THE TRUANTS
So the day to which we had looked forward with such delight had arrived
at last. Our spirits rose as we got further and further from Everdon,
and we never stopped to take breath or to look back till we found
ourselves surmounting the last hill above Beverley Manor. By this time
we had far outstripped our friend "Nap"--that worthy deeming it
inconsistent with all his maxims ever to hurry himself. "Slow and sure,
young gentlemen," he observed soon after we started--"slow and sure wins
the day. Do'ee go on ahead, and wait for I top of Buttercup Close. I
gits on better arter a drop o' drink this hot weather. Never fear,
squire, I'll not fail ye! Bold! Bold! you go on with your master." So
"Nap" turned into the "Cat and Fiddle," and we pursued our journey
alone, not very sorry to be rid of our companion for the present; as,
notwithstanding our great admiration for his many resources, his
knowledge of animal life, his skilful method with rats, and general
manliness of character, we could not but be conscious of our own
inferiority in these branches of science, and of a certain want of
community in ideas between two young gentlemen receiving a polite
education at Everdon, and a rat-catching, dog-stealing poacher of the
worst class.
"It's as hot as Hungary," said Victor, seating himself on a stile, and
taking off his cap to fan his handsome, heated face. "Oh, Vere, I wish
I was back in the Fatherland! Do you remember the great wood at
Edeldorf, and the boar we saw close to the ponies? And oh, Vere, how I
should like to be upon Gold-kind once again!"
"Yes, Victor, I remember it all," I answered, as I flung myself down
among the buttercups, and turned my cheek to the cool air that came up
the valley--a breeze that blew from the distant hills to the southward,
and swept across many a mile of beauty ere it sighed amongst the woods
of Beverley, and rippled the wide surface of the mere; "I shall never
forget Edeldorf, nor my first friend, Victor. But what made you think
of Hungary just now?"
"Why, your beautiful country," answered Victor, pointing to the
luxuriant scene below us--a scene that could exist in England only--of
rich meadows, and leafy copses, and green slopes laughing in the
sunlight, dotted with huge old standard trees, and the deep shades of
Beverley, with the white garden-wall standing out from amongst yew
hedges, and rare pines, and exotic evergreens; while the grey turrets of
the Manor House peeped and peered here and there through the giant elms
that stirred and flickered in the summer breeze. The mere was
glittering at our feet, and the distant uplands melting away into the
golden haze of summer. Child as I was, I could have cried, without
knowing why, as I sat there on the grass, drinking in beauty at every
pore. What is it that gives to all beauty, animate or inanimate, a
tinge of melancholy?--the greater the beauty, the deeper the tinge. Is
it an instinct of mortality? the "bright must fade" of the poet? a
shadowy regret for Dives, who, no more than Lazarus, can secure
enjoyment for a day? or is it a vague yearning for something more
perfect still?--a longing of the soul for the unattainable, which, more
than all the philosophy in the universe, argues the necessity of a
future state. I could not analyse my feelings. I did not then believe
that others experienced the same sensations as myself. I only knew
that, like Parson Hugh, I had "great dispositions to cry."
"I wish I were a man, Vere," remarked Victor, as he pulled out his
knife, and began to carve a huge V on the top bar of the stile. "I
should like to be grown up now, and you too, Vere; what a life we would
lead! Let me see, I should have six horses for myself, and three--no,
four for you; and a pack of hounds, like Mr. Barker's, that we saw last
half, coming home from hunting; and two rifles, both double-barrelled.
Do you know, I hit the bull's-eye with papa's rifle, when Prince Vocqsal
was at Edeldorf, and he said I was the best shot in Hungary for my age.
Look at that crow, Vere, perching on the branch of the old hawthorn--I
could put a bullet into him from here. Oh! I wish I had papa's rifle!"
"But should you not like to be King of Hungary, Victor?" said I, for I
admired my "chum" so ardently, that I believed him fit for any position,
however exalted. "Should you not like to be king, and ride about upon a
white horse, with a scarlet tunic and pelisse, and ostrich feathers in
your hat, bowing right and left to the ladies at the windows, with a
Hungarian body-guard clattering behind you, and the people shouting and
flinging up their caps in the street?" I saw it all in my mind's eye,
and fancied my friend the hero of the procession. Victor hesitated, and
shook his head.
"I think I had rather be a General of Division, like Wallenstein, and
command ten thousand cavalry; or better still, Vere, ride and shoot as
well as Prince Vocqsal, and go up into the mountains after deer, and
kill bears and wolves and wild boars, and do what I like. Wouldn't I
just pack up my books, and snap my fingers at March, and leave Everdon
to-morrow, if I could take you with me. But you, Vere, if you could
have your own way, what would you be?"
I was not long answering, for there was scarcely a day that I did not
consider the subject; but my aspirations for myself were so humble, that
I hesitated a little lest Victor should laugh at me, before I replied.
"Oh, I will do whatever my father wishes, Victor; and I hope he will
sometimes let me go to you; but if I could do exactly what I liked, if a
fairy was at this moment to come out of that bluebell and offer me my
choice, I should ask to be a doctor, Victor, and to live somewhere on
this hill."
"_Sappramento!_" exclaimed Victor, swearing, in his astonishment, his
father's favourite oath--"a doctor, Vere! and why?"
"Well," I answered, modestly, "I am not like you, Victor; I wish I were.
Oh, you cannot tell how I wish I were you! To be high-born and rich,
and heir to a great family, and to have everybody making up to one and
admiring one--that is what I should call happiness. But I can never have
the chance of that. I am shy and stupid and awkward, and--and,
Victor"--I got it out at last, blushing painfully--"I know that I am
ugly--_so ugly_! It is foolish to care about it, for, after all, it is
not my fault; but I cannot help wishing for beauty. It is so painful to
be remarked and laughed at, and I know people laugh at _me_. Why, I
heard Ropsley say to Manners, only yesterday, after I had been fagging
for him at cricket, 'Why, what an ugly little beggar it is!' and Manners
said, 'Yes,' and 'he thought it must be a great misfortune.' And
Ropsley laughed so, I felt he must be laughing at me, as if I could help
it! Oh, Victor, you cannot think how I long to be loved; that is why I
should like to be a doctor. I would live up here in a small cottage,
from which I could always see this beautiful view; and I would study
hard to be very clever--not at Greek and Latin, like March, but at
something I could take an interest in; and I would have a quiet pony,
not a rantipole like your favourite Gold-kind; and I would visit the
poor people for miles round, and never grudge time nor pains for any one
in affliction or distress. I would _make_ them fond of me, and it would
be such happiness to go out on a day like this, and see a kind smile for
one on everybody's face, good or bad. Nobody loves me now, Victor,
except papa and you and Bold; and papa, I fear, only because he is my
papa. I heard him say one day, long ago, to my nurse (you remember
nurse Nettich?), 'Never mind what the boy is like--he is my own.' I
fear he does not care for me for myself. You like me, Victor, because
you are used to me, and because I like _you_ so much; but that is not
exactly the sort of liking I mean; and as for Bold--here, Bold! Bold!
Why, what has become of the dog? He must have gone back to look for
'Nap.'"
Sure enough Bold was nowhere visible, having made his escape during our
conversation; but in his place the worthy "King of Naples" was to be
seen toiling up the hill, more than three parts drunk, and with a
humorous twinkle in his solitary eye which betokened mischief.
"Now, young gents," observed the poacher, settling himself upon the
stile, and producing from the capacious pockets of his greasy velveteen
jacket an assortment of snares, night-lines, and other
suspicious-looking articles; "now, young gents, I promised to show you a
bit of sport comin' here to Beverley, and a bit of sport we'll have.
Fust and foremost, I've agot to lift a line or two as I set yesterday in
the mere; then we'll just take a turn round the pheasantry, for you
young gentlemen to see the fowls, you know; Sir 'Arry, he bain't a
comin' back till next week, and Muster Barrells, the keeper, he's off
into Norfolk, arter pinters, and such like. You keep the dog well at
heel, squire. Why, whatever has become o' Bold?"
Alas, Bold himself was heard to answer the question. Self-hunting in an
adjoining covert, his deep-toned voice was loudly awakening the echoes,
and scaring the game all over the Manor, to his own unspeakable delight
and our intense dismay. Forgetful of all the precepts of his puppyhood,
he scampered hither and thither; now in headlong chase of a hare; now
dashing aside after a rabbit, putting up pheasants at every stride, and
congratulating himself on his emancipation and his prowess in notes that
could not fail to indicate his pursuits to keepers, watchers, all the
establishment of Beverley Manor, to say nothing of the inhabitants of
that and the adjoining parishes.
Off we started in pursuit, bounding down the hill at our best pace. Old
"Nap" making run in his own peculiar gait, which was none of the most
graceful. Victor laughing and shouting with delight; and I frightened
out of my wits at the temporary loss of my favourite, and the probable
consequences of his disobedience.
Long before we could reach the scene of Bold's misdoings, we had been
observed by two men who were fishing in the mere, and who now gave
chase--the one keeping along the valley, so as to cut us off in our
descent; the other, a long-legged fellow, striding right up the hill at
once, in case we should turn tail and beat a retreat. "Nap" suddenly
disappeared--I have reason to believe he ensconced himself in a deep
ditch, and there remained until the danger had passed away. Victor and
I were still descending the hill, calling frantically to Bold. The
keeper who had taken the lower line of pursuit was gaining rapidly upon
us. I now saw that he carried a gun under his arm. My dog flashed out
of a small belt of young trees in hot pursuit of a hare--tongue out,
head down, and tail lowered, in full enjoyment of the chase. At the
instant he appeared the man in front of me stopped dead short. Quick as
lightning he lifted his long shining barrel. I saw the flash; and ere I
heard the report my dog tumbled heels over head, and lay upon the sunny
sward, as I believed in the agony of that moment, stone dead. I
strained every nerve to reach him, for I could hear the rattle of a
ramrod, as the keeper reloaded,--and I determined to cover Bold with my
body, and, if necessary, to die with him. I was several paces ahead of
Victor; whom I now heard calling me by name, but I could think of
nothing, attend to nothing, but the prostrate animal in front. What a
joy it Was when I reached him to find he was not actually killed. His
fore-leg was frightfully mangled by the charge; but as I fell breathless
by the side of my darling Bold, he licked my face, and I knew there was
a chance for him still.
A rough grasp was laid on toy shoulder, and a hoarse voice roused me:
"Come, young man; I thought I'd drop on to you at last. Now you'll just
come with me to Sir 'Arry, and we'll see what _he_ has to say to this
here."
And on looking up I found myself in the hands of a strong, square-built
fellow, with a velveteen jacket, and a double-barrelled gun under his
arm, being no less a person than Sir Harry Beverley's head keeper, and
the identical individual that had been watching us from the mere, and
had made so successful a shot at Bold.
"Come, leave the dog," he added; giving me another shake, and
scrutinising my apparel, which was evidently not precisely of the
description he had expected; "leave the dog--it's no great odds about
him; and as for _you_, young gentleman, if you _be_ a young gentleman,
you _had_ ought to be ashamed of yourself. It's not want as drove you
to this trade. Come, none of that; you go quietly along of me; it's
best for you, I tell you."
I was struggling to free myself from his hold, for I could not bear to
leave my dog. A thousand horrible anticipations filled my head. Trial,
transportation, I knew not what, for I had a vague terror of the law,
and had heard enough of its rigours in regard to the offence of
poaching, to fill me with indescribable alarm; yet, through it all, I
was more concerned for Bold than myself. My favourite was dying, I
believed, and I could not leave him.
I looked up in the face of my captor. He was a rough, hairy fellow; but
there was an expression of kindliness in his homely features which
encouraged me to entreat for mercy.
"Oh, sir," I pleaded, "let me only take my dog; he's not so very heavy;
I'll carry him myself. Bold, my darling Bold! He is my own dog, and
I'd rather you'd kill me too than force me to leave him here."
The man was evidently mollified, and a good deal puzzled into the
bargain. I saw my advantage, and pressed it vigorously.
"I'll go to prison willingly,--I'll go anywhere you tell me,--only do
try and cure Bold. Papa will pay you anything if you'll only cure Bold.
Victor! Victor!" I added, seeing my chum now coming up, likewise in
custody, "help me to get this gentleman to save Bold."
Victor looked flushed, and fiercer than I ever remembered to have seen
that pretty boyish face. His collar was torn and his dress disordered.
He had evidently struggled manfully with his captor, and the latter
wiped his heated brow with an expression of mingled amusement and
astonishment, that showed he was clearly at his wit's end what to make
of his prize.
"Blowed if I know what to say o' this here, Mr. Barrells," said he to
his brother functionary. "This little chap's even gamer nor t'other
one. _Run_! I never see such a one-er to run. If it hadn't been for
the big hedge at the corner of the cow-pasture, I'd never a cotched 'un
in a month o' Sundays; and when I went to lay hold, the young warmint
out with his knife and offered to whip it into me. He's a rare boy
this; I could scarce grip him for laughing; but the lad's got a sperret,
bless'd if he ain't. I cut my own knuckles gettin' of it out of his
hands." And he showed Victor's knife to his comrade as he spoke.
Mr. Barrells was a man of reflection, as keepers generally are. He
examined the knife carefully, and spoke in an undertone to his friend.
"Do you see this here?" he remarked, pointing to the coronet which was
inlaid in the steel; "and do you see that there?" he added, with a
glance at Victor's gold watch-chain, of Parisian fabric. "Put this here
and that there together, Bill, which it convinces me as these here
little chaps is not them as we was a lookin' for. Your cove looks a
gentleman all over; I knows the breed, Bill, and there's no mistake
about the real thing; and my precious boy here, he wouldn't leave the
dawg, not if it was ever so, though he's a very little 'un; he's a
gentleman too; but that don't make no odds, Bill: gentlemen hadn't ought
to be up to such-like tricks, nor haven't half the excuse of poor folks;
and, gentlemen or no gentlemen, they goes before Sir 'Arry, dog and all,
as sure as my name's Barrells!"
Victor and I looked at each other in hopeless despair; there was, then,
nothing for it but to undergo the extreme penalty of the law. With
hanging heads and blushing cheeks we walked between our captors; Bill,
who seemed a good-natured fellow enough, carrying the unfortunate Bold
on his shoulders. We thought our shame had reached its climax, but we
were doomed to suffer even more degradation in this our first visit to
Beverley Manor.
As we threaded the gravel path of a beautiful shrubbery leading to the
back offices of the Manor House, we met a young girl taking her
afternoon's walk with her governess, whose curiosity seemed vividly
excited by our extraordinary procession. To this day I can remember
Constance Beverley as she stood before me then, the first time I ever
saw her. She was scarcely more than a child, but her large serious dark
eyes, her noble and somewhat sad expression of countenance, gave her an
interest which mere childish beauty could never have possessed. There
are some faces that we can discern even at such a distance as renders
the features totally indistinct, as if the expression of countenance
reached us by some magnetic process independent of vision, and such a
face was that of Constance Beverley. I have often heard her beauty
disputed. I have even known her called plain, though that was generally
by critics of her own sex, but I never heard any one deny that she was
_uncommon-looking_, and always certain to attract attention, even where
she failed in winning admiration. Victor blushed scarlet, and I felt as
if I must sink into the earth when this young lady walked up to the
keeper, and asked him "what he was going to do with those people, and
why he was taking them to papa?"
Miss Constance was evidently a favourite with Mr. Barrells, for he
stopped and doffed his hat with much respect whilst he explained to her
the circumstance of our pursuit and capture. So long as he alluded only
to our poaching offences, I thought the little lady looked on us with
eyes of kindly commiseration; but when he hinted his suspicions of our
social position, I observed that she immediately assumed an air of
marked coldness, and transferred her pity to Bold.
"So you see, Miss, I does my duty by Sir 'Arry without respect to rich
or poor," was Mr. Barrells' conclusion to a long-winded oration
addressed partly to the young lady, partly to her governess, and partly
to ourselves, the shame-faced culprits; "and therefore it is as I brings
these young gentlemen up to the justice-room, if so be, as I said
before, they _be_ young gentlemen; and so, Miss Constance, the law must
take its course."
"But you'll take care of the poor dog, Barrells; promise me you'll take
care of the poor dog," was the young lady's last entreaty as she walked
on with her governess; and a turn in the shrubbery hid her from our
sight.
"_What_ a half-holiday this has been!" whispered I to my comrade in
distress, as we neared the house that had so long been an object of such
curiosity.
"Yes," replied Victor, "but it's not over yet."
Sir Harry was at the farm; we must wait for his return. Meantime we were
shown into the servants' hall; a large stone chamber devoid of
furniture, that reminded me of our schoolroom at Everdon--much as we
hated the latter, what would we have given to be there now! Cold meat
and ale were offered us; but, as may well be imagined, we had no
appetite to partake of them, although in that respect our captors set us
a noble example; remaining, however, on either side of us as turnkeys
watch those who are ordered for execution. The servants of the
household came one after another to stare at the unfortunate culprits,
and made audible remarks on our dress and general appearance. Victor's
beauty won him much favour from the female part of the establishment;
and a housemaid with a wonderfully smart cap brought him a cup of tea,
which he somewhat rudely declined. There was considerable discussion as
to our real position in society carried on without the slightest regard
to our presence. The under-butler, whose last place was in London, and
whose professional anxiety about his spoons may have somewhat prejudiced
him, gave it as his opinion that we belonged to what he called "the
swell mob"; but Mr. Barrells, who did not seem to understand the term,
"pooh-poohed" this suggestion with so much dignity as at once to
extinguish that official, who incontinently retired to his pantry and
his native obscurity. The women, who generally lean to the most
improbable version of a story, were inclined to believe that we were
sailors, and of foreign extraction; but the most degrading theory of
all, and one that I am bound to confess met with a large majority of
supporters, was to the effect that we were run-away 'prentices from
Fleetsbury, and would be put in the stocks on our return to that market
town. We had agreed not to give our names except as a last resource, my
friend clinging, as I thought somewhat hopelessly, to the idea that Sir
Harry would let us off with a reprimand, and we might get back to
Everdon without March finding it out. So the great clock ticked loudly
in the hall, and there we sat in mute endurance. As Victor had before
remarked, "it was not over yet."