The Poacher's Cottage.
If you quit the high-road from Tarningham on the right-hand side by
that little sandy path, just a hundred yards on the other side of the
stone pump, equidistant from it and the mile-stone which marks on the
hither side, five miles and a half from Tarningham, and walk straight
on, it leads you over the moor, and through the midst of scenery very
common in England, not much loved by ordinary ramblers, but which for
me and a few others has a peculiar and almost indescribable charm. The
ground is broken, undulated, full of deep sand-pits and holes,
frequently covered with gorge and heath, spotted occasionally with
self-sown shrubs, a stunted hawthorn here and there, two or three
melancholy firs, gathered together on the top of a mound, like a party
of weary watchers trying to console each other by close companionship,
while from time to time a few light birches, with their quivering
leaves, and thin, graceful arms, and ragged coats of silver and brown,
are seen hanging over the edge of a bank, or decorating the side of a
hollow. If you dip down into one of the low dells, a sensation of
hermit-like solitude comes upon you. You believe that there at least
you may be,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot;
and you feel an irresistible desire to sit down at the foot of this
shrub, or that, where the roots, like a well-governed state, serve to
keep together in close union, the light and incoherent materials that
sustain them, and there to commune with your own thoughts in the
silent presence of Nature. If you mount one of the little hills, the
scene and the sensation is very different, The solitude is as deep as
striking; no living thing is to be seen, unless it be a wild curlew,
with its thin arched wings, whirling away with a shrill cry in the
enjoyment of its own loneliness; but there is an expansion, a
grandeur, a strange sublimity in the extent of waste, with the long
lines waving off in different hues like the billows of the ocean,
first yellow sand, and green short turf, then a brown mass, where the
sight loses its distinctness, then perhaps a gleam of water, then a
blue line, deep as indigo, where the azure air and the black shade
mingle together under some threatening cloud; then long undulations of
purple, fainter and fainter, till who shall say where earth ends and
sky begins. The bleakness, the stillness, the solitariness, the varied
colouring, the vast extent, the very monotony of the forms mingle
together in a whole that has not less grandeur in it than the highest
mountain that ever raised its proud brow above its brother giants.
I have said you would have to go straight on, but what I said was
quite untrue, and it is wonderful how many little falsehoods slip
out of the innocent and unconscious pen, either in the haste of
writing--which is very pardonable--or for the sake of a little
graceful turn, a neat expression, or a pretty figure, which is not so
small a fault. I do not believe there were ever ten sentences written
by poet, historian, or romance-writer, in ancient or modern times,
that had not some lie in them, direct or implied. I stand
self-convicted. It is not true that you would have to go
straightforward, for if you did you would walk into a pond, and
moreover, might never chance to get out again; for what between rushes
and reeds, and weeds and water-lilies, to say nothing of sundry deep
holes at the bottom, there is every risk that you would get your feet
entangled, and plunge headforemost into a place where you could
neither swim or disengage yourself. No, the path does not go
straightforward. Of all man's circuitous ways, and every one who
knows the human heart, is well aware that it is too fond of crooked
paths ever to pursue a straightforward course in any thing--of all
man's circuitous ways, I say, there never was one more serpentine or
meandering than that which leads from the high-road upon the moor.
First it turns round that pond I have mentioned, then it glides about
the base of a little hill, then it forces its way in a slanting
direction, through a bank of sand, then it turns aside from a deep
pit, then it respectfully passes at a little distance from a tumulus,
where sleep the ashes of the forgotten brave; and even when it gets
upon the flat green turf, it twists about like a great snake, giving
sad indications of man's vagabond fancies that lead him hither and
thither, without rhyme or reason, wherever he may be going, and
whatever may be the object before him.
But after all, why should he not be thus led? why should be not follow
these fancies? Life's but a walk over a moor, and the wild-flowers
that grow upon our path are too few not to gather them when they come
within sight, even though it cost us a step or two aside. It's all in
the day's journey, and we shall get home at last.
Yet it is curious to consider all these various bends and turnings in
any little foot-way such as that we are now following. There is very
often a reason for that which seems to us to be the effects of mere
caprice. Now why did the fellow who first beat this road with his
wandering foot, turn away here to the right, when it is as evident as
the sun at noonday (that's to say in fine weather), that his object
was to pass straight between those two little hillocks before us? Oh,
I see, the grass is very green there; there is either some little
spring, or else the ground is soft and marshy in wet weather, and so
he went round to avoid it. But if he did so, why did he not keep to
the right of the hillock, that one with the hawthorn upon it, that is
now in flower, scenting the solitary air with a perfume that no art
could ever extract? Could it be to take a look at that wide view over
the tall, magnificent trees of the park, with the wide-spread country
beyond, and the little tower of Tarningham church, rising up between
those tall silver poplars? Perhaps it might be so; for there is an
inherent sense of the picturesque in the breast of most men, which,
unlike any acquired taste, grows and refines, and becomes stronger and
more overpowering the more it is indulged, and the more opportunities
of indulgence that it has. It is perhaps the only thing of which it
can be truly said that "increase of appetite grows by that it feeds
on." And it is a beautiful scene, too, which might well temper a
little out of the way. As to the rest it is clear enough, that when he
had got there--the first wanderer over the moor I mean--he was obliged
to turn away to the right, in order to come into the proper direction
again, so that here are four of his deviations completely accounted
for, and indeed, dear reader, I cannot help thinking, that if we were
once or twice in life to examine curiously the motives of our own
actions, or even of others, taking care to be impartial in both cases,
we should find cause to cast away our critical spirit, and to believe
that there are very often good and rational reasons for a turn to the
right or a turn to the left, which we have been inclined to blame,
simply because we did not perceive what those reasons were. Oh,
charity, charity, rightly understood in thy largest and holiest sense,
what a beautiful thing thou art; and did men but practise thee, how
often should we be spared the crime and folly of condemning unwisely
and unjustly.
But to return to my path: upon my life, after having regained the
direction, the fellow has followed it straight on for more than a
quarter of a mile. It is wonderful, it is marvellous! I never saw such
a thing before! But, nevertheless, it is true that there was nothing
either to attract or drive him to one side or the other; and then, as
if to make up for lost time, what zig-zags he takes afterwards! Round
that clump of firs, under that bank, through between the birch-trees,
here and there over the wildest part of the moor, till he passes close
by the edge of that deep sand-pit, which must have rested a long time
since it contributed any of its crumbling particles to strew the floor
of the public-house, or sprinkle the passage of the cottage; for the
bushes are growing thick down the slope, and there seems as if there
had been a little kitchen-garden in the bottom, and a human
habitation.
In the reign of that King George, under whose paternal sceptre
flourished the English nation in the times whereof I am writing, there
was a cottage in that sand-pit, a small lonely house, built of timber,
laths, and mud, and containing two or three rooms. The materials, as I
have shown, were poor, ease and comfort seemed far from it, yet there
was something altogether not unpleasant in the idea of dwelling in
that sheltered nook, with the dry sand and the green bushes round, and
feeling, that let the wind rave as it would over the hill, let it bend
down the birch-trees, and make the pines rustle and crack, and strike
their branches against each other, the fury of the tempest could not
reach one there--that let the rain pour down in ever such heavy
torrents, as if the windows of Heaven were open, the thirsty ground
would drink up the streams as they fell, as if its draught were
insatiable. There were signs of taste, too, about the building, of a
humble and natural kind. Over the door had been formed with some
labour a little sort of trellised portico, of rough wood-work, like an
arbour, and over this had been trained several plants of the wild-hop
and wild-clematis, with one solitary creeping garden-rose. Sticks had
been placed across the house, too, to afford a stay for these shrubs
to spread themselves over the face of the cottage, if they had any
strength to spare, when they had covered the little portico, and two
or three wandering shoots, like truant children, were already sporting
along the fragile path thus afforded them.
The interior of the house was less prepossessing than the outside; the
mud-floor, hard beaten down and very equally flattened, was dry
enough, for the sand below it carried off all moisture; but in the
walls of the rooms there was, alas! many a flaw through which sun or
moon might shine, or the night-wind enter, and to say the truth, the
inhabitants of the cottage were as much indebted to the banks of the
pit for protection against such a cold visitant, as to the
construction of their dwelling. The furniture was scanty and rude,
seeming to have been made by a hand not altogether unaccustomed to the
use of a carpenter's tools, but hastily and carelessly, so that in
gazing round the sleeping-chamber, one was inclined to imagine that
the common tent-bed that stood in one corner was the only article that
had ever tenanted a shop. The great chest, the table, the two or three
chairs, all spoke plainly the same artificer, and had that been all
that the room contained, it would have looked very miserable indeed;
but hanging from nails driven into the wall, were a number of very
peculiar ornaments. There was a fox's head and a fox's brush, dried,
and in good preservation; there was the gray skin of a badger, and the
brown skin of an otter; birds of prey of various sizes and
descriptions, the butcher-bird, the sparrow-hawk, and the buzzard, as
well as several owls. Besides these zoological specimens, were hung up
in the same manner a number of curious implements, the properties and
applications of some of which were easy to divine, while others
remained mysterious. There were two or three muzzles for dogs, which
could be distinguished at once, but then by their side was a
curious-looking contrivance, which appeared to be a Lilliputian
wire-mousetrap, sewn on to some straps of leather. Then came a large
coil of wire, a dog's collar, and a pair of greyhound-slips. Next
appeared something difficult to describe, having two saw-like jaws of
iron like a rat-trap, supported on semi-circular bars which were fixed
into a wooden handle, having a spring on the outside, and a revolving
plate within. It was evident that the jaws could be opened and kept
open in case of need, and had I been a hare, a rabbit, or any other
delicate-footed animal, I should not have liked to trust my ankle
within their gripe. I could describe several other instruments both of
leather and iron, which were similarly suspended from the wall; but as
I really cannot tell the reader what was the use of any one of them,
it would be but labour thrown away. However, there were other things,
the intent and purport of which were quite self-evident. Two or three
small cages, a landing-net, fishing-rods, a gun, powder-flasks,
shot-belts, a casting-net, and a clap-net, and by the side of the
window hung four small cages, containing singing-birds.
But who was he in the midst of all this strange assortment? Was he the
owner of this wild, lonely dwelling? Oh no, it was a young man dressed
as none could be dressed who frequented not very different scenes from
those that lay around him. His clothes were not only those of a
gentleman, but those of a gentleman who thought much of his own
personal appearance--too much indeed to be perfectly gentlemanly. All
that the tailor, the boot-maker, the hat-maker could do had been done
to render the costume correct according to the fashion of the day; but
there was a certain something which may be called a too-smartness
about it all; the colours were too bright, the cut too decidedly
fashionable, to be quite in good taste. Neither was the arrangement
of the hues altogether harmonious. There are the same colours in a
China-aster and a rose, but yet what a difference in the appearance of
the two flowers; and the same sort of difference, though not to the
same extent, existed between the dress of the person before us, and
that of the truly well-dressed man even of his own time. In most other
respects his appearance was good; he was tall, rather slightly formed
than otherwise, and had none of that stiffness and rigidity which
might have been anticipated from his apparel. Demeanour is almost
always tinged more or less by character, and a wild, rash, vehement
disposition will, as in his case, give a freedom to the movements
which no drilling can altogether do away with. His features in
themselves were not bad. There was a good high forehead, somewhat
narrow indeed, a rather fine pair of eyes (if one could have seen them
both), a little close together, a well-formed nose, and a mouth and
chin not badly cut, though there was a good deal of animal in the one,
and the other was somewhat too prominent. The whole countenance,
however, was disfigured by a black silk shade which covered the right
eye, and a fresh scar all the way down the same side of the nose,
while from underneath the shade, which was not large enough for its
purpose, peeped out sundry rainbow rings of blue and yellow, invading
both the cheek and the temple.
By these marks the reader has already perceived that this gentleman
has been presented to him before, but in a very different garb, which
he had thought fit to assume for his own particular purposes on the
preceding night, and now he sat in the cottage of Stephen Gimlet the
poacher, judging it expedient to keep himself at a distance from the
peopled haunts of man, during the bright and bustling day at least. At
night he proposed to betake himself to the inn which had been
mentioned in his conversation with the housekeeper; but after his
pleasant and hopeful conversation with his father, he had ridden
straight to the dwelling of his companion, Wolf, where on the
preceding day his portmantles had been left after they had arranged
their plans; and having stabled his horse in a shed at the back of the
building, had passed the heavy hours of darkness partly in bitter
meditations, and partly in conversation with his comrade. Sleep could
hardly be said to have visited his eyelids, for though after he cast
himself down to rest he had dozed from time to time, yet agitating
thoughts continually returned and deprived him of all real repose.
At an early hour of the morning, and while it was still dark, Ste
Gimlet had gone out, as was his wont, and rising with the first rays
of the sun, Henry Wittingham employed himself in dressing with
scrupulous care, and then filled up about half an hour more in making
a black patch to hide his disfigured eye, out of an old silk
handkerchief. When this was accomplished, wanting something or another
to tie this covering in its right place, he looked round the room, but
in vain. Leather straps, dog-collars, rat-traps, brass wire, would
none of them do, and although near the nets there was lying a ball of
whip-cord, he thought that such a decoration as a string made with
that material would but ill accord with the rest of his habiliments.
He therefore walked across the little passage to the next room, and
lifted the coarse wooden latch of the door. He found the door locked,
however, and muttering to himself, "D--n the fellow, did he think I
would steal any thing?" he was turning away, when a small sweet voice
from within exclaimed, "I'm ready, daddy, I've got my stockings on."
"Oh, he's locked the child in, that's it," said Henry Wittingham to
himself, and then raising his voice, he said, "Your daddy's not come
back, Charley, so lie still and be quiet."
Then returning to the next room, the brilliant thought struck him of
cutting off the hem of the old silk handkerchief to make a string for
the black patch, which task being accomplished, and all complete, he
sat down and thought.
Oh, how many sorts of misery there are in the world! In giving to man
his fine organisation, in raising him above the brute by delicate
structure, by intellect, by imagination, and by infinitely extended
hope and long persisting memory, nature, indeed, did afford him
infinite sources of enjoyment, but at the same time laid him open on
every side to the attack of evils. In perfect innocence, indeed, man
and his whole race might find nearly perfect happiness. The Garden of
Eden is but a type of the moral Paradise of a perfectly virtuous
state; but the moment that Sin entered, the thorns and briars grew up
to tear all feet; and the very capabilities of refined happiness
became the defenceless points for pain and wretchedness to assail us.
Infinite, indeed, are their attacks, and innumerable the forms that
they assume; but of all the shapes of misery, what is to be more
dreaded, what is more terrible than thought to a vicious mind? And
there he sat in thought, with the morning sunshine streaming around
him, calm, and pure, and tranquil. The light that gave deeper depth to
the shadows of his own heart. What did he think of? Where did his
meditations rest? On the happiness that was passed away, on the gay
hours of childhood, on the sports of his boyish days, on the times
when the world was young for him, and every thing was full of
freshness and enjoyment? Or did he think of the blessing cast away, of
wealth, and comfort, and ease, with no reasonable wish ungratified, no
virtuous pleasure denied? Or did he look forward to the future with
fear and anguish, and to the past with remorse and grief? Heaven only
knows, but there he sat, with his head bent forward, his brow
contracted, his teeth tight shut, his right arm fallen listlessly by
his side, his left hand contracting and expanding involuntarily upon
some fragments of silk on the table. He gazed forward through the
window, from under his bent brows. He saw not the sunshine, but he
felt it and loved it not; and ever and anon the dark shadows of strong
emotion crossed his countenance like misty clouds swept over the face
of the mountain. He sat long, and was at heart impatient for his
companion's return; but so strong was the hold that thought had got
upon him, he knew not how time went. He heard not even the child cry
in the neighbouring room, when, wearied with waiting, it got terrified
at the unusual length of his father's absence.
At length, however, the stout form of the poacher was seen descending
the small steep path which led from the moor into the sand-pit. His
step was slow and heavy, his air dull and discontented; but Harry
Wittingham as soon as he beheld him started up and opened him the door
of the cottage, exclaiming, "Well, Wolf, what news?"
"Neither the best in the world nor the worst," answered the man
somewhat sullenly.
"And what have you got for breakfast?" inquired the young gentleman,
"I am as hungry as the devil!"
"You must wait a bit though," answered Wolf, descending, "I must look
after the boy first. Poor little man, I dare say he has cried his eyes
out, I've been so long--but if you're in a great hurry, you'd better
light the fire, Master Harry, you'll find some wood in the corner
there, and you can strike a light with the pistol flint."
Harry Wittingham did not look well pleased, and turning into the house
again walked to the window, and affected to hum a tune, without
undertaking the menial office that the other had assigned him. In the
meanwhile, Wolf walked straight to the other door, unlocked it, and
catching up the beautiful boy, who was sitting half dressed on a stool
crying, he pressed him eagerly to his breast, and kissed him once or
twice. There were strange and salutary thoughts passed through his
brain at that moment. He asked himself what would have become of that
child if he had been detained and taken to prison, as indeed had been
very likely. Who would have let the boy out of that solitary room--who
would have given him food--who would have nursed and tended him? And
once or twice while he was finishing what the child's tiny hands had
left undone, in attempting to dress himself, the father rubbed his
brow, and thought heavily. Say what man will of the natural
affections, they are the best ties to good conduct.
When he had done, he took the boy by the hand and led him into the
other room, gave a glance to the fireplace, and then to Harry
Wittingham as he stood at the window, and his brow gathered into a
frown. He said nothing, however, lighted the fire himself, and taking
the fish from his pocket proceeded to broil them. Then from the great
chest he drew out a knife or two, a cut loaf of coarse bread, and two
or three glasses, which he placed upon the table, and giving his child
a large hunch of the bread, told him in a whisper, as if it were a
mighty secret, that he should have a nice trout in a minute. To Harry
Wittingham he said not a word, till at length the other turning round
exclaimed, "Well, Wolf, you have not told me what news you bring."
"And you have not lighted the fire," said Ste Gimlet. "If you think,
Master Wittingham, that you can live in a place like this and keep
your hands clean, you are mistaken. You must shape your manners to
your company, or give it up."
Harry Wittingham felt inclined to make an angry answer; but
recollecting how much he was in his companion's power, prudence came
to his aid, and he only replied, "Pooh, pooh, Wolf, I am not
accustomed to lighting fires, and I do not know how to set about it."
"Faith you may have to learn some day," answered his comrade. "When I
built all this house and made all these chairs and tables with my own
hands, I knew as little about a trade I never thought to practise, as
you about this."
"Ay, you have practised many a trade in your day," said Harry
Wittingham, "and I never but one."
"Nor that a very good one," murmured Wolf to himself; but the storm
thus passed away for the time, and the trout were broiled and put in a
plate, from which the two men and the little boy made each a hearty
meal.
The magistrate's son suffered their breakfast to pass over without
making any further inquiry respecting the tidings which his companion
had obtained in his morning's expedition; but after Ste Gimlet had
produced a bottle of very fine white brandy, which certainly had not
turned pale at the sight of a custom-house officer, and each had taken
a glass mixed with some of the cold water which formed the purer
beverage of the child, the poacher vouchsafed the information unasked,
relating to Harry Wittingham a great part of what had taken place
between himself and Ned Hayward. What he did not relate he probably
thought of no consequence, though men's opinions might perhaps differ
upon that subject; but at all events Harry Wittingham gathered that he
had been met and narrowly escaped being apprehended by a man, who had
questioned him closely about the adventures of the night before and
who was acquainted with his name, and the share he had had in a
somewhat perilous and disgraceful enterprise.
Such tidings cast him into another fit of dark and gloomy thought, in
which he remained for about five minutes without uttering a word; but
then he gave a start, and looked up with a gleam of satisfaction on
his face, as if some new and pleasant conclusion had suddenly
presented itself to his mind.
"I'll tell you what, Ste," he said, "I've just thought of something.
You must go down to Tarningham for me, and gather all the news you can
about this fellow--find out who he is, and whether he is a London beak
or not; and then when you have done all that--"
"I shall do none of it, Master Harry," answered the poacher, "I won't
stir another step in this business--I don't like it, Sir; it's not in
my way. I undertook it just to please you for old companionship's
sake, and because you told me the young lady would have no objection;
and then when I was in it, I went through with it, though I saw well
enough that she liked the thought of going as much as I should like to
dance on a rope. But I will have no more to do with it now; it has
done me enough harm already, and now I shall be watched ten times
closer than ever, and lose my living--so go, I do not."
"Come, come, Wolf, there's a good fellow--this is all nonsense," said
Harry Wittingham, in a coaxing tone.
But the man cut him short, repeating sternly that he would not go.
"Then, by--, I will go myself," exclaimed the young gentleman, with a
blasphemous oath, "if you are afraid, I am not."
And starting up, he walked out of the cottage, took his way round to
the shed at the back, trampling upon several of the flowers, which the
poacher loved to cultivate, as he went; and in about a quarter of an
hour he was seen riding up the little path towards the moor.
After he was gone, Ste Gimlet remained for some time in very
thoughtful mood: now gazing idly at vacancy, now playing with the
child's hair, or answering its infantine questions with an abstracted
air. At length he muttered, "What's to be done now?" and then added
aloud, "well, something must be done. Go out and play in the garden,
Charley."
The child toddled out right gladly, and the poacher set himself down
to mend his bird-net; but ever and anon he laid down the cunning
meshes on his knee, and let his thoughts entangle themselves in links
not less intricate.
"I'll try the other thing," he said, after a time, "this does not do.
I should not care for myself, but it's the poor baby. Poor dear Mary,
that always rested on her heart, what I should do with the boy when
she was gone. Well, I'll try and do better. Perhaps she is looking
down on us--who knows?"
And then he fell to his work again with a sigh. He employed himself
with several things for two or three hours. He finished the net; he
made a wicker-basket--it was the first he had ever attempted, but he
did it better than might have been expected, and then he called the
boy in to his dinner, giving him a trout he had saved when he broiled
the others; for his own part he contented himself with a lump of the
bread. When that was done, he went and caught some small birds on the
moor, just above the edge of the pit, where he could see the child
playing below. When he had thus provided their light supper--for the
luxury of tea was unknown in Ste Gimlet's cottage, he came back and
sat down by the boy, and played with him fondly for several minutes,
gazing at him from time to time with a melancholy earnestness, which
mingled even with the smile of joy and pride that lighted his eyes, as
some movement of childish grace called forth the beauties of his
child. Nevertheless, from time to time, there was a sort of absent
look, and twice he went up to the bank above and gazed out over the
moor towards Tarningham. At length he went away far enough to climb to
the top of the neighbouring barrow or tumulus, after having told the
boy not to venture up the path. From the position in which he then
stood, he had a fair view of the scene I have already described, and
caught the windings of the high road down the hill more distinctly
than from below.
"I shouldn't wonder if they had caught him," said Wolf to himself with
a frown, and an anxious expression of countenance, "and then he will
say it was my fault, and that I was afraid to go, and all that--Hang
it! why should I care what he says or what he thinks!" And with this
reflection he turned round and went back homeward. He found the boy at
the top of the bank, however, and gave him a gentle shake, scolding
him till the big drops began to gather in his large blue eyes.
Stephen Gimlet was not satisfied with himself, and scolding the child
he found did not act as a diversion to his own self-reproaches. After
he had set his son playing again, he walked about moodily for near a
quarter of an hour, and then burst forth impetuously, saying,
"I can't stand this, I must go and see what's become of him--they'll
know at the turnpike if he's passed, and the old woman won't blab.
Here, Charley, boy, you must go and play in the house now--it's
growing late, and I'm going away--I shan't be long, and you shall have
the bird-cages to play with."
The boy seemed to be well accustomed to it, and trotted away to the
house before his father, without any signs of reluctance. He was
placed in the same room where he had been in the morning, some empty
bird-cages and two or three other things were given him for his
amusement, and locking the door of the chamber, the poacher walked
away, saying with a sigh, "There can no harm happen this time, for I
am going to do no wrong to any one."
Vain, however, are all such calculations. The faults and virtues of
others as well as our own faults and virtues, enter into the strange
composition of our fate, and affect us darkly and mysteriously in a
manner which we can never foresee. If we reflected on the eve of
action on the number of beings throughout all time, and throughout our
whole race, who may be affected, nay, who must be affected by any deed
that we are about to perform, how many men would never act at all from
hesitation, how many would still act rashly and heedlessly as they do
now, from the impossibility of seeing the results. Happy is he who
acts deliberately, wisely, and honestly, leaving the consequences with
a clear conscience to Him who governs all aright.
The poacher had left his own door about a quarter of an hour, when two
men took their way down into the sand-pit, the one on horseback, the
other on foot. Harry Wittingham fastened his horse's bridle to the
latch of the door, and going in with his companion looked round for
Wolf, then crossing over to the other chamber, and finding it locked,
he said,
"Stephen isn't here; there, take that up, and be off with it," and he
pointed to his portmanteau in the corner where it lay.
The other man, who seemed a common farm-servant, or one of the
inferior stable-men of an inn, got the portmanteau on his shoulder,
and walked away with it, and Harry Wittingham remained for a minute or
two with his hands behind his back looking out of the window. At the
end of that time he said aloud: "Well, it's no use waiting for him, we
should only have a row, I dare say, so I'll be off too."
Before he went, however, he looked round the place for a moment, with
an expression of mockery and contempt. What was in his bosom, it would
be difficult to say, for the heart of man is full of strange things.
Perhaps he felt it unpleasant to be under an obligation to the owner
of that poor tenement, even for a night's shelter, and strove to salve
the wound of pride by reducing the obligation to the lowest point in
his own estimation. He might think that the misery he saw around did
not make it a very desirable resting-place, and that he had little to
be thankful for in having been permitted to share a beggar's hut. His
eyes, as he looked around, fell upon some embers of smouldering wood
on the hearth, and that called to mind one of the many bad habits
which he had lately acquired, and in which he had not yet indulged
through the whole of that day. He accordingly put his hand in his
pocket, and pulled out some cigars, then not very common in England.
Next taking up with the tongs, a piece of the charred and still
burning wood, he lighted one of the rolls of weed, cast down the
ember, and threw the tongs back upon the hearth; after which, mounting
his horse, he cantered away as blithely as if his heart had been
innocent as a child's.
The embers fell upon the earthen floor, where, under ordinary
circumstances they could do no harm; but it so happened that Stephen
Gimlet, when he had done mending the net, had cast down the hank of
twine close by the table. A long end of the string had fallen toward
the fireplace, and a moment or two after Henry Wittingham had quitted
the cottage, the piece of charred wood itself became black, but a
small spot of fire was seen close to it, and a thin filing curl of
smoke arose. It went on smouldering for about five minutes, creeping
forwards inch by inch, and then a gust of wind through the door, which
he had left open, fanned it, and a flame broke out. Then it ran
rapidly along, caught the hank of twine, which was in a blaze in a
moment. It spared the netting-needle, which was of hard box-wood, and
for an instant seemed to promise to go out of itself; but then the
flame leaped up, and the meshes of the net which had been left partly
on the table, partly on a chair, showed a spark here and there,
flashed with the flame, and then, oh, how eagerly the greedy element
commenced devouring all that it could meet with! Wherever there was a
piece of wood-work it seized upon it; the table, the chair, the poles
of the net, the upright posts of the wall, the beams of the roof, the
thatch itself, and then instantly a cloud of dull black smoke, mixed
with sparks, rose up upon the moor, from the sand-pit. The heat became
intense, the smoke penetrated into the other chamber, the sparks began
to fall before the window, a red light spread around, and then the
terrified screams of a child were heard.
About a quarter of an hour before, a gentleman had appeared upon the
moor, from the side of Sir John Slingsby's park. He had come up the
hill as if he were walking for a wager, for there was something in the
resistance of the acclivity to his progress, which made the vigorous
spirit of youth and health resolute to conquer it triumphantly. When
the feat was done, however, and the hill passed as if it had been a
piece of level ground, Ned Hayward slackened his pace and looked about
him, enjoyed to the full all that the wide expanse had of grand and
fine, breathed freer in the high air, and let the spirit of solitary
grandeur sink into his heart. He had none of the affected love of the
picturesque and the sublime, which make the folks who assume the
poetical so ridiculous. He was rather inclined to check what people
call fine feelings than not; he was inclined to fancy himself, and to
make other people fancy him a very commonplace sort of person, and he
would not have gone into an ecstasy for the world, even at the very
finest thing that the world ever produced; but he could not help, for
the life of him, feeling every thing that was beautiful and great,
more than he altogether liked, so that, when in society, he passed it
off with a touch of persiflage, putting that sort of shield over what
he felt to be a vulnerable point. Now, however, when he happened to be
alone, he let Nature have her way, and holding his riding-whip by both
ends, walked here and walked there, gazing at the prospect where he
could get a sight of it, and looking to the right and the left as if
not to let any point of loveliness escape him. His eyes soon fell upon
the little tumulus already mentioned, with the sentinel fir-trees
keeping guard upon the top, and thinking that there must be a good
look-out from that high position, he walked slowly up and gazed over
the park towards Tarningham. Suddenly, however, his eyes were
withdrawn, as a cloud of white smoke came rolling up out of the
sand-pit.
"Ha, ha!" he said, "my friend Master Wolf lighting his fire I
suppose."
But the smoke increased. Ned Hayward thought he saw some sparks rising
over the bushes. A sudden sensation of apprehension crossed his mind,
and he walked rapidly down the side of the hillock, and crossed the
intervening space with a step quick in reality, though intended to
appear leisurely; but in a moment a cloud of deeper-coloured smoke,
tinged with flame, burst up into the evening air, and he sprang
forward at full speed. A few bounds brought him to the side of the
pit, and as he reached it a scream met his ear. It was the easily
recognised voice of childhood, in terror or in pain, and Ned Hayward
hesitated not an instant. There was a path down a couple of hundred
yards away to the left, but the scene before his eyes counselled no
delay. There was the cottage, with the farther part of the thatch all
in a blaze, the window of the room beneath it fallen in, and the flame
rushing forth, a cloud of smoke issuing from the door, and scream
after scream proceeding from the nearer end of the building. His
riding-whip was cast down at once, and grasping the stem of the
birch-tree rooted in the very edge, he swung himself over, thinking to
drop upon a sloping part of the bank about ten feet below. The filmy
roots of the shrub, however, had not sufficient room hold upon the
sandy soil to sustain his weight; the tree bent, gave way, and came
down over him with a part of the bank, so that he and his frail
support rolled together to the bottom of the pit. He was up in an
instant, however he might be hurt or he might not, he knew nothing
about it, but the shrill cry of the child rang in his ear, and he
darted forward to the cottage-door. It was full of fire, and dark with
suffocating vapour, but in he rushed, scorching his hair, hands, his
face, and his clothes, found the other door blackened, and in some
places alight with the encroaching fire, tried to open it but failed,
and then shouted aloud, "Keep back, keep back, and I will burst it
open," and then, setting his foot against it, he cast it with a
vigorous effort into the room. A momentary glance around showed him
the child, who had crept as near to the window as possible, and,
darting forward, Ned Hayward caught the boy up in his arms, and rushed
out with him, covering his head with his arm, that none of the beams,
which were beginning to fall, might strike him as they passed, then
setting him down on the green turf when they were at a little
distance, he asked eagerly, "Are there any more?"
The child, however, stupified with terror, gazed in his face and cried
bitterly, but answered not. Seeing he could obtain no reply, Ned
Hayward ran back to the cottage and tried to go in again, but it was
now impossible; the whole way was blocked up with burning rafters, and
large detached masses of the thatch, which had fallen in, and were now
sending up vast showers of sparks, as the wind stirred them. He
hurried to the window and looked in, and though the small panes were
cracking with the heat, he forced it open, and shouted at the extreme
pitch of his voice, to drown the rushing sound of the fire, "Is there
any one within?"
There was no answer, and the moment after, the dry beams being burnt
away, and the support at the other end gone, the whole thatch above
gave way, and fell into the room, the flame above carried up into a
spire as it descended.
The heat was now intolerable, and forced a retreat to a distance.
Captain Hayward took the boy up in his arms and strove to soothe him,
and gain some information from him. It was all in vain, however, and
after a moment's thought, the gentleman said to himself, "I will carry
him away to Tarningham House. Jack Slingsby will never refuse him food
and shelter, I am sure, and in case there should be any one else in
the place it is vain to hope that one could save them now. We can send
up people to look for the bodies. But let us see what's at the back of
the house." He accordingly walked round, still carrying the boy in his
arms, but found nothing there, except a low detached shed, which
seemed in security, as the wind blew the other way. A long trough and
spout, indeed, between the shed and the cottage, seemed in a somewhat
perilous position, and as it was likely that they might lead the fire
to the building yet uninjured, Ned Hayward thought fit to remove them
before he left the ground. This cost him some trouble, as they were
rooted in the sand; but when it was once accomplished he took up the
boy again, sought his hat, and crossing the moor, entered the western
gates of Sir John Slingsby's park without meeting any one from whom he
could obtain information, or to whom he could communicate the event
which had just occurred.