Chapter 2

Sir Vane Peacock left no children, and the estates descended to his cousin, Sir Java Peacock, who, fortunately for Carlo, had been too long a witness of the evils arising from game-preserving to wish to continue them. Immediately after taking possession, the new landlord sent a note round, informing every tenant on his estate that he was at perfect liberty to shoot or course all the game he found on his own farm.

It is said that from that time Carlo dined off roast hare and currant-jelly at least once in every week for the remainder of his life.

MY NEIGHBOURS.

A COUNTRY STORY. BY WARREN RABBITT.

IN a charming retreat, upon the borders of a wood in Gloucestershire, I once enjoyed the society of some friends, named Leverett, with whom I was very intimate. They seemed to be the happiest little family in the world, subsisted mostly on the produce of their farm, and always welcomed a neighbour like myself with great hospitality. I resided at that time at a pleasant place called the Sandpits, not far from their abode, and I often looked in as I passed by, for half an hour's chat with the old lady, or to ask Jack or his brother Bob to take a stroll with me in the woods. The father was remarkable for his extreme caution, seldom went far from home, and never meddled with other people's affairs. It would have been well had his sons followed his example; but then I should not have had this tale to tell.

Close by us, at the largest farm-house in the county, there lived a Mr. Chanticleer, one of the proudest and most irritable fellows I ever had the misfortune to meet with. To see the airs with which he strutted about his farm-yard, and drove all the ducks and geese flying to make way for him, often made Jack Leverett and myself laugh: but when he went out for a walk with his wife and daughters, his consequence appeared to be increased tenfold, and one wondered where the path was broad enough for him to walk upon.

Mr. Chanticleer was extremely jealous of any intrusion upon his property, and warned off every one who did but set foot on his land. Tom Leverett knew this well enough, and knew what a pugnacious and litigious fellow his neighbour was, so he ought to have been more careful than to give Chanticleer any ground of complaint. Tom, it appears, had a great taste for botany, and often rose early to indulge in his favourite pursuit. One morning, in the ardour of his search for some particular plant, Tom crept through the hedge into one of his neighbour's fields; and so much absorbed was he in the discovery of some sweet-tasting grass which he had never before met with, that he did not notice the approach of Mr. Chanticleer, until that worthy was close upon him.

Chanticleer, it appears, always made a practice of rising early; but though Tom had distinguished his voice--so loud you might have heard it half a mile off--calling to the people in the farm-yard, he did not at all expect a visit from him in the particular field that he was examining.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Chanticleer to Tom, in an authoritative tone as he came close up to him, "may I ask what brings you here?"

"I am studying botany," replied Tom.

"Studying fiddlesticks!" cried his neighbour; "what business have you in my fields?"

"I have examined all the plants on our side," answered Tom, meekly.

"Then go back and examine them again," cried Mr. Chanticleer, putting himself in a great passion, "and don't let me see you here any more!"

"You need not be angry, sir," said Tom, "I have done no mischief."

"Angry, sir! what do you mean by angry?" spluttered out the other. "I'll teach you to tell me I'm angry!" and so saying, he thrust Tom with all his force into the hedge.

Luckily there was a gap there, and Tom was able to get through, and thus escape from any further insult. He heard Chanticleer's voice shouting after him; Tom did not stay to listen, but ran towards the wood as fast as his legs would carry him.

It so happened, that just before Tom reached home he met Captain Bulldog, an old officer of the Guards, who had retired on half-pay, with an extra pension for the loss of one of his legs, which he had left on the field, and to him Tom recounted all the circumstances of the assault. The Captain immediately told Tom that he had but one course to pursue, which was, to call Chanticleer out. Tom did not at first understand this phrase; but, on its being explained to him, his knees knocked together, and he begged the Captain to say nothing more of the matter. But the Captain, who owed Chanticleer a grudge, insisted that Tom should place himself entirely in his hands, took the poor youth to his own house, and did not let him rest till Tom had fairly indited a challenge. This the Captain had the great satisfaction of delivering personally to Mr. Chanticleer, who turned very red in the face on reading it, and made some little attempts at an apology. These the Captain would not listen to, saying, the insult was too great for apologies; and Chanticleer was at last obliged to refer him to his friend, Sir Wiley Reynard, of Underwood, to arrange a meeting.

Poor Tom! I think I see him now, as he came with his long face to tell me of the scrape he had got into.

"I would stay at home," said the unfortunate youth, with tears in his eyes, "but that I am afraid of offending Captain Bulldog, who will, perhaps, challenge me himself, if I don't fight Chanticleer; and of the two enemies," added Tom, forcing a faint smile, "you know which I should prefer."

Afterwards, Tom told me where the meeting was to be; and as I thought my young neighbour might want a friend, I determined to be near at hand.

It was about six o'clock on a cold, grey, autumn morning, that I concealed myself in a thicket by the side of Goose Common, and waited the arrival of the combatants. Captain Bulldog, with young Leverett by his side, were first on the field, and I could see that poor Tom shook in every limb. They did not wait long. A post-chaise soon came clattering along the road, and out of it jumped Sir Wiley Reynard, Doctor Crane, and Mr. Chanticleer. Sir Wiley and the Captain soon arranged the preliminaries, and Chanticleer walked boldly and jauntily to his post. Not so my friend. Poor Tom, fainthearted at all times, was now terrified to such a degree, that the Captain had absolutely to support him, or he would certainly have dropped. Presently, Sir Wiley gave the signal to fire; Tom complied at once, and sent his bullet flying somewhere above my head, about as wide of the mark as it well could be; and then, without waiting for the compliment of a return, off he started as fast as ever his legs carried him in his life, cleared the hedge at a bound, and ran straight into a thick wood. I nearly died with laughter, not only to see Tom run, but to behold the terrible look of the Captain, as he gazed after his flying friend; to watch the surprised and somewhat pleased look of Chanticleer, who seemed half inclined to fire after the fugitive; and to see the puzzled expression of Sir Wiley's face, and the comical grin on Dr. Crane's, as he tapped his box and offered the Baronet a pinch. After a few moments of silence, no one knowing what to do in such an unusual dilemma, the Captain walked up to Sir Wiley, and offered, if the Baronet were not satisfied, to fight either Mr. Chanticleer or the Baronet himself, whichever was preferred. But Sir Wiley replied very politely that he was perfectly satisfied with Captain Bulldog, and that he only regretted that the Captain should act for such a coward as Mr. Thomas Leverett. On this the Captain began abusing poor Tom so terribly, that I thought it best to beat a retreat and see after my runaway friend. When I arrived home I found him sitting in my little back-parlour, just as I expected. He had covered his face with his hands, and was crying bitterly. I comforted the poor fellow as well as I could, and did not give him the least grounds for suspecting that I had been a witness of his behaviour. In a little time he became calmer, and then he told me that the report of his own pistol had frightened him so much, that, for his life, he could not help running away.

It was not many days after this that Tom came to me again, evidently in great pain; and, from the broken sentences that escaped him, I learned that as he and his brother Bob were walking in the public road, Chanticleer had met them; and after calling Tom by every abusive name he could think of, had ended by thrashing him with a riding-whip, till the unfortunate youth could scarcely stand. I thought this was carrying the matter too far, so I walked home with him to speak to his father about it. The old gentleman was very much excited at Tom's account of the quarrel; he had not heard a word about it till that day, and said that Chanticleer should pay dearly for what he had done; and as for Tom's mother, she fainted away at first, and ended by urging her husband to prosecute that rascal Chanticleer, even if it cost them their last grain of food. She thought but little of what she was saying then, but she remembered it afterwards.

On that very afternoon old Mr. Leverett and Bob took the railway to Gloucester, and went at once to the celebrated lawyer, Mr. Sharpe Vulture, of Billocost Row. Mr. Vulture, who was just going home to dinner, and was both hungry and savage, heard their story with great impatience, told them to come again the next morning, and bade them good day. He thus saved his dinner hot, and pocketed an extra fee for an additional consultation. His client, little used to lawyers' pleasantries, thought this behaviour very strange; but as he had some relations close by the town, he resolved that he and Bob would spend the night with them, and they told me they were most hospitably entertained.

On the next morning the father and son again called on the celebrated Mr. Sharpe Vulture, and this time with better success, for that worthy recommended that Mr. Leverett should first apply to a magistrate for a warrant against Mr. Chanticleer; and, secondly, that Tom should commence an action against him for the assault.

To both these courses old Leverett offered no opposition; and on Bob's evidence Sir Simon Graveowl, a magistrate of noted wisdom, granted a warrant against Chanticleer, which Mr. Sharpe Vulture immediately gave to an active young policeman to execute. Now, it happened to be market-day at Gloucester, and as Mr. Chanticleer was a large consumer of barley, he usually attended the Corn Exchange during certain hours. This the policeman knew; so no sooner had he received the warrant than he walked straight to Mr. Chanticleer as he stood talking loudly to a large circle of friends and neighbours,--old Mr. Drake, young Mr. Gosling, Mr. Peacock, Mr. Pidgeon, Mr. Swann, and several others,--and forthwith arrested him. Poor Mr. Chanticleer! how crest-fallen he looked! All his crowing was stopped in a moment. He walked by the policeman's side in silence, and looked as much like a culprit as any thief that was ever found with the stolen goods in his possession.

The policeman, thrown off his guard by Chanticleer's quietness, walked by his side without holding him, and of this my neighbour was not slow to avail himself; for just as they had passed a narrow street, he suddenly ran back, and, with a loud noise, flew along the pavement as if twenty Sharpe Vultures were pursuing him. The policeman was not slow to follow; and when the unfortunate Chanticleer was stopped by a sentinel at the gate of the barracks, he seized his prisoner with such violence by his red neck-tie, that he almost strangled him there and then.

Old Leverett chuckled to himself, and was greatly delighted to see Chanticleer brought into the magistrate's room by two policemen, one holding him tightly by each arm. Mr. Sharpe Vulture immediately brought forward the accusation against the prisoner. Bob's evidence was taken: it was declared that Tom was too unwell from the effects of the assault to attend in person, and Mr. Chanticleer was fined five pounds. For this amount he immediately wrote an order on his bankers,--Brier, Primrose, and Whitethorn; and then, greatly to old Leverett's chagrin, the prisoner was discharged, and all parties left the court.

Mr. Sharpe Vulture advised instant proceedings at law. Accordingly, an action was brought for damages; but through some _little_ informality, the plaintiff was defeated, and had to pay his own and Mr. Chanticleer's lawyers' costs. Mr. Sharpe Vulture advised a second action, which was tried, I remember, at the Assizes just twelve months after the assault complained of. Counsel were engaged on each side. Mr. Badger was for Chanticleer, and the Hon. Mr. Muff for the Leveretts. Badger had Captain Bulldog put into the witness-box, and the whole story of the duel was told in court, making even the learned judge roar with laughter. Badger proved, beyond a doubt, that Tom had well deserved castigation for his cowardice, and that Mr. Chanticleer had only laid his whip lightly across his shoulders; that Bob, as one of the family, was not to be believed; and that the defendant bore the highest character for gentleness of disposition. The Hon. Mr. Muff proved nothing, but that he richly deserved his name, and the jury returned a verdict for the plaintiff, damages one farthing.

Poor old Leverett! this trial completely ruined him. Sharpe Vulture seized all his property, and the once happy little family were sent adrift on the wide world without a home.

The last time I heard of them, the mother and the two sons were living in an humble way not far from the sea-side; the father was dead; Tom still continued his favourite study, but he always took great care not to trespass in other people's fields.

THE DE MOUSAS.

A TALE.

IN one of those charming Italian villas lately built at Bayswater, live Mr. Persian and Lady Angora De Mousa, personages of much consequence in the society to which they belong. Late hours, and a somewhat gay life, have a little impaired Lady Angora's beauty; but she still attracts great admiration, and her husband is as proud of her as ever.

A highly respectable couple, but of plainer pretensions than the De Mousas, reside in Cypress Cottage, a small house in the adjacent Gravel-pits,--Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Tabitha Tortoshell, with a family of one son and two daughters. Mr. De Mousa is of foreign extraction, but Mr. Tortoshell claims him as a cousin by his mother's side, and is not a little proud of the relationship.

The De Mousas are in very easy circumstances, and indulge in many expensive luxuries, having Devonshire clotted cream every morning at breakfast, and a fricassee of some small deer, that they appear to be very fond of, for their supper. Their carriage is the handsomest in the villas; and _when_ they go to church, two pages always attend them.

Before the arrival of the De Mousas--for they have but lately come from abroad--the Tortoshells lived in the most unpretending way; but within the last twelve months they have started a brougham, and a livery-servant with a gold-laced collar, much to the surprise of their neighbours, who wondered what sudden good fortune had befallen them. But I am sorry to say this extravagance was all owing to the vanity of Mrs. Tortoshell, who is most anxious to be introduced into society by Lady Angora De Mousa, as you shall hear.

Mr. Tortoshell called on his cousin soon after his arrival in the neighbourhood of the Gravel-pits, and explained to him their relationship, which Mr. De Mousa, who is extremely well bred, professed great delight in hearing of, at the same time he invited the whole family of the Tortoshells to dinner on the next day. Lady Angora was not over-pleased at this arrangement, and assumed a haughty air when the Tortoshells came; but being naturally of a warm-hearted disposition, she quickly became attached to the elder daughter Minnie, though it must be confessed she showed no great partiality for the mamma. The son also, Young Tom as he was called, to distinguish him from his father, won the good opinion of Mr. De Mousa, by his shrewdness and his intimate knowledge of London life among certain classes. So the day passed pleasantly enough, and Mr. and Mrs. Tortoshell and their family all walked home with greater consequence than they had before assumed. But it happened to be a rainy evening, Mrs. Tortoshell spoiled her best velvet dress, and easily persuaded her husband that it would be more economical for them to keep a brougham. Mr. Tortoshell pretended to believe her, and bought one.

One day, about a month after, as Lady Angora and her husband were about taking their usual promenade in Kensington Gardens, they were astonished at the appearance of a footman in the smartest of liveries, who, instead of going as usual to the servants' gate, came straight up to them, and delivered a letter to Mr. De Mousa, who abruptly tore open the envelope, read the contents of the note, and handed it to his wife. Lady Angora, seeing it was an invitation from the Tortoshells to dinner on that day week, tossed her head as she gave it back, and Mr. De Mousa blandly informed the servant--a stupid lout, who had been bred in a farm-yard--that he would communicate with Mr. Tortoshell.

All down the broad walk in Kensington Gardens, all across by the flower-gardens, and all up the path by the ha-ha, Lady Angora talked of nothing but the impudence of the Tortoshells, vowing and protesting that nothing on earth should induce her to visit them. But her good-natured husband was more inclined to treat the matter as a joke, and, by dint of persuasion and raillery, before they reached home he had induced Lady Angora to accept the invitation "for this once." A polite answer was, therefore, immediately despatched.

The week elapsed. Mrs. Tabitha had worked herself into a perfect fever of anxiety; and her poor daughters, Minnie and Katty, were tired to death with their labour in carrying out their mother's injunctions. The dinner-hour was fixed for six o'clock. At half-past five Mrs. Tabitha was still adding vermicelli to the soup, Minnie and Katty were still turning out jellies and blanc-manges, and Sappy the footman was still cleaning the plate. Mr. Tortoshell was sitting uneasily by the window endeavouring to read "The Times," and young Tom was flying home from the City in a Hansom's cab at the rate of twelve miles an hour.

At a quarter past six, Mr. De Mousa and Lady Angora arrived. Neither Mrs. Tortoshell nor her daughters were ready to receive them. Sappy was in his shirt-sleeves, and the maids were not fit to be seen; so Mr. Tortoshell had to open the door, receive his company, and usher them into his drawing-room himself. Mr. De Mousa looked at his watch and said he was afraid they were early, which rather confused Mr. Tortoshell; but the cousins soon got to talking of the beautiful weather, and the beautiful moonlight nights, and Lady Angora amused herself by playing with a young kitten on the hearth-rug.

At half-past six Mr. Tortoshell said he really must see why his wife and daughter did not come, and for that purpose left the room. Lady Angora looked at her husband, who, well-bred as he was, could not help observing, with a broad smile, that "such manners were enough to make a cat laugh."

At length Mrs. Tabitha and her two daughters appeared, very smartly dressed, but not very much at their ease, and a moment afterwards Sappy announced dinner. Mr. De Mousa escorted Mrs. Tabitha with much graceful dignity, and Mr. Tortoshell followed with Lady Angora; Young Tom just rushing into the room in time to offer his attendance to his sisters, who could not but wonder what extraordinary business could have kept him so late in the City. Dinner was served. The rats'-tail soup was burnt; Lady Angora could not touch it: but Sappy, in removing the plate, managed to spill a considerable quantity over her ladyship's dress. The fish was overdone on one side, and nearly raw on the other; so her ladyship could not eat that. The fowls were old and tough; the venison had not been hung long enough, and Minnie had forgotten the currant-jelly. The blanc-mange and the ices had somehow been placed near the kitchen fire; and, to crown all, Lady Angora declared that the only dish she cared for was fricasseed mice. Mrs. Tabitha, excited to desperation, jumped up from her seat with an expression of horror, as though she had been dining with a cannibal; but the effort was too much for her, for she immediately fell back in a swoon. Minnie flew to her mamma's assistance, Katty rushed for the eau de Cologne, old Tom and young Tom both rang the bells, and did nothing but create confusion; and Mr. De Mousa and Lady Angora, without staying for a formal leave-taking, quitted the room and the house with evident precipitation.

* * * * *

Since that day the cousins have not visited. Mr. Tortoshell has discovered that a carriage is not so _very_ economical; and when by chance he meets Mr. De Mousa, his attention is sure to be attracted by something on the top of a neighbouring house. Mrs. Tabitha often reads of Lady Angora in the "Morning Post," but she has never been heard to mention that her ladyship has dined at Cypress Cottage.

ROOKWOOD HALL.

IN a quiet village in Cumberland, far retired from the great world, there stands a noble old red-brick mansion, partly in ruins, and mostly covered with ivy, which ever attracts the attention of the wayfarer who passes through that remote district. For many years Rookwood Hall--so is it called--has been in the possession of the ancient family of the Rookes; father and son have grown up beneath the shade of the grand old elms that line the majestic avenue and all but surround the mansion, and the bones of twenty generations of Rookes now lie together beneath the adjacent sod. Five years since the last of the family, Sir Whitewing Rooke, was killed as he was returning towards home on a quiet autumn evening. He was found lying under one of the tall elm-trees in the avenue, pierced with a bullet that had passed through his heart. Whether this occurred by accident or design, no one could ever tell; but there were dark suspicions afloat, and rumour said that the Rookes were not without their enemies.

Lady Rooke, the childless widow, mourned long for her husband, rarely ventured beyond the boundary of the park, but spent most of her time in endeavouring to benefit the neighbouring farmers, who had not gratitude enough even to thank her for her services.

There was one exception. Young Gamecock, the owner of a small estate adjoining Rookwood Park, was full of gratitude, and often called upon Lady Rooke to thank her for her kindness. Mr. Gamecock was an exceedingly good-looking fellow, dressed handsomely, always wore spurs, and had more manners than any other farmer within twenty miles; and, therefore, it is not to be wondered at that Lady Rooke somewhat encouraged these gratitude-visits. Her Ladyship often complained how dull and lonely she was, living without a protector in that old mansion, whose walls were covered with ghastly portraits of departed Rookes; and whose ancient casements rattled at night when the wind blew in its fitful fancies, and made the very stairs groan as it rushed up and down in its capricious impetuosity.

Young Gamecock listened to the good dame's stories, told her _he_ knew no fear, that the wind might whistle as it willed for him; and that if he owned such a mansion, that the old pictures should decorate the garrets, where the bats and sparrows held undisputed possession.