The last knot of the dancers came out of the club, and were
strolling up St. James's Street, and stopping to chaff the
itinerant coffee vendor, who was preparing his stand at the
corner of Piccadilly for his early customers, just about the time
that Tom was beginning to rouse himself under the alder-tree, and
stretch his stiffened limbs, and sniff the morning air. By the
time the guardsman had let himself into his lodgings in Mount
Street, our hero had undergone his unlooked for bath, and was
sitting in a state of utter bewilderment as to what was next to
be said or done, dripping and disconcerted, opposite to the
equally dripping and, to all appearance, equally disconcerted,
poacher.
At first he did not look higher than his antagonist's boots and
gaiters, and spent a few seconds by the way in considering
whether the arrangement of nails on the bottom of Harry's boots
was better than his own. He settled that it must be better for
wading on slippery stones, and that he would adopt it, and then
passed on to wonder whether Harry's boots were as full of water
as his own, and whether corduroys, wet through, must not be very
uncomfortable so early in the morning, and congratulated himself
on being in flannels.
And so he hung back for second after second, playing with an
absurd little thought that would come into his head and give him
ever so brief a respite from the effort of facing the situation,
and hoping that Harry might do or say something to open the ball.
This did not happen. He felt that the longer he waited the harder
it would be. He must begin himself. So he raised his head gently,
and took a sidelong look at Harry's face, to see whether he could
not get some hint for starting, from it. But scarcely had he
brought his eyes to bear, when they met Harry's, peering
dolefully up from under his eyebrows, on which the water was
standing unwiped, while a piece of green weed, which he did not
seem to have presence of mind enough to remove, trailed over his
dripping locks. There was something in the sight which tickled
Tom's sense of humor. He had been prepared for sullen black looks
and fierce words, instead of which he was irresistibly reminded
of schoolboys caught by their master using a crib, or in other
like flagrant delict.
Harry lowered his eyes at once, but lifted them the next moment
with a look of surprise, as he heard Tom burst into a hearty fit
of laughter. After a short struggle to keep serious, he joined in
it himself.
"By Jove, though, Harry, it's no laughing matter," Tom said at
last, getting on to his legs, and giving himself a shake.
Harry only replied by looking most doleful again, and picking the
weed out of his hair, as he too got up.
"What in the world's to be done?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Master Tom."
"I'm very much surprised to find you at this work, Harry."
"I'm sure, so be I, to find you, Master Tom."
Tom was not prepared for this line of rejoinder. It seemed to be
made with perfect innocence, and yet it put him in a corner at
once. He did not care to inquire into the reason of Harry's
surprise, or to what work he alluded; so he went off on another
tack.
"Let us walk up and down a bit to dry ourselves. Now, Harry,
you'll speak to me openly, man to man, as an old friend
should--won't you?"
"Ay, Master Tom, and glad to do it."
"How long have you taken to poaching?"
"Since last Michaelmas, when they turned me out o' our cottage,
and tuk away my bit o' land, and did all as they could to break
me down."
"Who do you mean?"
"Why, Squire Wurley as was then--not this one, but the last--and
his lawyer, and Farmer Tester."
"Then it was through spite to them that you took to it?"
"Nay, 'twarn't altogether spite, tho' I won't say but what I
might ha' thought o' bein' upsides wi them."
"What was it then besides spite?"
"Want o' work. I havn't had no more'n a matter o' six weeks'
reg'lar work ever since last fall."
"How's that? Have you tried for it?"
"Well, Master Tom, I won't tell a lie about it. I don't see as I
wur bound to go round wi my cap in my hand a beggin' for a day's
work to the likes o' them. They knowed well enough as I wur
there, ready and willing to work, and they knowed as I wur able
to do as good a day's work as e'er man in the parish; and ther's
been plenty o' work goin'. But they thought as I should starve,
and have to come and beg for't from one or to'ther on 'em. They
would ha' liked to ha' seen me clean broke down, that's wut they
would, and in the house," and he paused as if his thoughts were
getting a little unmanageable.
"But you might have gone to look for work elsewhere."
"I can't see as I had any call to leave the place where I wur
bred up, Master Tom. That wur just wut they wanted. Why should I
let 'em drive m'out?"
"Well, Harry, I'm not going to blame you. I only want to know
more about what has been happening to you, that I may be able to
advise and help you. Did you ever try for work, or go and tell
your story, at the Rectory?"
"Try for work there! No, I never went arter work there."
Tom went on without noticing the change in Harry's tone and
manner--
"Then I think you ought to have gone. I know my cousin, Miss
Winter, is so anxious to help any man out of work, and
particularly you; for--" The whole story of Patty flashed into
his mind, and made him stop short and stammer, and look anywhere
except at Harry. How he could have forgotten it for a moment in
that company was a wonder. All his questioning and patronizing
powers went out of him and he felt that their positions were
changed, and that he was the culprit. It was clear that Harry
knew nothing yet of his own relations with Patty. Did he even
suspect them? It must all come out now at any rate, for both
their sakes, however it might end. So he turned again, and met
Harry's eye, which was now cold and keen, and suspicious.
"You knows all about it, then?"
"Yes; I know that you have been attached to Simon's daughter for
a long time, and that he is against it; I wish I could help you,
with all my heart. In fact, I did feel my way towards speaking to
him about it last year, when I was in hopes of getting you the
gardener's place. But I could see that I should do no good."
"I've heard say as you was acquainted with her, when she was
away?"
"Yes, I was, when she was with her aunt in Oxford. What then?"
"'Twas there as she larnt her bad ways."
"Bad ways! What do you mean?"
"I means as she larnt to dress fine, and to gee herself airs to
them as she'd known from a child, and as'd ha' gone through fire
to please her."
"I never saw anything of the kind in her. She was a pleasant,
lively girl, and dressed neatly, but never above her station. And
I'm sure she has too good a heart to hurt an old friend."
"Wut made her keep shut up in the house when she cum back? ah,
for days and weeks;--and arter that, wut made her so flighty and
fickle? carryin' herself as proud as a lady a mincin' and a
trapesin' along, wi' all the young farmer's a follerin' her, like
a fine gentleman's miss."
"Come, Harry, I won't listen to that. You don't believe what
you're saying, you know her better."
"You knows her well enough by all seeming."
"I know her too well to believe any harm of her."
"What call have you and the likes o' you wi' her? 'Tis no good
comes o' such company keepin'."
"I tell you again, no harm has come of it to her."
"Whose hair does she carry about then in that gold thing as she
hangs around her neck?"
Tom blushed scarlet, and lowered his eyes without answering.
"Dost know? 'Tis thine, by--." The words came hissing out between
his set teeth. Tom put his hands behind him, expecting to be
struck as he lifted his eyes, and said,--
"Yes, it is mine; and, I tell you again, no harm has come of it."
"'Tis a lie. I knowed how 'twas, and 'tis thou hast done it."
[Illustration: 0463]
"Tom's blood tingled in his veins, and wild words rushed to his
tongue, as he stood opposite the man who had just given him the
lie, and who waited his reply with clinched hands, and laboring
breast, and fierce eye. But the discipline of the last year stood
him in good stead. He stood for a moment or two, crushing his
hands together behind his back, drew a long breath, and
answered,--
"Will you believe my oath, then? I stood by your side at your
mother's grave. A man who did that won't lie to you, Harry. I
swear to you there's no wrong between me and her. There never was
fault on her side. I sought her. She never cared for me, she
doesn't care for me. As for that locket, I forced it on her. I
own I have wronged her, and wronged you. I have repented it
bitterly. I ask your forgiveness, Harry; for the sake of old
times, for the sake of your mother!" He spoke from the heart, and
saw that his words went home. "Come, Harry" he went on, "you won
t turn from an old playfellow, who owns the wrong he has done,
and will do all he can to make up for it. You'll shake hands, and
say you forgive me."
Tom paused, and held out his hand.
The poacher's face worked violently for a moment or two, and he
seemed to struggle once or twice to get his hand out in vain. At
last he struck it suddenly into Tom's, turning his head away at
the same time. "'Tis what mother would ha' done," he said, "thou
cassn't say more. There tis then, though I never thought to
do't."
This curious and unexpected explanation, brought thus to a happy
issue, put Tom into high spirits, and at once roused the
castle-building power within him, which was always ready enough
to wake up.
His first care was to persuade Harry that he had better give up
poaching, and in this he had much less difficulty than he
expected. Harry owned himself sick of the life he was leading
already. He admitted that some of the men with whom he had been
associating more or less for the last year were the greatest
blackguards in the neighborhood. He asked nothing better than to
get out of it. But how?
This was all Tom wanted. He would see to that; nothing could be
easier.
"I shall go with you back to Englebourn this morning. I'll just
leave a note for Wurley to say that I'll be back some time in the
day to explain matters to him, and then we will be off at once.
We shall be at the rectory by breakfast time. Ah, I
forgot;--well, you can stop at David's while I go and speak to my
uncle and to Miss Winter."
Harry didn't seem to see what would be the good of this; and
David, he said, was not so friendly to him as he had been.
"Then you must wait at the Red Lion. Don't see the good of it!
Why, of course, the good of it is that you must be set right with
the Englebourn people--that's the first thing to do. I shall
explain how the case stands to my uncle, and I know that I can
get him to let you have your land again if you stay in the
parish, even if he can't give you work himself. But what he must
do is, to take you up, to show people that he is your friend,
Harry. Well then, if you can get good work--mind it must be real,
good, regular work--at Farmer Grove's, or one of the best
farmers, stop here by all means, and I will myself take the first
cottage which falls vacant and let you have it, and meantime you
must lodge with old David. Oh, I'll go and talk him round, never
fear. But if you can't get regular work here, why you go off with
flying colors; no sneaking off under a cloud and leaving no
address. You'll go off with me, as my servant, if you like. But
just as you please about that. At any rate, you'll go with me,
and I'll take care that it shall be known that I consider you as
an old friend. My father has always got plenty of work and will
take you on. And then, Harry, after a bit you may be sure all
will go right, and I shall be your best man, and dance at your
wedding before a year's out."
There is something in this kind of thing which is contagious and
irresistible. Tom thoroughly believed all that he was saying; and
faith, even of such a poor kind as believing in one's own
castles, has its reward. Common sense in vain suggested to Harry
that all the clouds which had been gathering round him for a year
were not likely to melt away in a morning. Prudence suggested
that the sooner he got away the better; which suggestion, indeed,
he handed on for what it was worth. But Tom treated prudence with
sublime contempt. They would go together, he said, as soon as any
one was up at the house, just to let him in to change his things
and write a note. Harry needn't fear any unpleasant consequences.
Wurley wasn't an ill-natured fellow at bottom, and wouldn't mind
a few fish. Talking of fish, where was the one he heard kicking
just now as Harry hauled in the line. They went to the place,
and, looking in the long grass, soon found the dead trout, still
on the night-line, of which the other end remained in the water.
Tom seized hold of it, and pulling it carefully in, landed landed
another fine trout, while Harry stood by, looking rather
sheepish. Tom inspected the method of the lines, which was simple
but awfully destructive. The line was long enough to reach across
the stream. At one end was a heavy stone, at the other a short
stake cut sharp, and driven into the bank well under the water.
At intervals of four feet along the line short pieces of fine
gimp were fastened, ending in hooks baited alternately with
lob-worms and gudgeon. Tom complimented his companion on the
killing nature of his cross-line.
"Where are your other lines, Harry?" he asked; "we may as well go
and take them up."
"A bit higher up stream, Master Tom;" and so they walked up
stream and took up the other lines.
"They'll have the finest dish of fish they've seen this long time
at the house to-day," said Tom, as each line came out with two or
three fine thick-shouldered fish on it. "I'll you what, Harry,
they're deuced well set, these lines of yours, and do you credit.
They do; I'm not complimenting you."
"I should rather like to be off, Master Tom, if you don't object.
The mornin's gettin' on, and the men will be about. 'Twould be
unked for I to be caught."
"Well, Harry, if you are so set on it off with you, but"--
"'Tis too late now; here's keeper."
Tom turned sharp round, and, sure enough, there was the keeper
coming down the bank towards them, and not a couple of hundred
yards off.
"So it is," said Tom; "well, only hold your tongue, and do just
what I tell you."
The keeper came up quickly, and touching his hat to Tom, looked
inquiringly at him, and then at Harry. Tom nodded to him, as if
everything were just as it should be. He was taking a two-pound
fish off the last line; having finished which feat he threw it on
the ground by the rest. "There keeper," he said, "there's a fine
dish of fish. Now, pick 'em up and come along."
Never was keeper more puzzled. He looked from one to the other,
lifting the little short hat from the back of his head, and
scratching that somewhat thick skull of his, as his habit was
when engaged in what he called thinking, conscious that somebody
ought to be tackled, and that he, the keeper, was being
mystified, but quite at sea as to how he was to set himself
straight.
"Wet, bain't 'ee, sir?" he said at last, nodding at Tom's
clothes.
"Dampish, keeper," answered Tom; "I may as well go and change,
the servants will be up at the house by this time. Pick up the
fish and come along. You do up the lines, Harry."
The keeper and Harry performed their tasks, looking at one
another out of the corners of their eyes like the terriers of
rival butchers when the carts happen to stop suddenly in the
street close to one another. Tom watched them, mischievously
delighted with the fun, and then led the way up to the house.
When they came to the stable-yard he turned to Harry, and said,
"Stop here, I shan't be ten minutes;" adding, in an undertone,
"Hold your tongue now;" he then vanished through the dark door,
and, hurrying up to his room, changed as quickly as he could.
He was within the ten minutes, but, as he descended the back
stairs in his dry things, became aware that his stay had been too
long. Noise and laughter came up from the stable-yard, and shouts
of, "Go it keeper,"
"Keeper's down,"
"No he bain't," greeted his
astonished ears. He sprang down the last steps and rushed into
the stable-yard, where he found Harry at his second wrestling
match for the day, while two or three stablemen, and a footman,
and the gardener, looked on and cheered the combatants with the
remarks he had heard on his way down.
Tom made straight to them, and tapping Harry on the shoulder,
said--
"Now then, come along, I'm ready."
Whereupon the keeper and Harry disengaged, and the latter picked
up his cap.
"You bain't goin', sir!" said the keeper.
"Yes, keeper."
"Not along wi' he?"
"Yes, keeper."
"What, bain't I to take un?"
"Take him! No, what for?"
"For night poachin', look at all them fish," said the keeper
indignantly, pointing to the shining heap.
"No, no, keeper, you've nothing to do with it. You may give him
the lines though, Harry. I've left a note for your master on my
dressing table," Tom said, turning to the footman, "let him have
it at breakfast. I'm responsible for him," nodding at Harry, "I
shall be back in a few hours, and now come along."
And, to the keeper's astonishment, Tom left the stable-yard,
accompanied by Harry.
They were scarcely out of hearing before the stable-yard broke
out into uproarious laughter at the keeper's expense and much
rude banter was inflicted on him for letting the poacher go. But
the keeper's mind for the moment was full of other things.
Disregarding their remarks he went on scratching his head, and
burst out at last with--
"Dang un! I knows I should ha' drowed un."
"Drow your grandmother," politely remarked one of the stablemen,
an acquaintance of Harry Winburn, who knew his repute as a
wrestler.
"I should, I tell 'ee," said the keeper as he stooped to gather
up the fish, "and to think as he should ha' gone off. Master 'll
be like any wild beast when he hears on't. How s'mever, 'tis Mr.
Brown's doin's. 'Tis a queer start for a gen'l'man like he to be
goin' off wi' a poacher chap and callin' of un Harry. 'Tis past
me altogether. But I s'pose he bain't right in's 'ead;" and, so
soliloquizing, he carried off the fish to the kitchen.
Meantime, on their walk to Englebourn, Harry, in answer to Tom's
inquiries, explained that in his absence the stable-man, his
acquaintance, had come up and begun to talk. The keeper had
joined in and accused him point-blank of being the man who had
thrown him into the furze bush. The story of the keeper's
discomfiture on that occasion being well known, a laugh had been
raised in which Harry had joined. This brought on a challenge to
try a fall then and there, which Harry had accepted,
notwithstanding his long morning's work and the ducking he had
had. They laughed over the story, though Harry could not help
expressing his fears as to how it might all end. They reached
Englebourn in time for breakfast. Tom appeared at the rectory,
and soon he and Katie were on their old terms. She was delighted
to find that he had had an explanation with Harry Winburn; and
that there was some chance of bringing that sturdy offender once
more back into decent ways;--more delighted perhaps to hear the
way in which he spoke of Patty, to whom after breakfast she paid
a visit, and returned in due time with the unfortunate locket.
Tom felt as if another coil of the chain he had tied about
himself had fallen off. He went out into the village, consulted
again with Harry, and returned again to the rectory, to consider
what steps were to be taken to get him work. Katie entered into
the matter heartily, though forseeing the difficulties in the
case. At luncheon the rector was to be sounded on the subject of
the allotments. But in the middle of their plans, they were
startled by the news that a magistrate's warrant had arrived in
the village for the arrest of Harry as a night poacher.
Tom returned to the Grange furious, and before night had had a
worse quarrel with young Wurley than with his uncle before him.
Had duelling been in fashion still in England, they would
probably have fought in a quiet corner of the park before night.
As it was they only said bitter things, and parted, agreeing not
to know one another in the future.
Three days afterwards, at petty sessions, where Tom brought upon
himself the severe censure of the bench for his conduct on the
trial, Harry Winburn was committed to Reading gaol for three
months.
Readers who will take the trouble to remember the picture of our
hero's mental growth during the past year, attempted to be given
in a late chapter, and the state of restless dissatisfaction into
which his experiences and thoughts and readings had thrown him by
the time long vacation had come around again, will perhaps be
prepared for the catastrophe which ensued on the conviction and
sentence of Harry Winburn at petty sessions.
Hitherto, notwithstanding the strength of the new and
revolutionary forces which were mustering round it, there had
always been a citadel holding out in his mind, garrisoned by all
that was best in the Toryism in which he had been brought up--by
loyalty, reverence for established order and established
institutions; by family traditions, and the pride of an inherited
good name. But now the walls of that citadel went down with a
crash, the garrison being put to the sword, or making away, to
hide in an out of the way corner, and wait for a reaction.
It was much easier for a youngster, whose attention was once
turned to such subjects as had been occupying Tom, to get hold of
wild and violent beliefs and notions in those days than now. The
state of Europe generally was far more dead and hopeless. There
were no wars, certainly, and no expectations of wars. But there
was a dull, beaten-down, pent-up feeling abroad, as if the lid
were screwed down on the nations, and the thing which had been,
however cruel and heavy and mean, was that which was to remain to
the end. England was better off than her neighbours, but yet in
bad case. In the south and west particularly, several causes had
combined, to spread a very bitter feeling abroad amongst the
agricultural poor. First among these stood the new poor law, the
provisions of which were vigorously carried out in most
districts. The poor had as yet felt the harshness only of the new
system. Then the land was in many places in the hands of men on
their last legs, the old sporting farmers, who had begun business
as young men while the great war was going on, had made their
money hand over hand for a few years out of the war prices, and
had tried to go on living with greyhounds and yeomanry
uniforms--"horse to ride and weapon to wear"--through the hard
years which had followed. These were bad masters every way,
unthrifty, profligate, needy, and narrow-minded. The younger men
who were supplanting them were introducing machinery, threshing
machines and winnowing machines, to take the little bread which a
poor man was still able to earn out of the mouths of his wife and
children--so at least the poor thought and muttered to one
another; and the mutterings broke out every now and then in the
long nights of the winter months in blazing ricks and broken
machines. Game preserving was on the increase. Australia and
America had not yet become familiar words in every English
village, and the labour market was everywhere overstocked; and,
last but not least, the corn laws were still in force, and the
bitter and exasperating strife in which they went out was at its
height. And while Swing and his myrmidons were abroad in the
counties, and could scarcely be kept down by yeomanry and poor
law guardians, the great towns were in almost worse case. Here
too emigration had not set in to thin the labour market; wages
were falling, and prices rising; the corn law struggle was better
understood and far keener than in the country; and Chartism was
gaining force every day, and rising into a huge threatening
giant, waiting to put forth his strength, and eager for the
occasion which seemed at hand.
You generation of young Englishmen, who were too young then to be
troubled with such matters, and have grown into manhood since,
you little know--may you never know!--what it is to be living the
citizens of a divided and distracted nation. For the time that
danger is past. In a happy home and so far as man can judge, in
time, and only just in time, came the repeal of the corn laws,
and the great cause of strife and the sense of injustice passed
away out of men's minds. The nation was roused by the Irish
famine, and the fearful distress in other parts of the country,
to begin looking steadily and seriously at some of the sores
which were festering in its body, and undermining health and
life. And so the tide had turned, and England had already passed
the critical point; when 1848 came upon Christendom, and the
whole of Europe leapt up into a wild blaze of revolution.
Is anyone still inclined to make light of the danger that
threatened England in that year, to sneer at the 10th of April,
and the monster petition, and the monster meetings on Kennington
and other commons? Well, if there be such persons among my
readers, I can only say that they can have known nothing of what
was going on around them and below them, at that time, and I
earnestly hope that their vision has become clearer since then,
and that they are not looking with the same eyes that see
nothing, at the signs of today. For that there are questions
still to be solved by us in England, in this current
half-century, quite as likely to tear the nation to pieces as the
corn laws, no man with half an eye in his head can doubt. They
may seem little clouds like a man's hand on the horizon just now,
but they will darken the whole heaven before long, unless we can
find wisdom enough amongst us to take the little clouds in hand
in time, and make them descend in soft rain.
But such matters need not be spoken of here. All I want to do is
to put my young readers in a position to understand how it was
that our hero fell away into beliefs and notions, at which Mrs.
Grundy and all decent people could only lift up eyes and hands in
pious and respectable horror, and became, soon after the
incarceration of his friend for night poaching, little better
than a physical force Chartist at the age of twenty-one.