exportation is an important employment. This is known as the
lumber-trade, and those engaged in it are called lumberers. In Danish
America, the inhabitants are supplied with wood for fuel by the
drift-timber brought to the coasts by the currents. Brazil may be
regarded as a vast forest—the forests are so extensive that they can
hardly be penetrated even with the help of fire and the hatchet. In
these vast solitudes, sometimes a death-like silence reigns; at other
times are heard the howling of herds of monkeys, the screams of parrots
and toucans, with the buzzing of the bee-like humming-bird, which the
Brazilians prettily call the ‘Kiss the Flower.’ The New Holland lily
grows to the height of twenty-four feet; and in the Argentine Republic
there are immense numbers of thistles, ten or twelve feet high, which
form an impenetrable barrier, whilst they last, to the attacks of the
Indians.
The wild animals of England are now few in number. At Chillingworth
Park, in Northumberland, there are some wild oxen. Had the fox not been
preserved for the chase, it would long ago have been extinct. Dogs
have a strong repugnance to the wolf, but delight in the chase of the
fox. In cold countries, foxes are of various colours. Red foxes are
so abundant in the wooded districts of the fur countries, that many
thousand skins are annually exported from America to Britain. The fur
of the black fox is highly valued. While the writer was engaged upon
this article, the following circumstance came under his notice. On
the Alveston Hill estate, near Stratford-on-Avon, a litter of eleven
foxes, apparently about six weeks old, all tame and docile, have
taken possession of a rabbit-hole in a bank at the foot of a clump
of trees. The young cubs, notwithstanding the presence of numerous
people attracted to the spot by the novel sight, leave their hole and
drink occasionally out of a trough containing milk which had been
placed there for their use. The animals are as tame as puppies, and
the visitors easily induce them to come forth by whistling softly and
calling them. They are content to be picked up and caressed, and they
play about in the most amusing manner. An artist has been to the spot
and photographed the whole group. It is thought that the dog-fox has
been killed, and that the vixen has carried her cubs to the place
mentioned. In corroboration of this, it may be stated that when first
discovered, only four or five cubs were to be seen, and they have
gradually increased until the present number has been reached.
The wild-cat finds its retreat among the mountains of Scotland and of
the northern counties of England and of Wales and Ireland, the larger
woods being its place of concealment. It has been called the ‘British
Tiger.’ One was killed in Cumberland which measured five feet from
the nose to the end of the tail. When Christopher Columbus discovered
America, a hunter brought him one which he had found in the woods. The
hedgehog has been said to be proof against poison. A German physician
who wished to dissect one, gave it prussic acid; but it took no effect,
neither did arsenic, opium, nor corrosive sublimate. It has been found
to eat a hundred cantharides without injury. Plutarch mentions the case
of a man who discovered that a hedgehog generally has its burrow open
at various points, and warned by an instinct of atmospheric change,
stopped up the opening next the quarter whence the wind would blow,
and thus could predict to a certainty to which quarter the wind would
shift. Moles show changes of weather. The temperature or dryness of
the air governs that underground worker in its motions as to the depth
at which it lives or works; though this unquestionably is partly due,
no doubt, to its want of food or inability to bear cold or thirst. The
weasel has been known to become domesticated. The method adopted to
obtain this end is to stroke them gently over the back, and to threaten
or beat them when they attempt to bite. It has been found that when
their teeth have been rubbed with garlic, all inclination to bite has
been removed. Their bite is generally fatal: a hare or rabbit once
severely bitten never recovers. Buffon gives the case of a weasel being
found with three young ones in the carcase of a wolf that was grown
putrid, and that had been hung up by the hind-legs as a terror to
others. In this strange and horrid retreat, the weasel had retired to
bring forth her young; she had furnished the cavity with hay, grass,
and leaves; and the young ones were just brought forth when they were
discovered by a peasant passing that way.
The stoat of the continent is a very precious article of commerce.
In Britain, their skin is of little value. In July 1827, a gentleman
of Cathcart, near Glasgow, having shot and wounded a stoat, observed
that it escaped into the hole of an old stone wall. He was led to
make an examination of the place, when he found a couple of leverets
immolated. The place also contained two young partridges entire, and
a pheasant’s egg unbroken. Besides these were two other leverets in
a state of putrefaction; and at the extremity of the retreat lay the
dead stoat. Naturalists state that stoats seldom eat their plunder
until putrefaction sets in; and this fact would seem to bear out the
impression. The polecat is very destructive to game. During a severe
storm, one of these animals was traced in the snow from the side of a
rivulet to a hole at some distance from it. As it was observed to have
made frequent trips, and as other marks were to be seen in the snow
which could not easily be accounted for, it was thought a matter worthy
of greater attention. Its hole was accordingly examined, the polecat
taken; and eleven eels were discovered to be the fruit of its nocturnal
excursions. The marks in the snow were found to have been made by the
motion of the eels in the creature’s mouth.
It is a curious circumstance that many of those oaks which are called
spontaneous are planted by the squirrel. This little animal has
performed an essential service to the British navy. A gentleman walking
one day in the woods belonging to the Duke of Beaufort, in the county
of Monmouth, his attention was diverted by a squirrel, which sat very
composedly upon the ground. He stopped to perceive its motions. In a
few minutes the animal darted to the top of a tree beneath which he had
been sitting; in an instant it was down with an acorn in its mouth,
and after digging a small hole, it deposited the acorn; then covering
it, it darted up the tree again. In a moment it was down again with
another, which it buried in the same manner. This it continued to do
as long as the gentleman watched it. The industry of this animal is
directed to the purpose of securing itself against want in the winter;
and it is probable that its memory is not sufficiently retentive to
enable it to remember the spot in which it deposited every acorn; the
industrious little fellow no doubt loses a few every year. These few
spring up, and are destined to supply the place of the parent tree.
Asses, like horses, are found in a wild state, but in greater
abundance. This animal is found wild in many islands of the
Archipelago, and in the deserts of Libya and Numidia. They live in
herds, each having a chief, and are extremely timid. The ass, so common
now in England, was entirely lost in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
Holinshed says that our land yielded no asses. In early times the ass
was held in high repute, for he was ridden both by the poor and the
rich, and is frequently mentioned in the Scriptures. In the principal
streets of Cairo, asses stand bridled and saddled for hire, and answer
the same purpose as cabs in London. In Egypt and Arabia, asses are
frequently seen of great size and elegance. Their step is light and
sure, and their pace brisk and easy. They are not only in common use
for riding in Egypt, but the Mohammedan merchants and ladies of the
highest rank use them. In England, the ass is regarded as a stupid and
contemptible animal. The Spaniards, on the contrary, bestow much pains
upon him in endeavouring to improve the breed.
A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.
CHAPTER II.—WORSE AND WORSE.
The Major fervently wished that the ground would open and swallow him.
Here was a third lady to pacify and to convince that a mistake had been
made. He could see that she was in a more exasperated state even than
Mrs Joseph, and likely to be as blind as Mrs John. The complication
was becoming utterly bewildering, and he felt that his brain would
not endure much more of it. How could such simple letters as his—made
studiously cautious in their statements—evoke such wildly erroneous
interpretations? He would rather have faced a whole battalion of
mutinous Sikhs or infuriated Afghans than have had to go through the
inevitable interview with this beautiful girl.
As soon as she reached the Major’s side, she clutched his arm as if it
were that of her natural protector, and turned sharply upon Maynard:
‘Now, sir, will you leave me alone? Major Dawkins will conduct me to my
aunt, and will, if necessary, protect me from your importunities.’
‘But Nelly, I only want to know what is my fault? How have I given you
cause for treating me in this way?’ pleaded Maynard. ‘I am positive
that none can exist except in your own imagination. I am sure the Major
will tell you that it is not fair to condemn a man without hearing his
defence—without even telling him what he is accused of.’
‘If you are a gentleman, you will defer further discussion of the
subject until you see my aunt, Mrs Joseph Elliott.’
Had they been alone, the lover would doubtless have acted differently;
but to have such words addressed to him in the presence of another man
left no alternative. He bowed and retired, hurt and angered by this
injustice of his betrothed. Whatever her reason for this outburst might
be, he was resolved that it should be promptly explained. He was a
straightforward young fellow, and not one to rest for a moment in doubt
as to the meaning of her conduct.
The brief scene had closed before the Major could find his voice. ‘Call
him back,’ he said agitatedly—‘call him back before it is too late.’
‘I certainly will not,’ replied the lady with a movement of the head
as if about to look behind, suggesting that she half-hoped to see him
still following. But he was not.
‘Then I must. I cannot allow you to distress yourself and a fine fellow
like that in consequence of my blunder.’
She stopped and faced him with an expression of supercilious wonder.
By this little movement she could look without appearing to turn for
the purpose of looking whether or not Maynard had really obeyed her. ‘I
do not understand you, Major Dawkins,’ she said with a faint note of
chagrin in her musical voice—for Maynard really was not in sight.
‘Of course you cannot. How could you? The letter you have got was not
meant for you. I wrote it to another lady, and I beg you to give it
back to me, so that no further mischief may come of it.’
‘Another lady! Then I am _not_ the _only_ one he thinks of?’ (She was
quoting from the letter.)—‘Oh, Major Dawkins, this is too much. Please,
let me go to the house, and do not say another word about it until I
have had time to recover and to think.’
The Major stood aghast; he had put his foot in it again. ‘But you are
taking me up in quite a wrong way. Certainly you are the only one
Maynard thinks of; but he is not the man referred to in the letter.
Do give it back to me; and when you are calmer, everything will be
explained.’
He pleaded very earnestly; but his object was defeated by the ingenuity
on which he had congratulated himself. He had mentioned no names in any
of the epistles. The mind of each lady on reading the one she received
naturally fastened upon the man in whom she was most interested, and
the Major’s excited attempts at explanation failed to make the error
clear to them. Their unreasonableness was painful to him; and if he had
been less anxious about remedying his error, he would have laughed at
it.
‘For whom, then, was the letter written?’ asked Nellie, her indignation
now turning against the Major, as she reflected how cruel and how
foolish Stanley Maynard would think her if she had accused him of
falsehood on no other ground than that she had received a misdirected
letter from a friend. ‘I must insist upon an answer.’
‘You really must not insist upon my telling you. I accept all the
blame; and it would be another wicked blunder on my part to give you my
friend’s name.’
‘In that case, I must decline to return the letter until we are in
the presence of my aunt and Mr Maynard.—Meanwhile, I need not trouble
you to escort me to the house.’ Nellie walked proudly away; but the
poor girl was ready to cry with vexation and with regret for the
hastiness of temper which had characterised her conduct towards Stanley
Maynard. In the moment of repentance, however, came the remembrance
of the words which had distracted her. ‘I want to save you’ (wrote
the Major) ‘from a grave misunderstanding.’ (‘Very kind indeed,’ she
interjected.) ‘He who is, I know, dearest to you, thinks _only_ of you.
Consider his impulsive nature, and pardon his temporary aberration.’
(‘What could that mean, if not that he had been making love to somebody
else?’ she asked bitterly. Had she not herself seen how barefacedly he
flirted with Mrs John, until she had a tiff with him on the subject?
If he could dare so much before her eyes, what might he not do when
unchecked by her presence?) ‘Be merciful to him,’ the note proceeded,
‘as hitherto, and you will have your reward. I mean to take the first
available opportunity of talking to him after my arrival at Todhurst,
and am confident that he will be promptly brought to reason.’
Was not that enough to rouse the spirit of any girl who had proper
pride, which means self-respect? Nellie thought in her anger that
it was more than enough. No doubt the Major had talked to him, and
having brought him to reason, was now anxious to screen him by telling
her that it was all a mistake—that the letter had been intended for
somebody else! But she was frightened by this conclusion. Surely the
Major could not tell a deliberate falsehood! He might not have meant
to do so, and yet do it in the excitement of the moment, in order to
soothe her. That must be the way of it; and what an indignity that it
should be necessary for a friend to plead for her with the man to whom
she had promised her hand!
Her thoughts alternated between the hope that it was all a mistake
and the fear that it was not. So she went to her room, cried, had a
headache, and excused herself from joining the family at luncheon.
The Major was out of breath and out of patience as he gazed helplessly
after the retreating form of Nellie Carroll. Nobody would listen to
him; everybody seemed determined to believe that he had entered into
a diabolic conspiracy to wreck the happiness of the house of Elliott.
What on earth could there be in any of his letters to cause such a
commotion, even when they had got into the wrong hands? He had assured
every one that there was only a misunderstanding, and he had promised
all round to set it right. But they would not give him a chance. He had
a good mind to order Hollis to pack up for the next train to London.
That, however, would be cowardly, and he was not a coward. He would
see the thing out to the bitter end. He lifted his head with an air of
resolution, and the bitter end he saw at that moment was represented
by the wealthy spinster, Miss Euphemia Panton. She was standing at
a little distance, glaring at him severely through her gold-rimmed
_pince-nez_. The Major had reason to believe that he had found favour
in her eyes, and he thought with intense relief: ‘Well, here is
somebody at last who will give me a word of sympathy, and talk sensibly
with me.’
She, too, had reason to believe that she had found favour in the
Major’s eyes, and was pleased accordingly. But on the present
occasion, as he tripped hopefully towards her (he tripped somewhat
less gracefully than usual, on account of his recent excessive
exercise), she made no responsive movement; the _pince-nez_ was not
lowered, and the severe expression remained. She had been observing
him pleading with all the ardour of a lover to Miss Carroll; and she
had no doubt whatever of the meaning of his evidently eager speech:
he was in love with the minx, and he had been only pretending to care
for Miss Euphemia! No lady can submit to be trifled with in matters
of affection, and least of all ladies who have arrived at what may
be called the ‘undiscovered decade’ in feminine history. She had
passed into that realm of mystery, and was indeed one of its oldest
inhabitants; and when nature would have lifted her out of it into the
peaceful land of resigned old-maidenism, she sought the aid of art
in order to keep her place in the still hopeful region. She availed
herself of the modern elixirs of youth, and flattered herself that she
did so with complete success. She, at their first meeting, noted that
the Major trafficked with the same beneficent powers. He on his side
made a similar observation regarding her. Strange to say, this fact
constituted a bond of sympathy between them; but Miss Euphemia believed
that the Major was unaware of her secret, and he was satisfied that she
had no suspicion of his; whilst each pitied the other for not being
more expert in the use of dyes and cosmetics. Thus they became special
friends, and found so much pleasure in each other’s society, that a
matrimonial climax seemed not improbable, the lady having a sufficient
dowry to dispose satisfactorily of the important problem of ways and
means.
‘Thank goodness, you are here, Miss Panton,’ exclaimed the Major in
the full confidence of her sympathy in his miserable position. ‘I have
got myself into a most abominable mess by an act of stupidity which,
although reprehensible, is excusable.’
The lady answered not a word. She was nearly a head taller than he, and
she continued to survey him through her glasses as if he had been some
zoological specimen.
He had been hot enough before; he was chilled to the marrow now. He
could scarcely believe his senses. Would she, too, desert him in this
crisis?
‘Miss Panton,’ he stammered, ‘I hoped—that is, I believed that you
would show me some consideration. I suppose Mrs Joseph has been
speaking to you; but if you will only listen to a few words of
explanation, you will understand me.’
‘I think, Major Dawkins, I have to-day observed enough on the
tennis-lawn and here, to enable me to understand you perfectly without
Mrs Joseph Elliott’s assistance or yours.’ The words were icicles. She
dropped her _pince-nez_ and walked away.
The Major was speechless. He trembled or shivered with dismay. Lifting
a hand to his brow, he felt the heads of cold perspiration on it,
and at the same moment the gong sounded for luncheon. Good heavens!
Horrible idea!—the effect of all this excitement and perspiration must
be to change the colour of his hair! And true enough it was beginning
to show a marked shade of gray-green at the roots. He _must_ get to his
room to repair the damage before he appeared at the luncheon table.
‘Desperate ills need desperate remedies.’
Luncheon at Todhurst was, except in the hunting season, like the
family gathering of other days, when the mid-day meal was the chief
one. There were blithe interchanges of the morning’s experiences,
pleasant intercourse with some of the elder members of the nursery,
and a homely ease which was not always found at the late dinner, when
formal company-manners had to be assumed, so far as they could be in
the genial presence of Squire Elliott. All this was changed on the
fatal day on which the Major’s misdirected letters had been delivered.
The Squire sat at one end of the table, evidently in an ill-humour;
his spouse, Mrs Joseph, at the other end, doing her best not to
show the wrath which was in her bosom. Mrs John was suppressing her
natural gaiety and desire to make fun of the whole party, whilst she
was pathetically earnest in her endeavours to soothe the perturbed
spirit of her lord. The latter was irritable and gloomy, accepting her
attentions most ungraciously. Stanley Maynard ate and looked as if
he were savagely devouring an enemy. Miss Euphemia sat like a post,
playing with her knife and fork rather than eating. Nellie was not
present.
The Major was late in taking his place, and was flustered in
consequence, even more than he might have been under the circumstances.
He felt the gloom which pervaded the place, and he was made painfully
conscious of the fact that he was the cause of it. He was generally
regarded as an acquisition to any party, for he had a special knack
of setting conversations ‘going,’ a more useful quality than that
which constitutes a ‘good talker.’ The latter demands everybody’s
attention, and bores the greater part of his audience; the former
enables everybody to speak, and thus produces the agreeable feeling of
self-satisfaction in having personally contributed to the enjoyment of
the hour.
With desperate heroism, he endeavoured to break the spell which tied
the tongues of his companions. He told one of his best stories, the
point of which had never failed to set the table in a roar of laughter.
Lugubrious grimaces were the only response. He tried another anecdote,
with the same result. He descended to the lowest depths of convivial
intercourse; he propounded a conundrum, and the eldest of the girls
immediately answered it with the addition of the galling commentary: ‘I
knew that long ago.’ In his present condition of absolute helplessness,
he wished to goodness the child would remember another conundrum, and
give it for his benefit, if not for that of the company. Probably, she
would have done so, had not the mother’s eye been upon her, suggesting
the austere maxim, ‘Children should be seen, not heard.’
The Major took another tack. He put questions to his host about the
moors, about the horses, about the hounds, and about the cause of
_Tally-ho’s_ illness—any one of which topics would at another time
have started the Squire into a gallop of chat. He would have compared
the seasons as affecting the moors for twenty years past; he would
have detailed the pedigree and merits of every horse in his stables;
he would have repeated endless anecdotes about the hounds; and as to
the illness of _Tally-ho_, he would have gone into the most minute
particulars as to its cause, his treatment, and the probable result.
But on this day all was in vain. The Major’s suggestive queries were
responded to by: ‘Don’t know,’ ‘Much the same as usual,’ ‘Hope for the
best,’ and, ‘I daresay the brute will come round.’
When they rose from the table, the Major thanked heaven that this
trial was over. The Squire, with a curious mingling of awkwardness and
suppressed ill-temper, utterly opposed to his habitually jovial manner,
advanced to his unhappy guest: ‘I want to see you in the library in
about half an hour,’ he said, and walked out of the room.
‘That’s a comfort,’ thought the Major. ‘I shall have a man with some
common-sense to hear me.’
Meanwhile, he would have liked to speak a few words of consolation to
Maynard; but that gentleman met his advances with somewhat repellent
politeness.
‘If you want to speak to me about the trouble you have made between
Miss Carroll and me, you will have ample opportunity to do so when we
meet in the library,’ he said, and strolled out to the lawn to seek the
soothing influence of a cigar.
Then the Major wished to discharge the duty he had so rashly
undertaken, which was to bring the morbidly suspicious John Elliott to
reason. He was only now realising the difficulty of the task; and he
presently had a decisive indication that it was likely to be one he
could not accomplish. He had barely uttered half-a-dozen words of his
well-intentioned admonition which was to precede his explanation of
‘the incident,’ when John Elliott peevishly interrupted him: ‘I have
promised not to discuss this subject until we are in the library.’