody, and his young woman was
under-housemaid in the house till a week afore the burglary. Well, I
won’t say no more. Only ’tis my business as a police constable to put
two and two together; which I shall do, by the help of God, until I be
promoted. Besides, where was Daniel that night?”
“He was fishing on the Moor,” said another man--a young and humble
admirer of Daniel Sweetland.
“So he may have told you; but what’s his word worth?”
Then the youth, who was called Prowse, spoke again and turned to the
footman.
“Anyway, it ban’t a very seemly thing of you, Titus Sim, to say a word
against Dan; for ’tis well known that you was after Minnie Marshall
yourself.”
Titus Sim grew paler than usual and turned roughly on the youngster.
“What fool is this! And impertinent with it! You ought to go back to
school, Samuel Prowse. ’Tisn’t right that you should talk and drink with
grown men, for you’re too young to see a joke apparently. D’you think I
don’t know Daniel better than you? D’you think I’d breathe a word against
him--the best friend I’ve got in the world? Of course he had no hand in
the burglary at Westcombe. If I thought he had--but it’s a mad idea.
He’s got his own sense of honour, and a straighter man don’t walk this
earth. As to Miss Marshall--she liked him better than she liked me; and
there’s an end of that.”
“I’m sorry I spoke, then,” said Dan’s young champion. “I beg your pardon,
Titus Sim.”
“Granted--granted. Only remember this: I’m Dan’s first friend, and best
and truest friend, and he’s mine. We’m closer than brothers, him and me;
and if I make a joke against him now and then, to score against Bartley
here, it’s friendship’s right. But I’ll not let any other man do it.”
The policeman nodded.
“There was the three of you,” he said. “Dan, an’ you, an’ Sir Reginald’s
son, Mr Henry. When you were all boys, ’twas a saying in Moreton that
one was never seed without t’others. But rare rascals all three in them
days! You’ve made my legs tired a many times, chasing of ’e out of the
orchards.”
“Such friendships ought to last for ever,” declared Titus, thoughtfully.
“Mister Henry’s a good friend to me yet. When I got weakly about the
breathing, ’twas him that made Sir Reginald take me on indoors. Though
you’ll witness, Sweetland, that I’d have made a good enough gamekeeper.”
The grey man nodded.
“You was larning fast,” he admitted.
“But not so fast as Daniel. He took to it like a duckling to water--in
his blood, of course.”
“An’ be Mr Henry his friend still?” asked the policeman.
Titus Sim hesitated.
“Mr Henry’s like his father--a stickler for old ways and a pillar of the
nation. He got his larning at Eton--’tis different from what Dan got at
the Board School. He hears these rumours about poaching, and he’s an
awful hard young man--harder than his father; because there’s nobody in
the world judges so hard as them that never have been tempted. No, to be
frank, Mr Henry ain’t so favourable to Daniel as he used to be.”
“Well, well,” said Bartley; “if ’tis proved as Dan had no hand in the
burglary at Westcombe, I, for one, shall be thankful, an’ hope to see him
a credit to his father yet. But that’s a very serious job, I warn ’e.
Near five thousand pounds of plate gone, as clean as if it had all been
melted and poured into a bog. Not a trace. An’ the house nearly eight
mile by road from the nearest station.”
“They think the thieves had a motor-car,” said the youngest of the party,
Daniel’s admirer, the lad Prowse. “’Twas your son himself, Mr Sweetland,
who thought of that; for I heard him tell the inspector so last week at
the Warren Inn; an’ the inspector--Mr Gregory, I mean--slapped his leg
an’ said ’twas the likeliest thing he’d heard.”
They talked at length and the glasses were filled again.
“As to Dan,” summed up Mr Bartley, “come a few weeks more an’ he’ll be
married. There’s nought like marriage for pulling a man together; an’
she’m a very nice maiden by all accounts. Ban’t I right, gamekeeper?”
“You are,” answered Sweetland. “Though I say it, Minnie Marshall’s too
good for my son. I never met a girl made of properer stuff--so quiet and
thoughtful. Many ladies I’ve seen in the sporting field weren’t a patch
on her for sense an’ dignity. God He knows what she seed in Daniel. I
should have thought that Sim here, with his nice speech, an’ pale face,
an’ indoor manners, was much more like to suit her.”
Under the table Titus Sim clenched his hands until the knuckles grew
white. But on his face was a resigned smile.
“Thank you for that word, Sweetland. ’Twas a knock-down blow; but, of
course, my only wish is her happiness now. I pray and hope that Dan will
make a good husband for her.”
“She’ve got a power over him as I never thought no female could get over
Dan,” said Prowse.
“That’s because you’m a green boy an’ don’t know what the power of the
female be yet,” answered Bartley. “There he is!” he added. “He’m sitting
in the trap outside, an’ Mr Henry’s speaking to him.”
Sweetland and the rest turned their eyes to the window.
“He’s borrowed the trap from Butcher Smart,” said Daniel’s father. “He’s
going to drive Minnie out to the Warren Inn on Dartmoor this evening.
There’s a cottage there, within two miles of Vitifer Mine; an’ if she
likes it, he’s going to take her there to dwell after they’m married.”
At the door of the White Hart stood a horse and trap. A young woman
held the reins and beside the vehicle two men talked and walked up
and down. The threads of their lives were closely interwoven, though
neither guessed it. Birth, education, position separated them widely;
it had seemed improbable that circumstance could bring them more nearly
together; but chance willed otherwise, and time was to see the friendship
of their boyhood followed by strange and terrible tests and hazards
involving the lives of both.
Young Henry Vivian had just come down from Oxford. His career was
represented by a first-class in Classics and a “Blue” for Rugby football.
He thought well of himself and had a right to do so. He had imbibed
the old-fashioned, crusted opinions of his race, and his own genius
and inclinations echoed them. He was honourable, upright and proud. He
recognised his duty to his ancestors and to those who should follow him.
Time had not tried him and, lacking any gift of imagination, he was
powerless to put himself in the place of those who might have stronger
passions, greater temptations and fewer advantages than himself. Thus
his error was to be censorious and uncharitable. Eton had also made him
conceited. He was a brown, trim, small-featured man, with pride of race
in the turn of his head and haughty mouth. His small moustache was curled
up at the ends; his eyes were quick and hard. He placed his hand on
Daniel Sweetland’s shoulder as they walked together; and he had to raise
his elbow pretty high, for Dan stood six feet tall, while young Vivian
was several inches shorter.
“We’re old friends, Daniel, and I owe you more than you’d admit--to shoot
straight, and to ride straight too, for that matter. So it’s a sorrow to
me to hear these bad reports.”
“Us don’t think alike, your honour,” said Daniel. “But for you I’d do all
a man might. There’s few I’d trouble about; but ’twould be a real bad day
for me if I thought as you was angry with me.”
“Go straight then--in word and deed. With such a father as Matthew,
there’s no excuse for you. And such a wife, too. For I’ll wager that
young woman there will be a godsend, Daniel. My mother tells me that Lady
Giffard at Westcombe says she never had a better servant.”
Daniel’s eyes clouded at a recollection.
“Her ladyship tells true,” he said; “and yet there be knaves here and
there go about saying that Minnie had a hand in the burglary a fortnight
since, and that she helped me to know the ways of the house. I knocked
Saul Pratt down in the public street last Wednesday for saying it; an’
broke loose two of his front teeth.”
“I’d have done the same, for I know that rumour is a lie, Dan; and so
does every other man who knows you. By the way, I’ve got something for
you. It will show you that I’m going to forget the poaching stories
against you. If you’ll come up to-morrow night at nine o’clock and ask
for me, I’ll tell them to bring you to my study, and we’ll have a yarn
about old times. It’s a gun I have for you--a real good one--as a wedding
present. And well I know you’ll never put it to a dishonest use, Daniel.”
Young Sweetland grinned and grew hot with pleasure. He was a fine,
powerful man, very like his father, but with some magic in his face the
parent lacked. Dan’s deep jaw was underhung a trifle; his forehead sloped
back rather sharply, and his neck was thick and sinewy. Every line of
him spoke the fighter, but he was bull-dog in temper as well as build.
Good-nature dwelt in his countenance and he never tired of laughing.
Strong, natural sense of right and honour marked him. He was clever,
observant, and well-educated. Only in the matter of game Dan’s attitude
puzzled his friends and caused them to mistrust him. Women liked him
well, for there was that in his face, and black eyes, and curly hair,
that made them his friends. Children loved him better than he loved them.
As for his sweetheart, she trusted him and trusted herself to cure Dan’s
errors very swiftly after they should be married.
“I’m sure I’m terrible obliged to you; an’ I’ll walk up to-morrow night,
if you please; an’ every time I pull trigger I’ll think kindly of you,
Mister Henry, sir. Out by Vitifer, where I be going to live if my young
woman likes it, there’s scores of rabbits, and a good few golden plover
an’ crested plover in winter, not to name scores o’ snipe.”
“I’ll come out occasionally,” said Henry Vivian, “and when you can get a
day off, you shall show me some sport.”
“Sport I warrant you. An’ you’ll be riding that way to hounds often, no
doubt. There’ll always be a welcome for ’e an’ a drop of drink to my
cottage, your honour.”
“To-morrow night, then. But don’t keep your young woman waiting any
longer.”
Dan touched his hat and turned to the dog-cart, while his friend nodded
and entered the White Hart.
There Henry Vivian found his father and two other Justices of the Peace
at their luncheon in a private room. Sir Reginald and his friends were
full of the burglary at Westcombe. All knew Lady Giffard, a wealthy
widow, and all sympathised with her grave loss. But no theory of the
crime seemed plausible, and the police were at fault. The subject was
presently dismissed, for August had nearly run its course, and partridges
were the theme proper to the time.
“I shall have some fun with them,” said young Vivian; “but I’m afraid
the pheasants won’t see much of me this year.”
His father explained.
“My son is going to visit our West Indian estates this winter. I want to
be rid of them, for though they made my grandfather’s fortune before the
days of the Emancipation, they’ve been rather a white elephant to our
family for the last half century and more. The returns go from bad to
worse. Indeed, there is more in it than meets the eye. But Hal’s no dunce
at figures, and they’ll not hoodwink him out there, even if they attempt
it.”