Beauchamp; or, The Error.

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER X.The Poacher's Cottage.

  If you quit the high-road from Tarningham on the right-hand side bythat little sandy path, just a hundred yards on the other side of thestone pump, equidistant from it and the mile-stone which marks on thehither side, five miles and a half from Tarningham, and walk straighton, it leads you over the moor, and through the midst of scenery verycommon in England, not much loved by ordinary ramblers, but which forme and a few others has a peculiar and almost indescribable charm. Theground is broken, undulated, full of deep sand-pits and holes,frequently covered with gorge and heath, spotted occasionally withself-sown shrubs, a stunted hawthorn here and there, two or threemelancholy firs, gathered together on the top of a mound, like a partyof weary watchers trying to console each other by close companionship,while from time to time a few light birches, with their quiveringleaves, 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 ahollow. If you dip down into one of the low dells, a sensation ofhermit-like solitude comes upon you. You believe that there at leastyou may be,

  The world forgetting, by the world forgot;

  and you feel an irresistible desire to sit down at the foot of thisshrub, or that, where the roots, like a well-governed state, serve tokeep together in close union, the light and incoherent materials thatsustain them, and there to commune with your own thoughts in thesilent presence of Nature. If you mount one of the little hills, thescene and the sensation is very different, The solitude is as deep asstriking; 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 theenjoyment of its own loneliness; but there is an expansion, agrandeur, a strange sublimity in the extent of waste, with the longlines waving off in different hues like the billows of the ocean,first yellow sand, and green short turf, then a brown mass, where thesight loses its distinctness, then perhaps a gleam of water, then ablue line, deep as indigo, where the azure air and the black shademingle together under some threatening cloud; then long undulations ofpurple, fainter and fainter, till who shall say where earth ends andsky begins. The bleakness, the stillness, the solitariness, the variedcolouring, the vast extent, the very monotony of the forms mingletogether in a whole that has not less grandeur in it than the highestmountain that ever raised its proud brow above its brother giants.

  I have said you would have to go straight on, but what I said wasquite untrue, and it is wonderful how many little falsehoods slipout of the innocent and unconscious pen, either in the haste ofwriting--which is very pardonable--or for the sake of a littlegraceful turn, a neat expression, or a pretty figure, which is not sosmall a fault. I do not believe there were ever ten sentences writtenby poet, historian, or romance-writer, in ancient or modern times,that had not some lie in them, direct or implied. I standself-convicted. It is not true that you would have to gostraightforward, for if you did you would walk into a pond, andmoreover, might never chance to get out again; for what between rushesand reeds, and weeds and water-lilies, to say nothing of sundry deepholes at the bottom, there is every risk that you would get your feetentangled, and plunge headforemost into a place where you couldneither swim or disengage yourself. No, the path does not gostraightforward. Of all man's circuitous ways, and every one whoknows the human heart, is well aware that it is too fond of crookedpaths ever to pursue a straightforward course in any thing--of allman's circuitous ways, I say, there never was one more serpentine ormeandering than that which leads from the high-road upon the moor.First it turns round that pond I have mentioned, then it glides aboutthe base of a little hill, then it forces its way in a slantingdirection, through a bank of sand, then it turns aside from a deeppit, then it respectfully passes at a little distance from a tumulus,where sleep the ashes of the forgotten brave; and even when it getsupon the flat green turf, it twists about like a great snake, givingsad indications of man's vagabond fancies that lead him hither andthither, without rhyme or reason, wherever he may be going, andwhatever may be the object before him.

  But after all, why should he not be thus led? why should be not followthese fancies? Life's but a walk over a moor, and the wild-flowersthat grow upon our path are too few not to gather them when they comewithin sight, even though it cost us a step or two aside. It's all inthe day's journey, and we shall get home at last.

  Yet it is curious to consider all these various bends and turnings inany little foot-way such as that we are now following. There is veryoften a reason for that which seems to us to be the effects of merecaprice. Now why did the fellow who first beat this road with hiswandering foot, turn away here to the right, when it is as evident asthe sun at noonday (that's to say in fine weather), that his objectwas to pass straight between those two little hillocks before us? Oh,I see, the grass is very green there; there is either some littlespring, or else the ground is soft and marshy in wet weather, and sohe went round to avoid it. But if he did so, why did he not keep tothe right of the hillock, that one with the hawthorn upon it, that isnow in flower, scenting the solitary air with a perfume that no artcould ever extract? Could it be to take a look at that wide view overthe tall, magnificent trees of the park, with the wide-spread countrybeyond, and the little tower of Tarningham church, rising up betweenthose tall silver poplars? Perhaps it might be so; for there is aninherent sense of the picturesque in the breast of most men, which,unlike any acquired taste, grows and refines, and becomes stronger andmore overpowering the more it is indulged, and the more opportunitiesof indulgence that it has. It is perhaps the only thing of which itcan be truly said that "increase of appetite grows by that it feedson." And it is a beautiful scene, too, which might well temper alittle out of the way. As to the rest it is clear enough, that when hehad got there--the first wanderer over the moor I mean--he was obligedto turn away to the right, in order to come into the proper directionagain, so that here are four of his deviations completely accountedfor, and indeed, dear reader, I cannot help thinking, that if we wereonce or twice in life to examine curiously the motives of our ownactions, or even of others, taking care to be impartial in both cases,we should find cause to cast away our critical spirit, and to believethat there are very often good and rational reasons for a turn to theright 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, howoften should we be spared the crime and folly of condemning unwiselyand unjustly.

  But to return to my path: upon my life, after having regained thedirection, the fellow has followed it straight on for more than aquarter of a mile. It is wonderful, it is marvellous! I never saw sucha thing before! But, nevertheless, it is true that there was nothingeither to attract or drive him to one side or the other; and then, asif to make up for lost time, what zig-zags he takes afterwards! Roundthat clump of firs, under that bank, through between the birch-trees,here and there over the wildest part of the moor, till he passes closeby the edge of that deep sand-pit, which must have rested a long timesince it contributed any of its crumbling particles to strew the floorof the public-house, or sprinkle the passage of the cottage; for thebushes are growing thick down the slope, and there seems as if therehad been a little kitchen-garden in the bottom, and a humanhabitation.

  In the reign of that King George, under whose paternal sceptreflourished the English nation in the times whereof I am writing, therewas 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 Ihave shown, were poor, ease and comfort seemed far from it, yet therewas something altogether not unpleasant in the idea of dwelling inthat sheltered nook, with the dry sand and the green bushes round, andfeeling, that let the wind rave as it would over the hill, let it benddown the birch-trees, and make the pines rustle and crack, and striketheir branches against each other, the fury of the tempest could notreach one there--
that let the rain pour down in ever such heavytorrents, as if the windows of Heaven were open, the thirsty groundwould drink up the streams as they fell, as if its draught wereinsatiable. There were signs of taste, too, about the building, of ahumble and natural kind. Over the door had been formed with somelabour a little sort of trellised portico, of rough wood-work, like anarbour, and over this had been trained several plants of the wild-hopand wild-clematis, with one solitary creeping garden-rose. Sticks hadbeen placed across the house, too, to afford a stay for these shrubsto spread themselves over the face of the cottage, if they had anystrength to spare, when they had covered the little portico, and twoor three wandering shoots, like truant children, were already sportingalong the fragile path thus afforded them.

  The interior of the house was less prepossessing than the outside; themud-floor, hard beaten down and very equally flattened, was dryenough, for the sand below it carried off all moisture; but in thewalls of the rooms there was, alas! many a flaw through which sun ormoon might shine, or the night-wind enter, and to say the truth, theinhabitants of the cottage were as much indebted to the banks of thepit for protection against such a cold visitant, as to theconstruction of their dwelling. The furniture was scanty and rude,seeming to have been made by a hand not altogether unaccustomed to theuse of a carpenter's tools, but hastily and carelessly, so that ingazing round the sleeping-chamber, one was inclined to imagine thatthe common tent-bed that stood in one corner was the only article thathad ever tenanted a shop. The great chest, the table, the two or threechairs, all spoke plainly the same artificer, and had that been allthat the room contained, it would have looked very miserable indeed;but hanging from nails driven into the wall, were a number of verypeculiar 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 thebrown skin of an otter; birds of prey of various sizes anddescriptions, the butcher-bird, the sparrow-hawk, and the buzzard, aswell as several owls. Besides these zoological specimens, were hung upin the same manner a number of curious implements, the properties andapplications of some of which were easy to divine, while othersremained mysterious. There were two or three muzzles for dogs, whichcould be distinguished at once, but then by their side was acurious-looking contrivance, which appeared to be a Lilliputianwire-mousetrap, sewn on to some straps of leather. Then came a largecoil of wire, a dog's collar, and a pair of greyhound-slips. Nextappeared something difficult to describe, having two saw-like jaws ofiron like a rat-trap, supported on semi-circular bars which were fixedinto a wooden handle, having a spring on the outside, and a revolvingplate within. It was evident that the jaws could be opened and keptopen in case of need, and had I been a hare, a rabbit, or any otherdelicate-footed animal, I should not have liked to trust my anklewithin their gripe. I could describe several other instruments both ofleather and iron, which were similarly suspended from the wall; but asI 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 threesmall cages, a landing-net, fishing-rods, a gun, powder-flasks,shot-belts, a casting-net, and a clap-net, and by the side of thewindow hung four small cages, containing singing-birds.

  But who was he in the midst of all this strange assortment? Was he theowner of this wild, lonely dwelling? Oh no, it was a young man dressedas none could be dressed who frequented not very different scenes fromthose that lay around him. His clothes were not only those of agentleman, but those of a gentleman who thought much of his ownpersonal appearance--too much indeed to be perfectly gentlemanly. Allthat the tailor, the boot-maker, the hat-maker could do had been doneto render the costume correct according to the fashion of the day; butthere was a certain something which may be called a too-smartnessabout it all; the colours were too bright, the cut too decidedlyfashionable, to be quite in good taste. Neither was the arrangementof the hues altogether harmonious. There are the same colours in aChina-aster and a rose, but yet what a difference in the appearance ofthe two flowers; and the same sort of difference, though not to thesame extent, existed between the dress of the person before us, andthat of the truly well-dressed man even of his own time. In most otherrespects his appearance was good; he was tall, rather slightly formedthan otherwise, and had none of that stiffness and rigidity whichmight have been anticipated from his apparel. Demeanour is almostalways tinged more or less by character, and a wild, rash, vehementdisposition will, as in his case, give a freedom to the movementswhich no drilling can altogether do away with. His features inthemselves were not bad. There was a good high forehead, somewhatnarrow indeed, a rather fine pair of eyes (if one could have seen themboth), a little close together, a well-formed nose, and a mouth andchin 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 righteye, 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 itspurpose, peeped out sundry rainbow rings of blue and yellow, invadingboth the cheek and the temple.

  By these marks the reader has already perceived that this gentlemanhas been presented to him before, but in a very different garb, whichhe had thought fit to assume for his own particular purposes on thepreceding night, and now he sat in the cottage of Stephen Gimlet thepoacher, judging it expedient to keep himself at a distance from thepeopled haunts of man, during the bright and bustling day at least. Atnight he proposed to betake himself to the inn which had beenmentioned in his conversation with the housekeeper; but after hispleasant and hopeful conversation with his father, he had riddenstraight to the dwelling of his companion, Wolf, where on thepreceding day his portmantles had been left after they had arrangedtheir plans; and having stabled his horse in a shed at the back of thebuilding, had passed the heavy hours of darkness partly in bittermeditations, and partly in conversation with his comrade. Sleep couldhardly be said to have visited his eyelids, for though after he casthimself down to rest he had dozed from time to time, yet agitatingthoughts continually returned and deprived him of all real repose.

  At an early hour of the morning, and while it was still dark, SteGimlet had gone out, as was his wont, and rising with the first raysof the sun, Henry Wittingham employed himself in dressing withscrupulous care, and then filled up about half an hour more in makinga black patch to hide his disfigured eye, out of an old silkhandkerchief. When this was accomplished, wanting something or anotherto tie this covering in its right place, he looked round the room, butin vain. Leather straps, dog-collars, rat-traps, brass wire, wouldnone of them do, and although near the nets there was lying a ball ofwhip-cord, he thought that such a decoration as a string made withthat material would but ill accord with the rest of his habiliments.He therefore walked across the little passage to the next room, andlifted the coarse wooden latch of the door. He found the door locked,however, and muttering to himself, "D--n the fellow, did he think Iwould steal any thing?" he was turning away, when a small sweet voicefrom 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 tohimself, and then raising his voice, he said, "Your daddy's not comeback, Charley, so lie still and be quiet."

  Then returning to the next room, the brilliant thought struck him ofcutting off the hem of the old silk handkerchief to make a string forthe black patch, which task being accomplished, and all complete, hesat down and thought.

  Oh, how many sorts of misery there are in the world! In giving to manhis fine organisation, in raising him above the brute by delicatestructure, by intellect, by imagination, and by infinitely extendedhope and long persisting memory, nature, indeed, did afford himinfinite sources of enjoyment, but at the same time laid him open onevery side to the attack of evils. In perfect innocence, indeed, manand his whole race might find nearly perfect happiness. The Garden ofEden is but a type of the moral Paradise of a p
erfectly virtuousstate; but the moment that Sin entered, the thorns and briars grew upto tear all feet; and the very capabilities of refined happinessbecame the defenceless points for pain and wretchedness to assail us.Infinite, indeed, are their attacks, and innumerable the forms thatthey assume; but of all the shapes of misery, what is to be moredreaded, what is more terrible than thought to a vicious mind? Andthere he sat in thought, with the morning sunshine streaming aroundhim, calm, and pure, and tranquil. The light that gave deeper depth tothe shadows of his own heart. What did he think of? Where did hismeditations rest? On the happiness that was passed away, on the gayhours of childhood, on the sports of his boyish days, on the timeswhen the world was young for him, and every thing was full offreshness and enjoyment? Or did he think of the blessing cast away, ofwealth, and comfort, and ease, with no reasonable wish ungratified, novirtuous pleasure denied? Or did he look forward to the future withfear and anguish, and to the past with remorse and grief? Heaven onlyknows, but there he sat, with his head bent forward, his browcontracted, his teeth tight shut, his right arm fallen listlessly byhis side, his left hand contracting and expanding involuntarily uponsome fragments of silk on the table. He gazed forward through thewindow, from under his bent brows. He saw not the sunshine, but hefelt it and loved it not; and ever and anon the dark shadows of strongemotion crossed his countenance like misty clouds swept over the faceof the mountain. He sat long, and was at heart impatient for hiscompanion's return; but so strong was the hold that thought had gotupon him, he knew not how time went. He heard not even the child cryin the neighbouring room, when, wearied with waiting, it got terrifiedat the unusual length of his father's absence.

  At length, however, the stout form of the poacher was seen descendingthe small steep path which led from the moor into the sand-pit. Hisstep was slow and heavy, his air dull and discontented; but HarryWittingham as soon as he beheld him started up and opened him the doorof the cottage, exclaiming, "Well, Wolf, what news?"

  "Neither the best in the world nor the worst," answered the mansomewhat 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 lookafter the boy first. Poor little man, I dare say he has cried his eyesout, I've been so long--but if you're in a great hurry, you'd betterlight the fire, Master Harry, you'll find some wood in the cornerthere, and you can strike a light with the pistol flint."

  Harry Wittingham did not look well pleased, and turning into the houseagain walked to the window, and affected to hum a tune, withoutundertaking the menial office that the other had assigned him. In themeanwhile, Wolf walked straight to the other door, unlocked it, andcatching up the beautiful boy, who was sitting half dressed on a stoolcrying, he pressed him eagerly to his breast, and kissed him once ortwice. There were strange and salutary thoughts passed through hisbrain at that moment. He asked himself what would have become of thatchild if he had been detained and taken to prison, as indeed had beenvery likely. Who would have let the boy out of that solitary room--whowould have given him food--who would have nursed and tended him? Andonce or twice while he was finishing what the child's tiny hands hadleft undone, in attempting to dress himself, the father rubbed hisbrow, and thought heavily. Say what man will of the naturalaffections, they are the best ties to good conduct.

  When he had done, he took the boy by the hand and led him into theother room, gave a glance to the fireplace, and then to HarryWittingham as he stood at the window, and his brow gathered into afrown. He said nothing, however, lighted the fire himself, and takingthe fish from his pocket proceeded to broil them. Then from the greatchest he drew out a knife or two, a cut loaf of coarse bread, and twoor three glasses, which he placed upon the table, and giving his childa large hunch of the bread, told him in a whisper, as if it were amighty secret, that he should have a nice trout in a minute. To HarryWittingham he said not a word, till at length the other turning roundexclaimed, "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 keepyour hands clean, you are mistaken. You must shape your manners toyour company, or give it up."

  Harry Wittingham felt inclined to make an angry answer; butrecollecting how much he was in his companion's power, prudence cameto his aid, and he only replied, "Pooh, pooh, Wolf, I am notaccustomed 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 Ibuilt all this house and made all these chairs and tables with my ownhands, I knew as little about a trade I never thought to practise, asyou about this."

  "Ay, you have practised many a trade in your day," said HarryWittingham, "and I never but one."

  "Nor that a very good one," murmured Wolf to himself; but the stormthus passed away for the time, and the trout were broiled and put in aplate, from which the two men and the little boy made each a heartymeal.

  The magistrate's son suffered their breakfast to pass over withoutmaking any further inquiry respecting the tidings which his companionhad obtained in his morning's expedition; but after Ste Gimlet hadproduced a bottle of very fine white brandy, which certainly had notturned pale at the sight of a custom-house officer, and each had takena glass mixed with some of the cold water which formed the purerbeverage of the child, the poacher vouchsafed the information unasked,relating to Harry Wittingham a great part of what had taken placebetween himself and Ned Hayward. What he did not relate he probablythought of no consequence, though men's opinions might perhaps differupon that subject; but at all events Harry Wittingham gathered that hehad been met and narrowly escaped being apprehended by a man, who hadquestioned him closely about the adventures of the night before andwho was acquainted with his name, and the share he had had in asomewhat perilous and disgraceful enterprise.

  Such tidings cast him into another fit of dark and gloomy thought, inwhich he remained for about five minutes without uttering a word; butthen he gave a start, and looked up with a gleam of satisfaction onhis face, as if some new and pleasant conclusion had suddenlypresented 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 canabout this fellow--find out who he is, and whether he is a London beakor not; and then when you have done all that--"

  "I shall do none of it, Master Harry," answered the poacher, "I won'tstir another step in this business--I don't like it, Sir; it's not inmy way. I undertook it just to please you for old companionship'ssake, 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 wellenough that she liked the thought of going as much as I should like todance on a rope. But I will have no more to do with it now; it hasdone me enough harm already, and now I shall be watched ten timescloser than ever, and lose my living--so go, I do not."

  "Come, come, Wolf, there's a good fellow--this is all nonsense," saidHarry 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 ablasphemous oath, "if you are afraid, I am not."

  And starting up, he walked out of the cottage, took his way round tothe shed at the back, trampling upon several of the flowers, which thepoacher loved to cultivate, as he went; and in about a quarter of anhour he was seen riding up the little path towards the moor.

  After he was gone, Ste Gimlet remained for some time in verythoughtful mood: now gazing idly at vacancy, now playing with thechild's hair, or answering its infantine questions with an abstractedair. At length he muttered, "What's to be done now?" and then addedaloud, "well, something must be done. Go out and play in the garden,Charley."

  The child toddled out right gladly, and the poacher set himself downto mend his bird-net; but ever and anon
he laid down the cunningmeshes on his knee, and let his thoughts entangle themselves in linksnot 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 whenshe was gone. Well, I'll try and do better. Perhaps she is lookingdown on us--who knows?"

  And then he fell to his work again with a sigh. He employed himselfwith several things for two or three hours. He finished the net; hemade a wicker-basket--it was the first he had ever attempted, but hedid it better than might have been expected, and then he called theboy in to his dinner, giving him a trout he had saved when he broiledthe others; for his own part he contented himself with a lump of thebread. When that was done, he went and caught some small birds on themoor, just above the edge of the pit, where he could see the childplaying below. When he had thus provided their light supper--for theluxury of tea was unknown in Ste Gimlet's cottage, he came back andsat down by the boy, and played with him fondly for several minutes,gazing at him from time to time with a melancholy earnestness, whichmingled even with the smile of joy and pride that lighted his eyes, assome movement of childish grace called forth the beauties of hischild. Nevertheless, from time to time, there was a sort of absentlook, and twice he went up to the bank above and gazed out over themoor towards Tarningham. At length he went away far enough to climb tothe top of the neighbouring barrow or tumulus, after having told theboy not to venture up the path. From the position in which he thenstood, he had a fair view of the scene I have already described, andcaught the windings of the high road down the hill more distinctlythan from below.

  "I shouldn't wonder if they had caught him," said Wolf to himself witha frown, and an anxious expression of countenance, "and then he willsay it was my fault, and that I was afraid to go, and all that--Hangit! why should I care what he says or what he thinks!" And with thisreflection he turned round and went back homeward. He found the boy atthe top of the bank, however, and gave him a gentle shake, scoldinghim till the big drops began to gather in his large blue eyes.

  Stephen Gimlet was not satisfied with himself, and scolding the childhe found did not act as a diversion to his own self-reproaches. Afterhe had set his son playing again, he walked about moodily for near aquarter 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'llknow 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'sgrowing late, and I'm going away--I shan't be long, and you shall havethe bird-cages to play with."

  The boy seemed to be well accustomed to it, and trotted away to thehouse before his father, without any signs of reluctance. He wasplaced in the same room where he had been in the morning, some emptybird-cages and two or three other things were given him for hisamusement, and locking the door of the chamber, the poacher walkedaway, saying with a sigh, "There can no harm happen this time, for Iam going to do no wrong to any one."

  Vain, however, are all such calculations. The faults and virtues ofothers as well as our own faults and virtues, enter into the strangecomposition of our fate, and affect us darkly and mysteriously in amanner which we can never foresee. If we reflected on the eve ofaction on the number of beings throughout all time, and throughout ourwhole race, who may be affected, nay, who must be affected by any deedthat we are about to perform, how many men would never act at all fromhesitation, how many would still act rashly and heedlessly as they donow, from the impossibility of seeing the results. Happy is he whoacts deliberately, wisely, and honestly, leaving the consequences witha clear conscience to Him who governs all aright.

  The poacher had left his own door about a quarter of an hour, when twomen took their way down into the sand-pit, the one on horseback, theother on foot. Harry Wittingham fastened his horse's bridle to thelatch of the door, and going in with his companion looked round forWolf, 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 hepointed to his portmanteau in the corner where it lay.

  The other man, who seemed a common farm-servant, or one of theinferior stable-men of an inn, got the portmanteau on his shoulder,and walked away with it, and Harry Wittingham remained for a minute ortwo with his hands behind his back looking out of the window. At theend of that time he said aloud: "Well, it's no use waiting for him, weshould 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, withan expression of mockery and contempt. What was in his bosom, it wouldbe 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 ownerof that poor tenement, even for a night's shelter, and strove to salvethe wound of pride by reducing the obligation to the lowest point inhis own estimation. He might think that the misery he saw around didnot make it a very desirable resting-place, and that he had little tobe thankful for in having been permitted to share a beggar's hut. Hiseyes, as he looked around, fell upon some embers of smouldering woodon the hearth, and that called to mind one of the many bad habitswhich he had lately acquired, and in which he had not yet indulgedthrough the whole of that day. He accordingly put his hand in hispocket, and pulled out some cigars, then not very common in England.Next taking up with the tongs, a piece of the charred and stillburning wood, he lighted one of the rolls of weed, cast down theember, and threw the tongs back upon the hearth; after which, mountinghis horse, he cantered away as blithely as if his heart had beeninnocent as a child's.

  The embers fell upon the earthen floor, where, under ordinarycircumstances they could do no harm; but it so happened that StephenGimlet, when he had done mending the net, had cast down the hank oftwine close by the table. A long end of the string had fallen towardthe fireplace, and a moment or two after Henry Wittingham had quittedthe cottage, the piece of charred wood itself became black, but asmall spot of fire was seen close to it, and a thin filing curl ofsmoke arose. It went on smouldering for about five minutes, creepingforwards inch by inch, and then a gust of wind through the door, whichhe had left open, fanned it, and a flame broke out. Then it ranrapidly along, caught the hank of twine, which was in a blaze in amoment. It spared the netting-needle, which was of hard box-wood, andfor an instant seemed to promise to go out of itself; but then theflame leaped up, and the meshes of the net which had been left partlyon the table, partly on a chair, showed a spark here and there,flashed with the flame, and then, oh, how eagerly the greedy elementcommenced devouring all that it could meet with! Wherever there was apiece of wood-work it seized upon it; the table, the chair, the polesof the net, the upright posts of the wall, the beams of the roof, thethatch itself, and then instantly a cloud of dull black smoke, mixedwith sparks, rose up upon the moor, from the sand-pit. The heat becameintense, the smoke penetrated into the other chamber, the sparks beganto fall before the window, a red light spread around, and then theterrified screams of a child were heard.

  About a quarter of an hour before, a gentleman had appeared upon themoor, from the side of Sir John Slingsby's park. He had come up thehill as if he were walking for a wager, for there was something in theresistance of the acclivity to his progress, which made the vigorousspirit of youth and health resolute to conquer it triumphantly. Whenthe feat was done, however, and the hill passed as if it had been apiece of level ground, Ned Hayward slackened his pace and looked abouthim, enjoyed to the full all that the wide expanse had of grand andfine, breathed freer in the high air, and let the spirit of solitarygrandeur sink into his heart. He had none of the affected love of thepicturesque and the sublime, which make the folks who assume thepoetical so ridiculous. He was rather inclined to check what peoplecall fine feelings than not; he was inclined to fancy himself, and tomake other people fancy him a very commonplace sort of person, and hewould 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, forthe life of him, feeling every thing that was beautiful and great,more than he altogether liked, so that, when in society, he passed itoff with a touch of persiflage, putting that sort of shield over whathe felt to be a vulnerable point. Now, however, when he happened to bealone, he let Nature have her way, and holding his riding-whip by bothends, walked here and walked there, gazing at the prospect where hecould get a sight of it, and looking to the right and the left as ifnot to let any point of loveliness escape him. His eyes soon fell uponthe little tumulus already mentioned, with the sentinel fir-treeskeeping guard upon the top, and thinking that there must be a goodlook-out from that high position, he walked slowly up and gazed overthe park towards Tarningham. Suddenly, however, his eyes werewithdrawn, as a cloud of white smoke came rolling up out of thesand-pit.

  "Ha, ha!" he said, "my friend Master Wolf lighting his fire Isuppose."

  But the smoke increased. Ned Hayward thought he saw some sparks risingover the bushes. A sudden sensation of apprehension crossed his mind,and he walked rapidly down the side of the hillock, and crossed theintervening space with a step quick in reality, though intended toappear leisurely; but in a moment a cloud of deeper-coloured smoke,tinged with flame, burst up into the evening air, and he sprangforward at full speed. A few bounds brought him to the side of thepit, and as he reached it a scream met his ear. It was the easilyrecognised voice of childhood, in terror or in pain, and Ned Haywardhesitated not an instant. There was a path down a couple of hundredyards away to the left, but the scene before his eyes counselled nodelay. There was the cottage, with the farther part of the thatch allin a blaze, the window of the room beneath it fallen in, and the flamerushing forth, a cloud of smoke issuing from the door, and screamafter scream proceeding from the nearer end of the building. Hisriding-whip was cast down at once, and grasping the stem of thebirch-tree rooted in the very edge, he swung himself over, thinking todrop upon a sloping part of the bank about ten feet below. The filmyroots of the shrub, however, had not sufficient room hold upon thesandy soil to sustain his weight; the tree bent, gave way, and camedown over him with a part of the bank, so that he and his frailsupport rolled together to the bottom of the pit. He was up in aninstant, however he might be hurt or he might not, he knew nothingabout it, but the shrill cry of the child rang in his ear, and hedarted forward to the cottage-door. It was full of fire, and dark withsuffocating vapour, but in he rushed, scorching his hair, hands, hisface, and his clothes, found the other door blackened, and in someplaces alight with the encroaching fire, tried to open it but failed,and then shouted aloud, "Keep back, keep back, and I will burst itopen," and then, setting his foot against it, he cast it with avigorous effort into the room. A momentary glance around showed himthe child, who had crept as near to the window as possible, and,darting forward, Ned Hayward caught the boy up in his arms, and rushedout with him, covering his head with his arm, that none of the beams,which were beginning to fall, might strike him as they passed, thensetting him down on the green turf when they were at a littledistance, he asked eagerly, "Are there any more?"

  The child, however, stupified with terror, gazed in his face and criedbitterly, but answered not. Seeing he could obtain no reply, NedHayward ran back to the cottage and tried to go in again, but it wasnow impossible; the whole way was blocked up with burning rafters, andlarge detached masses of the thatch, which had fallen in, and were nowsending up vast showers of sparks, as the wind stirred them. Hehurried to the window and looked in, and though the small panes werecracking with the heat, he forced it open, and shouted at the extremepitch of his voice, to drown the rushing sound of the fire, "Is thereany one within?"

  There was no answer, and the moment after, the dry beams being burntaway, and the support at the other end gone, the whole thatch abovegave way, and fell into the room, the flame above carried up into aspire 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, andafter a moment's thought, the gentleman said to himself, "I will carryhim away to Tarningham House. Jack Slingsby will never refuse him foodand shelter, I am sure, and in case there should be any one else inthe place it is vain to hope that one could save them now. We can sendup people to look for the bodies. But let us see what's at the back ofthe house." He accordingly walked round, still carrying the boy in hisarms, but found nothing there, except a low detached shed, whichseemed in security, as the wind blew the other way. A long trough andspout, indeed, between the shed and the cottage, seemed in a somewhatperilous position, and as it was likely that they might lead the fireto the building yet uninjured, Ned Hayward thought fit to remove thembefore he left the ground. This cost him some trouble, as they wererooted in the sand; but when it was once accomplished he took up theboy again, sought his hat, and crossing the moor, entered the westerngates of Sir John Slingsby's park without meeting any one from whom hecould obtain information, or to whom he could communicate the eventwhich had just occurred.