I
October was setting in beautifully. Some people say it is the most
lovely month in the year when the skies are blue and genial.
Seated at the breakfast-table at Caramel Cottage that Tuesday morning,
with the window thrown open to the warm, pleasant air, the small party
of three might have enjoyed that air, but for being preoccupied with
their own reflections. Edgar Reste was thinking of the bank-notes which
the postman had just brought him in Captain Amphlett's letter; Katrine
Barbary sat shrinking from the vague fear imparted to her by the curious
avowal her father had made in language not too choice, as his covetous
eyes rested on the money: "For that, a man might be tempted to smother
his grandmother." While Mr. Barbary had started instantly up and flung
the window higher, as if in the silence that followed the words, they
had struck back upon himself unpleasantly, and he sought to divert
attention from them.
"A grand day for the outlying crops," he remarked, his lithe, slender
form, his pale, perfect features showing out well in the light of the
brilliant morning. "But most of the grain is in, I think. We shall have
a charming walk to Church Leet, Edgar."
"Yes," assented Mr. Reste, as he folded the notes together and placed
them in his pocket-book. There were six of them for £10 each.
Breakfast over, Katrine set off for Dyke Manor that morning as usual, to
talk to Lena in French, and teach her to read it. She stayed luncheon
with us. Chancing to say that her father and his guest were gone to
Church Leet, Mrs. Todhetley kept her.
At four o'clock, when Katrine went home, she found they had returned,
and were then shut up in the gun-room. Katrine could hear the hum of
their voices, with now and again a burst of merry laughter from Edgar
Reste.
"Have they had dinner?" she enquired of Joan.
"Ay, sure they have, Miss Katrine. They got back at two o'clock, and I
prepared the dinner at once."
I had lent Katrine that afternoon the "Vicar of Wakefield,"--which she
said she had never read; one could hardly believe such a thing of an
English girl, but I suppose it was through her having lived over in
France. Taking it into the back garden, she sat down on a rustic bench,
one or two of which stood about. By-and-by Edgar Reste came out and sat
down beside her.
"Had you a nice walk to-day?" she asked.
"Very," he answered. "What a quaint little village Church Leet is!
Hardly to be called a village, though. Leet Hall is a fine old place."
"Yes, I have heard so. I have not seen it."
"Not seen it! Do you mean to say, Katrine, that you have never been to
Church Leet?"
"Not yet. Nobody has ever invited me to go, and I cannot walk all that
way by myself, you know."
He was sitting sideways, his left arm leaning on the elbow of the bench,
his kindly, luminous brown eyes fixed on her fair pretty face, all
blushes and dimples. Ah, if fortune had but smiled upon him!--if he
might but have whispered to this young girl, who had become so dear to
him, of the love that filled his whole heart!
"Suppose you walk over with me one of these fine days before I leave?"
he continued. "It won't be too far for you, will it?"
"Oh no. I should like to go."
"There is the prettiest churchyard you ever saw, to rest in. And such
a quaint little church, covered with ivy. The Rectory, standing by, is
quite a grand mansion in comparison with the church."
"And the church has a history, I believe."
"Ay, as connected with the people of the Hall and the Rectory; and with
its own chimes, that never played, I hear, but disaster followed. We
will go then, Katrine, some afternoon between now and Saturday."
Her face fell; she turned it from him. "_Must_ you leave on Saturday,
Edgar?"
"My dear little cousin, yes. Cousins in name, you know we are, though
not in reality."
"You did say you might stay until Monday."
"Ay, my will would be good to stay till Monday, and many a Monday after
it: but you see, Katrine, I have neglected my work too long, and I
cannot break into another week. So you must please make the most of me
until Saturday," he added playfully, "when I shall take the evening
train."
"You English do not care to travel on a Sunday, I notice."
"We English! Allow me to remind Mademoiselle that she is just as much
English as are the rest of us."
Katrine smiled.
"My good mother instilled all kinds of old-world notions into me,
Katrine. Amongst them was that of never doing week-day work on a Sunday
unless compelled by necessity."
"Do you never work on a Sunday--at your reviews and writings, and all
that?"
"Never. I am sure it would not bring me luck if I did. Suppose we fix
Thursday for walking to Church Leet?"
"That will do nicely. Unless--Squire Todhetley invited you to go with
him to Evesham one day, you know," broke off Katrine. "He may just fix
upon Thursday."
"In that case we will take our walk on Friday."
A silence ensued. Their hearts were very full, and that makes speech
reticent. Katrine glanced now and again at the pages of the "Vicar of
Wakefield," which lay in her lap, but she did not read it. As to the
barrister, he was looking at her; at the face that had become so dear to
him. They might never meet again, nothing on earth might come of the
present intimacy and the sweet burning longings, but he knew that he
should remember her to the end of time. A verse of one of Moore's
melodies passed through his mind: unconsciously he began to hum it:
"O, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;
Still it, lingering, haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste."
"Here comes Joan to say tea is ready," interrupted Katrine.
They strolled indoors slowly, side by side. The tea-tray waited in the
parlour. Mr. Barbary came in from the gun-room, and they all sat down to
the table.
After tea he went back to the gun-room, Mr. Reste with him, leaving
Katrine alone. She had the candles lighted and began to mend a piece of
Mrs. Todhetley's valuable old lace. Presently Joan came in to ask a
question.
"Miss Katrine, is it the brace of partridges or the pheasants that are
to be cooked for supper? Do you know?"
"No, that I don't," said Katrine. "But I can ask."
Putting down her work, she went to the gun-room and gently opened the
door. Upon which, she heard these remarkable words from Mr. Reste:
"I wouldn't hesitate at all if it were not for the moon."
"The moon makes it all the safer," contended Mr. Barbary. "Foes can't
rush upon one unawares when the moon's shining. I tell you this will be
one of the best possible nights for you."
"Papa, papa," hurriedly broke in Katrine, speaking through the dusk of
twilight, "is Joan to cook the pheasants or the partridges?"
"The pheasants," he answered sharply. "Shut the door."
So the pheasants were dressed for supper, and very nice they proved with
their bread-sauce and rich gravy. Mr. Barbary especially seemed to enjoy
them; his daughter did not.
Poor Katrine's senses were painfully alert that night, as she lay
listening after getting to bed. The words she had overheard in the
gun-room seemed to her to bear but one meaning--that not only was her
father going abroad into the wilds of danger, but Edgar Reste also. They
had gone to their respective rooms early, soon after she went to hers;
but that might be meant as a blind and told nothing.
By-and-by, she caught a sound as of the stairs creaking. Mr. Reste and
her father were both creeping down them. Katrine flew to her window and
peeped behind the blind.
They went out together by the back door. The bright moonbeams lay full
upon the yard. Mr. Reste seemed to be attired like her father, in high
leggings and a large old shooting-coat, no doubt borrowed plumes. Each
of them carried a gun, and they stole cautiously out at the little side
gate.
"Oh," moaned the unhappy Katrine, "if papa would but take better care
of himself! If he would but leave off doing this most dreadful and
dangerous thing!"
Whether Katrine fell asleep after that, or not, she could never decide:
it appeared as though but a short time had elapsed, when she was
startled by a sharp sound outside, close to the house. It might have
been the report of a gun, but she was not sure. This was followed by
some stir in the yard and covert talking.
"They are bringing in the game they have shot," thought Katrine, "but
oh, I am thankful they have got back safely!" And she put the pillow
over her head and ears, and lay shivering.
* * * * *
Squire Todhetley was as good and lenient a man at heart as could be
found in our two counties, Warwickshire and Worcestershire; fonder of
forgiving sins and sinners than of bringing them to book, and you have
not read of him all these years without learning it. But there was one
offence that stirred his anger up to bubbling point, especially when
committed against himself. And that was poaching.
So that, when we got downstairs to breakfast at Dyke Manor on the
following morning, Wednesday, and were greeted with the news that some
poachers had been out on our land in the night, and had shot at the
keepers, it was no wonder the Squire went into a state of commotion,
and that the rest of us partook of it.
"Johnny, tell Mack to fetch Jones; to bring him here instantly," fumed
he. "Those Standishes have been in this work!"
I went to carry the orders to Mack in the yard. In passing back, after
giving them, I saw that the dog-kennel was empty and the chain lying
loose.
"Where's Don?" I asked. "Who has taken him out?"
"Guess he have strayed out of hisself, Master Johnny," was Mack's
answer. "He was gone when I come on this morning, sir, and the gate
were standing wide open."
"Gone then?--and the gate open? Where's Giles?"
But, even as I put the question, I caught sight of Giles at the stable
pump, plunging his head and face into a pail of water. So I knew what
had been the matter with _him_. Giles was a first-rate groom and a good
servant, and it was very seldom indeed that he took more than was good
for him, but it did happen at intervals.
Old Jones arrived in obedience to the summons, and stood on his fat
gouty legs in the hall while the Squire talked to him. The faith he put
in that old constable was surprising, whose skill and discernment were
about suited to the year One.
His tale of the night's doings, as confirmed by other tales, was not
very clear. At least, much satisfaction could not be got out of it. Some
poachers congregated on a plot of land called Dyke's Neck--why it should
have been so named nobody understood--were surprised by the keepers
early in the night. A few stray shots were interchanged, no damage
being done on either side, and the poachers made off, escaping not only
scot-free but unrecognised. This last fact bore the keenest sting of
all, and the Squire paced the hall in a fury.
"You must unearth them," he said to Jones: "don't tell me. They can't
have buried themselves, the villains!"
"No need to look far for 'em, Squire," protested Jones. "It's them
jail-birds, the three Standishes. If it's not, I'll eat my head."
"Then why have you not taken up the three Standishes?" retorted the
Squire. "Of course it is the Standishes."
"Well, your honour, because I can't get at 'em," said Jones helplessly.
"Jim, he is off somewhere; and Dick, he swears through thick and thin
that he was never out of his bed last night; and t'other, Tom, ain't
apperiently at home at all just now. I looked in at their kitchen on my
way here, and that was all I could get out of Mary."
It was at this juncture that Katrine arrived, preparatory to her
morning's work with Lena. Old Jones and the Squire, still in the hall,
were chanting a duet upon the poachers' iniquity, and she halted by me
to listen. I was sitting on the elbow of the carved-oak settle. Katrine
looked pale as a sheet.
Girls, thought I, do not like to hear of these things. For I knew
nothing then of her fears that the offenders had been her father and Mr.
Reste.
"If the poachers had been taken, sir--what then?" she said tremblingly
to the Squire, in a temporary lull of the voices.
"What then, Miss Barbary? Why then they would have been lodged in gaol,
and the neighbourhood well rid of them," was the impulsive answer.
"Snug and safe, miss," put in old Jones, shuffling on his gouty legs in
his thick white stockings, "a-waiting to stand their trial next spring
assizes at Worcester. Which it would be transportation for 'em, I
hope--a using o' their guns indeed!"
"Were they known at all?" gasped Katrine. "And might not the gamekeepers
have shot _them_? Perhaps have killed them?"
"Killed 'em or wounded 'em, like enough," assented Jones, "and it would
be a good riddance of such varmint, as his worship says, miss. And a
misfortin it is that they be _not_ known. Which is an odd thing to my
mind, sir, considering the lightness o' the night: and I'd like to find
out whether them there keepers did their duty, or didn't do it."
"I can't see the dog anywhere, father," interrupted Tod, dashing in at
this moment in a white heat, for he had been racing about in search of
Don.
"What, is the dog off?" exclaimed old Jones.
"Yes, he is," said Tod. "And if those poachers have stolen him, I'll try
and get them hanged."
Leaving us to our commotion, Katrine Barbary passed on to the nursery
with Lena, where the lessons were taken. This straying away of Don made
one of the small calamities of the day. Giles, put to the torture of
confession, admitted that he remembered unchaining Don the past night
as usual, but could not remember whether or not he locked the gate. Of
course the probability was that he left it wide open, Mack having found
it so in the morning. So that Mr. Don, finding himself at liberty, might
have gone out promenading as early in the night as he pleased. Giles was
ready to hang himself with vexation. The dog was a valuable animal; a
prize for any tramp or poacher, for he could be sold at a high price.
We turned out on our different quests; old Jones after the poachers, I
and Tod after Don: and the morning wore on.
Katrine went home at midday. This news of the night encounter between
the keepers and the poachers had thrown her into a state of anxious
pain--though of course the reader fully understands that I am, so far,
writing of what I knew nothing about until later. That her father and
Edgar Reste had been the poachers of the past night she could not doubt,
and a dread of the discovery which might ensue lay upon her with a sick
fear. The Standishes might have been included in the party; more than
likely they were; Ben Gibbon also. Mr. Jim Standish had contrived to let
Katrine believe that they were all birds of a feather, tarred with the
same brush. But how could Edgar Reste have allowed himself to be drawn
into it even for one night? She could not understand that.
Entering Caramel Cottage by its side gate, Katrine found Joan seated
in the kitchen, slicing kidney beans for dinner. Her father was in his
favourite den, the gun-room, Mr. Reste was out. When she left in the
morning, neither of them had quitted his respective chamber, an entirely
unusual thing.
"How late you are with those beans, Joan!" listlessly observed Katrine.
"The master sent me to the Silver Bear for a bottle of the best brandy,
and it hindered me," explained Joan. "They were having a fine noise
together when I got back," she added, dropping her voice.
"Who were?" quickly cried Katrine.
"The master and Mr. Reste. Talking sharply at one another, they were,
like two savages. I could hear 'em through my deafness. Ben Gibbon was
here when I went out, but he'd gone when I came in with the brandy."
What with one thing and another, Katrine felt more uncomfortable than an
oyster out of its shell. Mr. Reste came in at dinner-time, and she saw
nothing amiss then, except that he and her father were both unusually
silent.
Afterwards they went out together, and Katrine hoped that the
unpleasantness between them was at an end.
She was standing at the front gate late in the afternoon, looking up and
down the solitary road, which was no better than a wide field path, when
Tod and I shot out of the dark grove by Caramel's Farm, and made up to
her.
"You look hot and tired," she said to us.
"So would you, Miss Barbary, if you had been scouring the fields in
search of Don, as we have," answered Tod, who was in a desperate mood.
At that moment Mr. Barbary came swinging round the corner of the short
lane that led to the high-road, his guest following him. They nodded to
us and went in at the gate.
"You do not happen to have seen anything of our Newfoundland dog to-day,
I suppose, Mr. Barbary?" questioned Tod.
"No, I have not," he answered. "My daughter mentioned to me that he had
strayed away."
"Strayed away or been stolen," corrected Tod. "The dog was a favourite,
and it has put my father out more than you'd believe. He thinks the
Standishes may have got him: especially if it is they who were out in
the night."
"Shouldn't wonder but they have," said Mr. Barbary.
Standing by in silence, I had been wondering what had come to Mr. Reste.
He leaned against the porch, listening to this, arms folded, brow
lowering, face dark, not a bit like his own pleasant self.
"I am about the neighbourhood a good deal; I'll not fail to keep a
look-out," said Mr. Barbary, as we were turning away. "He was a fine
dog, and might prove a temptation to the Standishes; but I should be
inclined to think it more likely that he has strayed to a distance than
that they have captured him. They might find a difficulty in concealing
a large, powerful dog such as he is."
"Not they; they are deep enough for any wicked action," concluded Tod,
as we went onwards.
It was tea-time then at Caramel Cottage, and they sat down to take it.
Mr. Barbary was sociable and talked of this and that; Edgar Reste spoke
hardly a word; Katrine busied herself with the teapot and cups. At dusk
Ben Gibbon came in, and Katrine was sent to bear Joan company in the
kitchen. Brandy and whisky were put upon the table, Joan being called to
bring in hot and cold water. They sat drinking, as Katrine supposed, and
talking together in covert tones for two hours, when Gibbon left; upon
which Katrine was graciously told by her father she might return to the
parlour. Her head ached badly, she felt ill at ease, and when supper was
over went up to bed. But she could not get to sleep.
About eleven o'clock, as she judged it to be, loud and angry sounds
arose. Her father and Mr. Reste had renewed their dispute--whatever its
cause might be. By-and-by, when it was at its height, she heard Mr.
Reste dash out at the back door; she heard her father dash after him. In
the yard there seemed to be a scuffle, more hot words, and then a sudden
silence. Katrine rose and stole to the window to look.
She could not see either of them. But a noise in the kitchen beneath,
as if the fire-irons were thrown down, seemed to say they had come back
indoors. Another minute and her father came out with a lighted lantern
in his hand; she wondered why, as it was moonlight. He crossed the yard
and went into the back kitchen, or brewhouse, as it was more often
called, and Katrine, hoping the quarrel was over, got into bed again.
Presently the back door was shut with a bang that shook the room, and
footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, and afterwards all was quiet
until morning.
As on the past morning, so it was on this. When Katrine got downstairs
she found that neither her father nor Mr. Reste was up. She breakfasted
alone, and set off for the Manor afterwards.
But, as it chanced, she was to have partial holiday that day. Lena
complained of a sore throat; she was subject to sore throats; so Miss
Barbary was released when the lesson was half over, and returned home.
Going to her room to take her bonnet off, she found Joan busy there.
From the window she saw her father at work at the far end of the garden.
This was Thursday, the day of the projected walk to Church Leet, and
very lovely weather. But Mr. Reste had not said anything about it since
the Tuesday afternoon.
"Is Mr. Reste gone out, Joan?"
"Mr. Reste is gone, Miss Katrine."
"Gone where?" asked she.
"Gone away; gone back to London," said Joan. Upon which Katrine, staring
at the old woman, inquired what she meant.
It appeared that Mr. Barbary had left his chamber close upon Katrine's
departure, and sat down to breakfast. When he had finished he called
Joan to take the things away. She inquired whether they had not better
be left for Mr. Reste. He answered that Mr. Reste was gone. "What, gone
away back to London?" Joan cried, in surprise; and her master said,
"Yes." "You might just have knocked me down with a feather, Miss
Katrine, I was that took to," added Joan now, in relating this. "Never
to say good-bye to me, nor anything!"
Katrine, thinking there was somebody else he had not said good-bye to,
could hardly speak from amazement. "When did he go, Joan? Since
breakfast? Or was he gone when I went out?"
"Well, I don't know," pondered Joan; "it seems all a moither in my head;
as if I couldn't put this and that together. I never saw nor heard
anything of him at all this morning, and I find his bed has not been
slept in, which looks as if he went last night. It's odd, too, that he
didn't say he was going, and it's odd he should start off to London at
midnight. Your papa is in one of his short tempers, Miss Katrine, and
I've not dared to ask him about it."
Katrine, as she listened, felt perfectly bewildered. Why had he taken
his departure in this strange manner? What for? What had caused him to
do it? Joan had told all she knew, and it was of no use questioning her
further.
Mr. Reste's chamber door stood open; Katrine halted at it and looked in.
Why! he seemed to have taken nothing with him! His coats were hanging
up; trifles belonging to him lay about on chairs; on the side shelf
stood his little portable desk--and she had heard him say that he never
travelled without that desk, it went with him wherever he went. Opening
a drawer or two, she saw his linen, his neckties, his handkerchiefs.
What was the meaning of it all? Could he have been recalled to London in
some desperate hurry? But no letter or summons of any kind had come to
Caramel Cottage, so far as she knew, except the letter from Captain
Amphlett on Tuesday morning, and that one had not recalled him.
"There be two pairs of his boots in the kitchen," said Joan. "He has
took none with him but them he's got on."
"I _must_ ask papa about it," cried the puzzled Katrine.
Mr. Barbary was at the bottom of the garden working away at the celery
bed in his shirt sleeves; his coat lay across the cucumber-frame.
"What brings you home now?" he cried out, looking up as Katrine drew
near.
"The little girl is not well. Papa," she added, her voice taking a
timid, shrinking tone, she hardly knew why, "Joan says Mr. Reste is
gone."
"Well?"
"But why has he left so suddenly, without saying anything about it?"
"He could do so if he pleased. He was at liberty to go or stay."
Katrine could not dispute that. She hardly liked to say more, her
father's answers were so curt and cross.
"He must have gone unexpectedly, papa."
"Unexpectedly! Not at all. He has been talking of going all the week."