CHAPTER XXX.--THE GENERAL TAKES THE FIELD.

The interview which Lewis had witnessed between Lord Bellefield and the girl dwelt in his thoughts, and was a source of much doubt and uneasiness to him. The quiet, secluded life he had led for the last year affording ample time for meditation--the almost total want of society (for poor Walter was no companion)--the peculiar position in which he was placed, shut out from all the pleasures and excitements natural to his age and taste--had given an unusually reflective turn to his vigorous mind, and produced in him a gravity and depth of character, to which, under different circumstances, he might never have attained. Thus, in the views he took of life, he was accustomed to look beyond the surface, and deeming it unworthy of a believer in the truths of Christianity to attribute events to the mere caprice of a blind destiny, was rather disposed to trace in such occurrences the finger of a directing Providence, and to consider them as opportunities purposely thrown in our way, for the use or abuse of which we should one day be called to account, as for every talent committed to our charge. Holding these opinions, he could not be content to sit down quietly with the knowledge of which he had become possessed without making some effort to prevent Lord Bellefield from successfully accomplishing the evil he could not doubt he meditated. But what then should he do? The question was not an easy one to answer. The most natural and effectual means to employ would be to inform General Grant of the affair; he was the person likely (as the father of his future bride) to possess most influence over Lord Belle-field, while as possessor of the estate on which they resided he was certain to meet with respect and obedience from the parents of the girl. But besides the dislike every honourable man feels to undertake the office of tale-bearer, Lewis’s chivalrous nature shrank from even the appearance of seeking to wreak his revenge on the man who had insulted him, by injuring him in the opinion of his future father-in-law. Again, were he to find out the girl and expostulate with her, he felt certain he should produce no good effect--the fact of her being aware of the terms on which he stood with her admirer would render her suspicious of his intentions, and prevent her from paying any regard to his arguments. At last it occurred to him to mention the thing to Charles Leicester, and persuade him, if possible, to visit the girl, and at all events to make her aware of the deceit which had been practised upon her by his brother in assuming his name. Accordingly, he determined to seek an early opportunity of speaking to Leicester on the subject; but good resolutions are always more easy to form than to carry into effect. On the following morning Leicester went to town, as well to acquaint his father with the important step he contemplated as to bear in person an invitation to an old family friend and _ci-devant_ guardian of Laura Peyton’s to join the party at Broadhurst; nor did he return till after several days had elapsed, so that it was nearly a week ere Lewis found the opportunity he sought for.

There had been a dinner-party at Broadhurst, and, as was the custom of the neighbourhood, the guests had departed early. Lewis waited till Leicester had disposed of a lady whom he was handing to a carriage, then drawing him aside, he made him acquainted with the interview which he had involuntarily witnessed, informing him at the same time of his object in so doing. As he proceeded with his tale Leicester’s brow grew dark.

“It is really too bad of Bellefield,” he muttered, “situated as he is in regard to this family; it shows a want of all proper feeling--all delicacy of mind--assuming my name, too! Suppose it had come to Laura’s ears by any chance--’pon my word I’ve a great mind to speak to him about it--though, I don’t know, it would only lead to a quarrel--Bellefield is not a man to brook interference. I feel quite as you do in regard to the affair, my dear Arundel, but really I don’t see that I can do anything that would be of the slightest use.”

“Surely you can find out the girl and prove to her the truth of my statement, that your brother has deceived her by assuming your name--you owe that to yourself.”

“She would be certain to tell him of it the next time she sees him,” returned Leicester uneasily; “it would lead to a quarrel between us, and you don’t know what Bellefield’s resentment is when it’s once excited--it’s actually terrific, and that’s the truth.”

“But for your cousin, Miss Grant’s sake, you ought not to let your brother proceed with this affair,” urged Lewis; “surely you must see the matter in this light?”

“Ah! poor Annie,” returned Leicester with a half sigh; “I sometimes wish that engagement had never been entered into. I doubt whether they are at all calculated to render each other happy. In fact, I’ve learned to look upon marriage in a very different light lately. However, it’s no business of mine; wiser heads will have to settle it, luckily----” He paused, and after a few moments’ deliberation resumed abruptly, “I’ll do as you advise, Arundel. I’ll see this girl and talk to her, and if Bellefield hears of it and makes himself disagreeable, why it can’t be helped, that’s all. He should not attempt such things, particularly in this neighbourhood. He ought to have more respect for the General and his daughter; it shows a want of good taste and good feeling. Besides, as well as I can judge from the glimpse I had of her in the refreshment-room, the girl’s not so unusually pretty, after all. She’d an awful pair of hands, if I recollect right.”

A contemptuous smile passed across Lewis’s handsome features as his companion promulgated the above original moral distinction. Leicester, however, did not observe it, and continued--

“Just fancy my coming out in the character of a virtuous mentor. I only hope I shall get through my arduous duties without laughing at my own performance. ’Pon my word, though, it’s rather serious when a man feels inclined to scoff at himself for doing his duty from the sheer inconsistency of the thing. I tell you what, Arundel, I believe I’ve been a very naughty boy without in the least knowing it. I’ve always considered myself the victim of circumstances, and set all my peccadilloes down to that account; but I don’t see why I need bother you by making you my father confessor.”

Lewis, considering the train of thought into which Leicester had fallen, one likely to lead to useful, practical results, was about to encourage him to proceed, when a servant approached them and placed a small, crumpled, and not over clean piece of paper in Lewis’s hand. Holding it under the light of a lamp, he was enabled with difficulty to decipher the following words:--

“To Muster Arundel.--Sur, the party as you knows of is hout to-night, and more of his sort along vith him. Ve are safe for a shindy; but being quite ready for ther blackguards, lives in good ’opes hof a capture--hin which hif you likes to assist, not minding a crack o’ ther head, should sich occur, which will sometimes in ther best regerlated famurlies, pleas to follur ther bearer, as will conduct you to your humbel servaunt to commarnd,

“J. Millar.”

“That’s glorious!” exclaimed Lewis, placing the missive in the hands of his companion. “I never did catch a poacher in my life, but I’ve often wished to do so; the whole scene must be so picturesque and unlike anything one has ever met with--the darkness, the excitement--but you are laughing at my eagerness. Well, I confess to a love of adventure for its own sake; if I’d lived in the middle ages I should have been a knight-errant, that’s certain. I suppose it’s no use asking you to join us? There’s metal more attractive in the drawing-room, _n’est-ce pas?_”

“Why,” returned Charley, arranging his neckcloth by aid of a glass placed in the cloak-room for the benefit of the ladies who wished to wrap up becomingly, “really I must own I prefer Laura’s smiles even to the delights of a possible _rencontre_ with your friend, Mr. What’s-his-name, the poacher.”

“Hardy is the fellow’s name,” replied Lewis. “He is a chartist and all sorts of horrors, so that I don’t feel the smallest degree of sympathy for him. Do you know where the General is to be found? I suppose, as I may be very late, or even obliged to sleep at Millar’s cottage, I must ask his sanction ere I start on my expedition.”

“I think you’d better,” returned Leicester; “he’s in the library. I saw him go there after he had seen Lady Runnymede to her carriage; so good-night. I shall be curious to learn in the morning whose brains have been knocked out.” And with this agreeably suggestive remark Leicester ended the conversation and strolled off to the drawing-room.

Lewis proceeded at once to the library, where he found not only General Grant, but, to his extreme annoyance, Lord Bellefield also; there was, however, no help for it, and he accordingly explained his wishes as briefly as possible. The General heard him to the end without speaking. His first idea was that such a request was strange and unbecoming the peaceful gravity that should environ the office of a tutor, and he intended to favour him with a dignified refusal; but as Lewis proceeded, his eager tones and sparkling eyes recalled to the old officer the days of his youth when the spirit of enterprise was strong within him, and in the wild bivouac, the dashing assault, the hand-to-hand struggle “i’ the imminent deadly breach,” and the many exciting vicissitudes of a campaigning life, he had found a degree of pleasure which his age knew not, and he was fain to accord a gracious assent.

“Your father was a soldier, Mr. Arundel, I think you told me?”

Lewis replied in the affirmative, mentioning some engagement in which he had particularly distinguished himself The General listened to him with complacency, then exclaimed--

“That’s it, sir, that’s it! I confess when I first heard your request, I considered it unnatural, in fact, unbecoming in a civilian, but in a soldier’s son it assumes an entirely different character. I like to see spirit in a young man.” (Here he glanced at Lord Bellefield, who, apparently engrossed by a legal document which he was perusing, seemed unconscious of Lewis’s presence.) “It’s a pity your father! was unable to afford you a commission: there’s been some very pretty fighting in India lately, and you might have distinguished yourself.” He paused, then added, “I know most of the agricultural labourers about here; did Millar tell you any of these poachers’ names?”

“Hardy, a blacksmith, was the most notorious character,” returned Lewis.

As he mentioned the name Lord Bellefield started so violently that he nearly overturned the lamp by which he was reading. Seeing the General’s eyes fixed on him inquiringly, he rose, and putting his hand to his side, drew a deep breath as he exclaimed--

“One of those sharp stitches, as they call them--nothing worse. You know I am subject to them; it’s want of exercise producing indigestion. I tell you what,” he continued, “I’ve rather a curiosity to witness Mr. Arundel’s prowess, and see what sport this poacher will afford. Man-hunting, in the literal _feræ naturæ_ sense of the term, will be a new excitement.”

“We’ll all go,” exclaimed the General, springing up with the alertness of a young man. “If these rascals choose to trespass on my land and destroy my property, who so fit to resist them and bring them to justice as myself? I’ll make the necessary alterations in my dress, and we’ll start immediately.”

Lord Bellefield urged the lateness of the hour, the cold night air, the chance of danger to life or limb--but in vain; General Grant had taken the crotchet into his head, and he was not the man to be easily induced to change his mind. Accordingly Lewis found himself suddenly associated with two as strange companions as ever a man was embarrassed withal. Still there was no help for it; and inwardly pondering what possible reason Lord Bellefield could have for joining the expedition, and why he had started at the mention of Hardy’s name, Lewis hastened to wrap himself in a rough pea-jacket, and selected a heavy knotted stick, wherewith he proposed to knock respect for the rights of property into the head of any misguided individual who might be deaf to all milder argument. As he returned to the hall the General made his appearance, carrying under his arm a cavalry sabre; his bearing was even more stiff and erect than usual, and his eye flashed with all the fire of youth.

“Early on parade, I see, Mr. Arundel,” he said, with something more nearly approaching to a smile on his countenance than Lewis had ever previously observed there. “We’ll read those poaching rascals a lesson they will not easily forget, sir.”

As he spoke a light footstep was heard approaching, and in another moment Annie Grant bounded down the staircase, her glossy curls streaming wildly over her shoulders, and her cheeks flushed with the speed at which she had come.

“My dear papa!” she began, then turning pale as her eye fell upon the sword, she continued: “Oh! it is really true! I hoped they were only deceiving me in jest. Dearest papa, you will be good and kind, and not go out after these men? Suppose any accident should occur? think how valuable your life is--papa, you will not go?”

“Annie, I thought you were perfectly aware of my extreme dislike to, or I may say disapproval of all uncalled-for displays of feeling. I am about to perform a duty incumbent on my position, and I need scarcely add that any attempt to induce me to neglect that duty will not only prove ineffectual, but will be highly displeasing to me. Not another word,” he continued, seeing she was about to resume her entreaties; “return immediately to the drawing-room and apologise to our friends in my name for being obliged to leave them.”

At this moment a servant announced that his master’s shooting pony was at the door, and that Lord Bellefield had already started; so placing his hat on his head with an air of offended dignity, the General marched proudly out of the hall. Lewis was about to follow him, when, glancing at Annie, he perceived that she had sunk into a chair, and covering her face with her hands, had given way to an irrepressible burst of tears. The young tutor paused--wishing to reassure her by promising to use his best efforts to shield her father from danger, and yet fearing to intrude upon her grief. In his embarrassment he accidentally dropped his stick; starting at the sound, Annie for the first time perceived him, and springing up, she came hurriedly towards him, exclaiming--

“Oh, Mr. Arundel! I am so glad you are going. _You_ will take care of papa, will you not?”

As she spoke she laid her hand on his arm and gazed up into his face imploringly.

“I will most assuredly try to do so, Miss Grant,” returned Lewis calmly, though that light touch thrilled through him like a shock of electricity. “You need not alarm yourself so greatly,” he continued, anxious to soothe her; “believe me, your apprehensions have greatly exaggerated any probable danger.”

“You really think so?” returned Annie doubtfully. “At all events,” she continued, “I shall be much happier now I know you are going. I am sure you will try and take care of papa.”

“I will, indeed,” returned Lewis earnestly, as, glancing towards the door, he essayed to depart; but Annie, completely engrossed by her anxiety to secure his services on her father’s behalf, still unconsciously retained her hold on his arm, and Lewis was obliged gently to remove the little hand that detained him. As their fingers met, Annie, becoming suddenly aware of what Miss Livingstone would have termed her “indiscreet and unpardonable heedlessness,” blushed very becomingly; then with a sudden impulse of gratitude and warm feeling she extended her hand to Lewis, saying--

“Thank you very much for all your kindness, Mr. Arundel. Mind you take good care of yourself as well as of papa--I shall not go to bed till I hear you have brought him safe home again.”

Lewis pressed the fair hand offered to him, repeated his assurances that her alarm was unnecessary, and hastened to follow General Grant. Annie gazed after him with tearful eyes, but his words comforted her. She had already begun to rely on him in moments of difficulty or of danger.

The moon was shining brightly, though flitting clouds passed from time to time across its silvery disc, wrapping wood and hill and valley in momentary darkness, only to enhance their beauty when its pale, cold rays once more fell uninterruptedly upon them, imparting to the scene the magic of a fairy twilight. Such, however, were scarcely Lewis’s thoughts as, haunted by the appealing expression of Annie’s soft eyes, he hastened to overtake his companions. The party proceeded in silence, following their guide, who was none other than the renegade “Villiam,” across one of the wildest portions of the park towards a young larch plantation covering about forty acres of ground. This spot, named Tod’s Hole Spinney, from certain fox earths that had existed in it till their occupants’ partiality for dining on pheasants had led to their ejectment, was considered, from its isolated situation, the thick growth of underwood, the fact of a running stream passing through it, and other propitious circumstances, the most amply stocked preserve on the property, and it was with a degree of annoyance proportioned to the enormity of the offence that the General learned this was the place selected by the poachers for the scene of their depredations. As they approached the spot the report of a gun was heard, followed by three or four others in rapid succession. General Grant, irritated beyond control by this audacity, immediately rode forward at a brisk trot. Lewis, bearing in mind Annie’s injunction, grasped the crupper of the saddle firmly with his left hand, and with this slight assistance ran by the General’s side, keeping pace with the horse. In this manner they had nearly reached the wood, when a man sprang from behind a bush, and would have seized the horse’s bridle had not Lewis interposed, saying, in a low voice, “Don’t you know us, Millar? it is General Grant, who, when he heard the poachers were out, determined to come with me.”

“I beg yer honour’s pardon,” returned the keeper, touching his hat as he recognised his master. “I never expected to ha’ seen you here to-night, to be sure.”

“I am usually to be found where my duty calls me,” returned the General stiffly. “These scoundrels seem to be out in force,” he continued.

“Veil, I take it there’s as many on ’em as ve shall know wot to do with,” was the reply; “but I’ve got above a dozen men on the look-hout, only in course they’re scattered.”

“And how do you propose to act?” inquired the General.

“I thort of taking a party into the wood, trying to captiwate long Hardy and one or two of the ringleaders, chaps as I’ve had my eye on for ever so long; then take ther game from the tothers, and seize their guns hif posserbul. But the chief thing is to captiwate that willain Hardy; so I means to leave three or four men on the look-hout, in case he manages to do us and break cover.”

“Your plan seems a good one,” returned the General reflectively. “How many men do you propose to take into the wood with you?”

“Veil, there’s half-a-dozen lads a laying down behind those bushes yonder, and there’s two more jist inside that gap; then there’s myself and Muster Arundel.”

“Let the boy that guided us hold my horse,” began General Grant.

“Hif I might adwise,” interrupted Millar, “yer honour would remain in this wery place; and hif Hardy should get away from us--as he’s likely enough, for he’s as strong and houdacious as a steam-ingine--he’s a-most sure to break cover here; in vich case yer honour can ride him down, and hif he dares to show fight, give him a cut hover the skull with yer long sword there.”

“You feel sure he will endeavour to effect his retreat on this side?” inquired the General doubtingly.

“Sartain sure, I may say,” cried Millar confidently; then, as his master turned to explain to Lord Bellefield, who had just come up, the plan of operations, he added in a low voice, so that Lewis only might hear--

“The old Gineral’s pluckey enough for anything, but his legs ain’t so young as they used to be, and he’s rather touched in the vind, vich von’t do for sich a valk as we’ve got before us.”

At this moment more shots were heard in the wood, but apparently much nearer than the last. The poachers were evidently advancing in that direction.

“There is not a moment to be lost, Millar,” exclaimed the General eagerly. “I think as you say, I may be of more use here. Some one _must_ remain outside to cut off the retreat of these fellows if you should succeed in driving them out of the wood. Lord Bellefield will accompany your party. Where are the other watchers on this side stationed?”

“About fifty yards apart, along the ditch skirting the wood. If yer honour wants help, a note on this whistle will produce it.” So saying, Millar handed him an ivory dog-whistle; then signing to “Villiam” to proceed, and requesting Lord Bellefield and Lewis to follow him, the keeper conducted them along a narrow track leading into the wood.

“Do you really expect that Hardy will attempt to cross that part of the park, or was your assertion merely a white lie, framed to secure the General’s safety?” asked Lewis as he walked by the keeper’s side.

“Veil, it worn’t altogether a lie,” was the reply; “for if we don’t nab the gentleman, that’s the side he’ll try for, as it’s easiest for him to get away; but if I vonce has a fair hit at him, I don’t mean to leave him a chance to get away. I shall not stand nice about hurting him neither, I can tell yer. He beat Sam Jones, one o’ my hunder-keepers, so savage that the poor feller worn’t out of his blessed bed for two months. He deserves summut pretty strong for that.”

“Mind you point him out to me, if you catch sight of him,” rejoined Lewis. “I am most anxious to be introduced to this truculent gentleman.”

“Yer can’t mistake him hif yer once sets eyes on him,” returned the keeper; “he’s half a head taller than any of the rest of ’em, but I’ll show him to yer.”

As he spoke they reached the spot where the six men were waiting, though, so well had they concealed themselves, Lewis was close upon them ere he was aware of their vicinity.

“Now, my lads, are yer all ready?” inquired their leader in a low voice. An answer in the affirmative was followed by the order--“Come on, then;” when Lord Bellefield interposed by saying, “One moment! Listen to me, my men: I offer five guineas reward to any of you who may secure Hardy.”