Chapter 12

"A life whose waste Ravaged each bloom by which its path was traced, Sporting at will, and moulding sport to art, With what sad holiness--the human heart."

It is a bright, crisp morning, and there is a gathering round the hall door of Kerton Manor.

To the right is Sir Henry Fallowfield, already established on the broad tack of his shooting pony, an invaluable animal, that can leap or creep wherever a man can go, and steady under fire as old Copenhagen. The baronet is very gouty. The whip made out of his favorite vices cuts him up sharply at times, and he does not like it alluded to. I never saw him look so savage at Guy as when the latter quoted, _"Raro antecedentem scelestum Deseruit pede poena claudo."_ Of course, he can not walk much; but, placed in a ride, or at the corner of a cover, he rolls over the hares and pulls down the pheasants unerringly as ever; when you come up, you will find him surrounded by a semicircle of slain, and not a runner among them.

The battle of life has left its tokens on the face of the strong, skillful Protagonist. The features, once so finely cut, are somewhat full and bloated now; but it is a magnificent ruin, and there are traces yet of "the handsomest man of his day." Very expressive are his glances still; a little too much so, some people think, when he is criticising a figure or a face; but, to do him justice, _gourmandise_ is his pet weakness now, a comparatively harmless one; and a delicate _entremet_ will bring the light into his eyes that only war or love could do in the old days.

By Sir Henry's side, encouraging him with great prophecies of sport, stands Mallett, the head-keeper. What a contrast his fresh, honest face makes with the veteran _roué's_! He is the elder of the two by a good ten years, and there is scarcely a wrinkle on his ruddy cheeks and smooth forehead. Wind and weather have used him with a rough kindness, and his foot is almost as light, his hand quite as heavy, as when he entered the service of Guy's grandfather half a century ago. For generations his family have been devoted to the preservation of game; his six stalwart sons are all eminent in that line; and the "Kerton breed" of keepers is renowned throughout the Midland shires. He is a prime favorite with the village children and their mothers, for, in all respects save one, his heart is as soft as a woman's; to poachers it is as the nether millstone. There is the stain of a "justifiable homicide" on the old man's hands--the blood of an antagonist slain in fair fight, in those rough times when the forest was, and marauders came out by scores to strike its deer. I do not think the deed has weighed heavily on his conscience (though he never has spoken of it since), or troubled his healthy, honest slumbers.

To the left is Guy, repressing the attentions of four couple of strong red and white spaniels, but _not_ those of Miss Bellasys, who, standing at the oriel window of the library, is good-natured enough to fasten the band of his wide-awake for him, which has come undone. As he stands with his towering head a little bent, murmuring the "more last words," Sir Henry, contemplating the picture with much satisfaction, smacks his lips, and suggests "Omphale."

Last of all, Mr. Raymond comes slowly down the staircase, followed by his son-in-law that is to be. Forrester and I have been ready long ago, so we start.

Bruce did shoot, certainly, if discharging his gun on the slightest provocation constituted the fact; but he shot curiously ill. Indeed, he might have formed a pendant to that humane sportsman who, having taken to rural sports _sero sed serio_, said, in extreme old age, "that it was a satisfaction to him to reflect that he could not charge himself with having been, wittingly, the death of more than a dozen of his fellow-creatures."

It was a problem whereon Mallett ruminated gravely long afterward--"Wherever Mr. Bruce's shot do go to?" He could not conceive so much lead being dispersed in the atmosphere without a more adequate result. This want of dexterity, too, was thrown into strong relief that day; for all the other men, putting myself out of the question, were rare masters of the art.

Livingstone headed the list, though Fallowfield ran him hard. He got the most shots, indeed; for his knowledge of the woods and great strength enabled him always to keep close to the spaniels. He was a sight to marvel at, as he went crashing through bramble and blackthorn with a long even stride, just as if he had been walking through light springs.

At the end of the day we were all assembled outside the cover, where the game was being counted, except Bruce, who was still in the wood. A stray shot every now and then gave notice of his approach.

"We heard but the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing,"

Guy quoted, laughing.

"Random! you may say that," remarked Fallowfield. "That man ought to be in a glass case, and ticketed; he's a natural curiosity. His bag to-day consists of one hare, one hen, and one--sex unknown, for no one saw it rise or tried to pick it up; it was blown into a cloud of feathers within six feet of his muzzle. Here he comes; don't ask him what he's done--it's cruelty."

Bruce came up to us, looking rather more discontented than usual, but not nearly so savage as the keeper who had attended him all day, who immediately retreated among his fellows to relieve himself, by many oaths, of his suppressed disgust and scorn. They offered him beer, but it was no use. I heard him growl out, "That there muff's enough to spile one's taste for a fortnit."

It was the hour of the wood-pigeons coming in to roost, and several were wheeling over our heads at a considerable height.

"There's something for you to empty your gun at, Bruce," Sir. Raymond said, pointing to one that came rather nearer than the rest.

He was leveling, when Forrester cried out, "Five-and-twenty to five on the bird!"

"Done!" answered Bruce, as he pulled the trigger. It was a long and not very easy shot, but the pigeon came whirling down through the tranches with a broken pinion.

"You are unlucky in your selection, Captain Forrester," the successful shot remarked, coolly. "You might have won a heavy stake by laying the same odds all day."

"It serves you right," interposed Guy, "for speaking to a man on his shot. Don't you remember quarreling with me the other day for doing so, Charley?"

Charley's face of perplexity and disgust was irresistible. We all laughed. "What a _guignon_ I have," he said. "Mr. Raymond, I believe you were in the robbery."

"Not I," was the answer. "I was as much surprised as any one. I think," he went on, lowering his tone, "Guy is right; he changed his aim, as you spoke, involuntarily, or he _must_ have missed."

Then we turned homeward through the twilight.

I do not know if the reminiscence of his lost "pony" was rankling in Forrester's mind, or if he was only affected by the presence of Sir Henry Fallowfield--an immoral Upas, under whose shadow the most flourishing of good resolutions were apt to wither and die; but certainly, after dinner, he broke through the cautious reserve which he had always in public maintained toward Miss Raymond since Bruce's arrival. He not only talked to her incessantly, but tempted her to sing with him, during which performance they seemed rapidly lapsing into the old confidential style.

Bruce sat apart, the shades on his rugged face gradually deepening from sullenness into ferocity. He looked quite wolfish at last, for it was a habit he had to show his white teeth more when he was savage than when he smiled. But the music went on its way rejoicing,

"Unconscious of their doom, The little victims played."

Isabel was too happy, and Charley too careless to be prudent. Once I caught his glance as it crossed with Bruce's scowl. There was an expression on his pleasant face that few men had ever seen there, approaching nearly to an insolent defiance. Looking at those two, a child might have known that between them there was bitter hate.

But what of that? Are not the laws of society and the amenities of civilized life supreme over such trifles as personal animosities? How many women are there who never meet without mingling in a close embrace, when each is to the other a Brinvilliers in heart? My gentle cousin Kate, only last night I saw you greet your intimate enemy. It was the moat gushing thing I ever imagined. The kisses were profuse and tantalizing in the extreme; yet I wish, if thoughts could kill, dearest Emma's neck would have been safer in the hug of a Norway bear than in the clasp of your white willowy arms.

Are there not men, sitting constantly at each other's tables, who, in the Golden Age, when people spoke and acted as they felt, would only have encountered at the sword's point?

If we hear that our mortal foe is ruined irretrievably, we betray no indecorous exultation, but smile complacently and say, "We are not surprised;" or, if we have the chance, give him a last push to send him over the precipice on whose brink he is staggering. But as for any violent demonstration--bah! the _Vendetta_ is going out of fashion, even in Corsica, nowadays; only on the boards of the "Princess's" does it have a run.

It is better so. Is it not far more creditable and less ridiculous for two of our reverend seniors, between whom there exists a deadly feud, to comport themselves with decent reserve toward each other, than to go vaporing about on crutches, stamping the foot that is not gouty, and blaspheming in a weak, cracked treble, like Capulet and Montague? Hot rooms and cold draughts are dangerous, but not so fatal as the Aqua Tofana, and other pleasant beverages more revolting and rapid in their effects. Could any thing be more harrowing to a well regulated mind than to see, in the midst of a neatly-turned compliment, one's partner literally _look black_ at one, and expire incontinently in great torments?

It is less romantic, but I prefer to be given an unmedicated rose. When I win a pair of gloves, it is a satisfaction to me to reflect that in Houbigant or Pivert there is no venom or guile.

All these consoling thoughts, and more, passed through my mind that evening; yet I could not get rid of a strange, indistinct impression that it was only the presence of Livingstone which averted some great danger imminent over his cousin and Forrester.