The Star-Gazers

Volume Two – Chapter Five.

The Setting of a Dog’s Star

The gentlemen were seated over their claret at the Hall, and the party had become very quiet. Sir John had been preaching on the subject of the value of a cross of the big, coarse, wool-bearing Lincolnshire sheep with the Southdown, as being likely to prove advantageous, the Lincolnshire sheep giving increased wool-bearing qualities, while the lamb would inherit the fine properties of its mother’s mutton.

At the words mutton and Southdown lamb, Rolph had pricked up his ears for a moment, since they had suggested under-done chops and cuts out of good haunches, with the gravy in grand supplies of stamina to an athlete; but the suggestion came at the wrong end of the dinner, and, with a yawn, the captain had wished Sir John and his pigs and sheep at Jericho, and begun thinking of his coming match with the Bayswater Stag for a hundred pounds a side, a race for which he told himself he was in training now, though his proceedings in the way of wines and foods would have horrified a trainer and frightened his backers into fits of despair.

When Sir John had had his innings, the major began to talk about the translation of a paper by Friés, on the persistency of certain forms of parasitic fungi in the lower plants. To make himself a little more comprehendible to his companions, he kept introducing the word mushroom into his discourse, with the effect of bringing back Rolph’s wandering attention, and rousing Sir John from the doze into which he was falling.

Both gentlemen saw mushrooms directly, through a medium of claret, and while the major was thinking of spores, mycelium, and rapid generation, Sir John and the captain saw mushrooms growing, mushrooms cooked, mushrooms in rich sauces, but always of a deep purply claret colour, that was pleasant to the eye.

“Hang ’em, they’ll drive me mad between ’em,” thought Rolph. “I wonder how much of this sort of thing a man could stand. Offend the old buffers or no, I must go and have a cigar.”

“Yes, what is it?” said Sir John, starting out of a doze.

“Morton would like to speak to you, Sir John.”

“Morton; what does he want?” said Sir John. “Send him in.”

A good deal of shoe wiping was heard outside, and a fine-looking, elderly man, whose velveteens proclaimed his profession, entered, to bow to all three gentlemen in turn.

“Sorry to trouble you, Sir John, but I’ve got information that a party from out Woodstay way, sir, are coming netting and snaring to-night.”

“Confound their impudence!” cried Sir John, leaping from his chair. “What the deuce do you mean, standing staring there like a fool, man? Why don’t you get the helpers and the watchers together, and go and stop the scoundrels?”

“Men all waiting, Sir John,” said the keeper, quietly, “but I thought you and the captain would like to be there, and the major could give us a bit of advice as to plans, Sir John.”

“Quite right, Morton. Of course. Quite right. Take a glass of wine. Here’s a claret glass. You won’t have claret though, I suppose.”

“Thank ye, kindly, Sir John, but you give me a glass of port last time.”

“And you haven’t forgotten it, Morton? Quite right. It’s a fine port. Help yourself, man. We’ll change, and be with you directly. You’ll come, Rolph?”

“By George, yes,” cried the captain, whose face had flushed with excitement. “I’m ready there.”

“You’ll come, Jem?”

“To be sure – to be sure,” said the major, rubbing his hands. “We’ll have a bit of tactics here.”

Ten minutes later, Sir John and the major, each carrying a heavy staff, and Rolph, armed with a gun, were following the keeper along one of the paths leading to the fir woods, and with a great mastiff dog close at the keeper’s heels.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the keeper, touching his hat, as they drew near to where a knot of men were gathered waiting for them, “but I wouldn’t use that gun.”

“Oh, it’s only loaded with Number 7, Morton,” said the captain. “I sha’n’t fire; but if I did, it would only pepper them.”

The man drew back, muttering to himself, “I saw a chap shot dead with Number 7, and they wasn’t chilled shot, neither. I’ve done my duty, though.”

There were six men waiting, all armed with short staves, and looking a steady set of fellows as Sir John cast his eye over them, and now increased to ten by the coming of the little party from the Hall, they looked more than a match for any gang of poachers likely to be met, and he said so.

“I don’t know, Sir John,” said the keeper, sturdily. “I haven’t much faith in ’em. If it warn’t for the show they’ll make, I’d as soon trust to you, Sir John, the major, the captain, and Nero here. They’re safe to run, some of ’em, if it comes to a fight. That chap of the captain’s, Thompson, has got arms like pipe shanks, and two of the helpers about as much pluck as a cuckoo.”

“Oh, they’ll fight if it comes to the proof, I daresay,” said Sir John. “How are you, my lads; how are you?” he continued, as they came up. “Now, then, if we come across the scoundrels, we must take all we can. There’s no excuse for poaching. I’d give any man out of work in the parish something to do on the farm. So it’s as bad as stealing, and I’ll have no mercy on them. Now, Morton, what are you going to do?”

“Well, Sir John, from what I can understand, they’re coming with their nets and dogs to scour the meadows and the cut clover patches. There’s a sight of young birds there, as I know. They’ve got to know of it, too, somehow; and I propose, if the major thinks it right, to ’vide ourselves in three. You and me, Sir John, with one man and the dog, and the major and the captain take the other two parties, and lay up till we see ’em come.”

“But how shall we know which way they’ll come?” said Sir John.

“They’ll come over the common from Woodstay way, Sir John, through the fir wood, and down at once into the long meadow, safe. We’ll take one side, the major the other, and Captain Rolph the bottom of the meadow. We’ll let them get well to work, and then when I whistle all close in, and get as many of ’em as we can. We shall be sure of their nets anyhow, but when I whistle they’ll scatter, and I don’t suppose we shall catch more’n one or two.”

“Capital plan,” said the major. “Why, you would have made a good general, Morton.”

“Thank ye, sir,” said the keeper, touching his hat. “All ready there? Long Meadow.”

It was a soft, dark night, with not a breath of wind to chase the heavy clouds that shrouded the sky. There was no talking – nothing to be heard but the dull tramp of feet, and the rustling noise made by the herbage and heather brushing against the leather leggings worn by the men who followed the lead of the keeper and his dog.

There was about half a mile to go to reach the indicated spot, and the blood of both Rolph and the major seemed to course a little more rapidly through their veins as the one hailed the prospect of a bit of excitement with something like delight, and the other recalled night marches and perilous episodes in his old Indian campaigning life, and then sighed as he compared his present elderly self with the smart, dashing young officer he used to know.

“Halt here!” said Sir John, interrupting the musings of his brother; and from where they stood, they could dimly make out the extent of the long open space, with fir plantations on either side, a patch of alder in the damp, boggy space where they stood, and about two hundred yards away, right at the top of the slight slope, there was something black to be seen against the sky – something black, that by daylight would have resolved itself into a slope of tall firs.

This was the part that the poachers were expected to traverse, and the three parties were therefore stationed according to the plan, and for three hours they waited in utter silence, hidden in the plantations and the alder clump.

Sir John had begun to mutter at the end of the first hour, to grumble at the end of the second, and he was growling fiercely at the end of the third, when the keeper suddenly started up.

“What is it?” said Sir John, as the dog uttered a low whine.

“They’ve circumvented us, Sir John,” replied the keeper, angrily. “They’ve trapped me into the belief that they were coming here to-night, and they’ve been netting Barrows, I’ll be bound.”

“Confound the scoundrels!” cried Sir John. “What an idiot you must have been!”

“Yes, Sir John, I was,” said the keeper, calmly; “but they won’t have more than finished, and they’ve got to get home. I may be too many for them yet.”

Hastily summoning the party on his left, the keeper led them to the weary, cramped party on his right.

“This way; quick!” he said; and the sluggish blood began to flow once more with the excitement, as he led them rapidly along the meadow, right up the fir slope through the trees, and out into the lane on the other side.

Here he paused and listened for a few moments, and then started off once more to where another clump of firs made the aspect of the night more dark.

Beneath the trees it was blacker, but the keeper well knew his way, and at the end of a few minutes he had spread out his forces some fifteen yards apart, with a whispered word to be on the alert.

“They’re sure to come through here,” he whispered, “Down on the first man you see. We shall hear you, and will come and help.”

General like, the keeper had selected the middle of the line for himself, and placed the trustiest men near where he believed that the poachers would come, Rolph being on his right, the major and Sir John upon his left.

“They won’t come – it’s all a hoax,” said Sir John, who was tired of waiting, and the words were hardly out of his lips before the mastiff uttered a muttered growl, and directly after there was the tramp of feet over the pine needles which, as it came nearer, told plainly of there being a strongish gang at work.

Sir John’s party kept perfectly quiet, save that a couple of the men began to close up so as to be ready when the signal was given, while apparently quite free from apprehension, the poachers came on talking in a low voice, till they were close upon Sir John, when the keeper gave a shrill whistle, sprang up, and shouted to his men.

“Stand back all of you,” cried a stern voice.

“Give up, you scoundrels, the game’s over,” cried Sir John. “Close in, my lads.”

He dashed forward at once, and the major and keeper well seconded his efforts, but the latter received a heavy blow on the forehead, and went down, felled like an ox, the major was tripped up, and the man whom Sir John attacked proved too much for him, getting him down and kneeling upon his chest.

“Shoot them if they come, and then step forrard,” cried a shrill harsh voice, and four reports followed, the poachers sending the shot rattling in amongst the branches over the watchers’ heads, the pine needles and twigs pattering down, and the result was that Thompson, Captain Rolph’s man, began to retire very rapidly in one direction, closely followed by two more, and while others from the right flank also beat a retreat.

The scuffle that took place to right and left was soon over, the keeper’s followers not caring to risk their lives in an encounter with armed and desperate men. There was the sound of blows and another shot or two from the poachers, who were eight or nine in number, under the guidance of the man who had felled the keeper, and got Sir John down.

“It’s all right, my lads,” growled a voice. “Tie ’em well and let’s be off.”

“Here, rope!” said a fresh voice; and then there was another scuffle, as Sir John and the major were forced over on their faces, and their wrists tied behind them.

“Here, help! Rolph, Rolph!” cried Sir John.

“Hold your row, or – ”

There was a dull sound like the blow of the butt of a gun on a man’s head, and Sir John uttered a furious oath.

“I’ll have you before me, yet, you dog!” he cried.

“And commit me for trial then,” said the man with a laugh. “Not this time. Now, my lads, ready?”

“Ay.”

“Off!”

“Halt!”

There was a fierce murmur at this last command, uttered in a good ringing military voice, and Sir John’s heart leaped, and the major thought better of the speaker than he had ever thought before, as they both recognised the voice.

“Down with him, lads, he’s only one,” growled another.

“Halt, or by Gad I’ll fire,” cried Rolph again.

It all happened in an instant. There was the sound of a blow, which the captain received on his left arm; of another which came full upon his head, and then there was a flash, cutting the darkness and lighting up the faces of a group of men, a ringing report, and a moan, as Rolph fell back heavily to the ground.

What followed was a hurried muttering of voices amid painful, hoarse breathing, and, in the darkness, the major could just make out that men were lifting a burden.

“Who’s hurt?” cried Sir John. “Do you hear? – who’s hurt?”

There was no answer, only the trampling of feet rapidly receding; and it was the major who now spoke.

“Jack,” he cried, “I can’t move; I’m tied, I’m afraid it’s Rolph.”

“God forbid!” groaned Sir John.

“Curse the brutes! Here, my arm’s smashed,” muttered someone, struggling to his feet. “Hi, Sir John! – Major!”

“You, Rolph? Thank heaven!” cried Sir John. “I was afraid you were killed. Where’s Morton?”

“Here, Sir John,” said a faint voice.

“Don’t say you’re shot, man.”

“No, Sir John. Crack on the head.”

“Then who is hurt?” said the major. “Here, someone, untie or cut this line.”

“I’m a bit hurt,” said Rolph; “arm bruised, and a touch on the head, too.”

“But someone must have been shot. Did you fire?” said Sir John.

“I think I did. Yes,” said Rolph, “I got a crack on the arm, and I had a finger on the trigger.”

“Then someone is down,” cried Sir John. “Where are our men?”

“Gone for help, I think,” said the major drily, as Rolph succeeded in loosening Sir John’s hands.

“The cowardly scoundrels!” roared Sir John. “Here, let’s pursue the poachers.”

“No, no,” said the major. “We’re defeated this time, Jack, and they’ve retired. Thank you, Morton. I think we four made a good fight of it, and – ah, poor fellow!” he cried, bending down. “Nero, Nero, good dog then.”

In the darkness they could just see the great dog make an effort to reach the major’s hand, but the attempt resulted in a painful moan; a shudder, a faint struggle, and death.

“I’ll swear it was not my shot killed him,” cried Rolph excitedly.

“Say no more about it,” said Sir John; “it was an accident. I’d sooner one of the scoundrels had had it in his skin, though. I wouldn’t have taken fifty pounds for that dog.”

“Poor old fellow!” said the major, who was kneeling beside the dog, and he stroked the great ears; “but,” he added softly to himself, “I’ve had enough of blood: thank God it was not a man.”

A series of loud whistles brought back some of the scattered forces, the men meeting with such an ovation from Sir John that they began to think they had better have had it out honourably with the poachers; and then a stout sapling was cut down, and the dog’s paws being tied, he was carried home to the stable-yard on the shoulders of two watchers.

After this, there was much beer drinking in the servant’s-hall, and much discussion in the library, where a piece of sticking-plaister was sufficient to remedy Rolph’s wound, his arm was bathed, and Glynne did not faint.

Rolph soon after retired for the night, the major noting that he was looking very pale and uneasy. Twice over he went and looked at himself in the glass, and once he shuddered and stood staring over his shoulder, as if expecting to see someone there.

“Man can’t help his gun going off in the excitement of an action,” he said slowly. “What a fool I was not to own up that I had shot the big dog.”

“Well, they shouldn’t poach,” he muttered at last; and, lighting a cigar, he sat smoking for an hour before going to bed to sleep soundly, awake fairly fresh the next morning, and go out for what he termed “a breather.”

Volume Two – Chapter Six.

Errant Courses

Lucy Alleyne was very pretty. Everybody said so – that she was pretty. No one said that she was beautiful. Now, Lucy was well aware of what people said, and, without being conceited, she very well knew that what people said was true. In fact, she often admired her pretty little retroussé nose and creamy skin in the glass, and, with a latent idea that she ought to preserve her good looks as much as possible for some one. She thought of the favoured person as “some one,” and tried in every way possible to lead a healthy life.

To attain the above end, she strove hard to improve her complexion. It did not need improving, being perfect in its shades of pink and creamy white, that somehow put him who gazed upon her in mind of a Gloire de Dijon rose; but she tried to improve it all the same, laughingly telling herself that she would wash it in morning dew, or rather let Nature perform the operation, as she went for a good early walk.

The pine woods and copses looked as if trouble could never come within their shades, and the last thing any one would have dreamed of would have been the possibility of men meeting there with sticks, bludgeons, and guns, ready to resist capture on the one side, to effect it on the other, and, if needs be, use their weapons to the staining of the earth with blood.

No news of the past night’s encounter had reached The Firs. Moray Alleyne, while watching the crossing of a star in the zenith over certain threads of cobweb in the field of his transit instrument had heard the reports of guns; but he was too much intent upon his work to pay heed to what was by no means an unusual circumstance. Lucy, too, had started into wakefulness once, thinking she heard a sound, but only to sink back to her rest once more; and as she walked that morning she saw no sign of struggle, though, had she turned off to the right amongst the pines, she might have found one or two ugly traces, as if a burden had had been laid down by those who bore it while they rested for a few minutes, and while a bit of rough surgery was being performed.

The lovely silvery mists were hanging about in the little valleys, or curling around the tops, as if spreading veils over the sombre pines, patches of which, as seen in the early morning sunshine, resembled the dark green and purple plaid of some Scottish clan; and as Lucy reached the edge of the far-stretching common land, dazzled by the brilliancy of the sunshine, and elated by the purity of the morning air, she paused to enjoy the beauty of the lovely scene around.

“How stupid people are!” she said half aloud. “How can they call this place desolate and ugly. Why, there’s something growing everywhere, and the gorse and broom are simply lovely.”

There was a soft moisture in her pretty eyes, as they rested on the blue-looking distant hills, the purple stretches of heather, and the rich green lawnlike patches of meadow land, saved from the wilds around. Between the hills there were dark shadowy spots, upon them brilliant bits of sunshine, while on all sides the gauzy, silvery vapours floated low down, waiting for the sun, as it increased in power, to drink them up, and after them the millions of iridescent tiny globules that whitened the herbage like frost.

The birds were singing from every patch of woodland in the distance; there was the monotonous “coo coo, coo —coo, coo-hoo-coo!” of a wood-pigeon in the pine tops singing his love-song that he always ends in the middle, and far out over the heathery common lark after lark was circling round and rising, in a wide spiral, up and up into the blue sky as it poured forth the never-wearying strain.

“People are as stupid and as dense as can be,” said Lucy. “Ours is a grim-looking home, I know, but oh! how beautiful the country is – I wouldn’t live anywhere else for the world.”

There seemed to be no reason for a blush to come into Lucy’s cheeks at this declaration, but one certainly did come, like a ruddy cloud over their soft outline, as she glanced back at the blank-looking pile with the hideous brick additions made by Alleyne for his instruments and observations. Not so much as a thread of smoke rose yet, from either of the chimneys, for Eliza was only at the point that necessitated a vexed rub occasionally at her nose with the woody part of a blacklead brush; Mrs Alleyne was dreaming of her son; and her son, who sought his pillow a couple of hours before – after a long watch of his star as it climbed to the zenith and then went down – to lie and think of Glynne Day, and ask himself whether he was not a scoundrel to allow such thoughts to enter his breast.

“How good it is to get up so early,” thought Lucy, aloud; and then she stepped lightly over the dewy grass, marked down the spot where several mushrooms were growing, and then stepped on to the sandy road.

“I wish Moray would get up early,” she thought, “it would be so nice to have him for a companion; but, poor fellow, he must be tired of a morning. I know what I’ll do,” she cried suddenly. “I’ll get Glynne to promise to meet me two or three times a week, whenever it’s fine, and we’ll go together.”