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Excerpt from Rogues Haven We stared up at Mr. Chelton grinned foolishly, but said nothing. Answer the Squire, varmint! Answer the Squire! Tim muttered hoarsely at our backs. Tell the story for them, Kerrick, said Mr. Chelton. Maybe when they hear your account they'll be ready enough to answer for themselves and call you a liar - chuckling. This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it. This work was reproduced from the original artifact, and remains as true to the original work as possible. Therefore, you will see the original copyright references, library stamps (as most of these works have been housed in our most important libraries around the world), and other notations in the work. This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant. About the Publisher: As a publisher, we focus on the preservation of historical literature. Many works of historical writers and scientists are available today as antiques only. iOnlineShopping.com newly publishes these books and contributes to the preservation of literature which has become rare and historical knowledge for the future.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Table of contents
Rogues’ Haven
Contents
Chapter I. Mr. Bradbury
Chapter II. At the Hall
Chapter III. Mrs. Mary Howe
Chapter IV. A Journey Planned
Chapter V. The Journey Begun
Chapter VI. Through the Darkness
Chapter VII. The Riders
Chapter VIII. The Green-Curtained Room
Chapter IX. Mr. Charles Craike
Chapter X. Scruples of Roger Galt
Chapter XI. Events at the Stone House
Chapter XII. Captain Ezra Blunt
Chapter XIII. Out of the Stone House
Chapter XIV. Modesty of Mr. Galt
Chapter XV. The Doomed House
Chapter XVI. Old Mr. Edward Craike
Chapter XVII. Creed of Mr. Charles
Chapter XVIII. Compact of Tolerance
Chapter XIX. Company at Dinner
Chapter XX. Soul of a Man
Chapter XXI. My Cousin Oliver
Chapter XXII. The Web of Ivy
Chapter XXIII. Dying Fires
Chapter XXIV. The Wood
Chapter XXV. Insistence of Captain Blunt
Chapter XXVI. Sir Gavin Masters
Chapter XXVII. Suspicions of Mr. Charles Craike
Chapter XXVIII. Spilt Wine
Chapter XXIX. Intervention of Mr. Bradbury
Chapter XXX. Not Yet
Chapter XXXI. The Night Watch
Chapter XXXII. Will of a Man
Chapter XXXIII. Carrion Crows
Chapter XXXIV. Flight of Crows
Chapter XXXV. Departure of Mr. Charles Craike
Chapter XXXVI. Dawn
Chapter XXXVII. My Uncle Comes to his Own
Chapter XXXVIII. Last Will and Testament
This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler
Rogues’ Haven
BYROY BRIDGES
Author of “ The Bubble Moon,” “ The Vats of Tyre,” etc.
HODDER AND STOUGHTONLIMITEDLONDON
To my friendM. A. MINOGUE.
Printed in Great Britain by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., 53, Victoria Street, Liverpool, and at London and Prescot.
Contents
CHAPTER
PAGE
I.
Mr. Bradbury
9
II.
At the Hall
15
III.
Mrs. Mary Howe
29
IV.
A Journey Planned
39
V.
The Journey Begun
45
VI.
Through the Darkness
53
VII.
The Riders
59
VIII.
The Green-Curtained Room
65
IX.
Mr. Charles Craike
75
X.
Scruples of Roger Galt
83
XI.
Events at the Stone House
89
XII.
Captain Ezra Blunt
97
XIII.
Out of the Stone House
105
XIV.
Modesty of Mr. Galt
111
XV.
The Doomed House
119
XVI.
Old Mr. Edward Craike
129
XVII.
Creed of Mr. Charles
139
XVIII.
Compact of Tolerance
147
XIX.
Company at dinner
155
XX.
Soul of a Man
161
XXI.
My Cousin Oliver
169
XXII.
The Web of Ivy
177
XXIII.
Dying Fires
185
XXIV.
The Wood
191
XXV.
Insistence of Captain Blunt
201
XXVI.
Sir Gavin Masters
207
XXVII.
Suspicions of Mr. Charles Craike
213
XXVIII.
Spilt Wine
219
XXIX.
Intervention of Mr. Bradbury
225
XXX.
Not Yet
233
XXXI.
The Night Watch
239
XXXII.
Will of a Man
251
XXXIII.
Carrion Crows
259
XXXIV.
Flight of Crows
269
XXXV.
Departure of Mr. Charles Craike
279
XXXVI.
Dawn
291
XXXVII.
My Uncle Comes to His Own
299
XXXVIII.
Last Will and Testament
305
Chapter I. Mr. Bradbury
Chapter I. Mr. Bradbury
But for the coach and pair carrying Mr. Bradbury to Chelton, Tony Vining and I would not have been haled before the Squire, but would have got off scot-free as any time before. Tony and I had made the round of our snares. Tony had poked a young rabbit into his jacket-pocket; I was carrying a hare in my bag, and we were sneaking homewards through the dusk, when Tim Kerrick, ash-plant in hand, and brace of keepers at heel, stepped out of the coppice.
“What be you lads doin’ here?” Tim demanded, barring our way. “You’re after no good, I’ll warrant. What’s in your bag, John Howe?”
I did not stay to answer. I swung round and was away. Tony raced off with me; old Tim and his keepers followed. We led them about the coppice, but they pressed us hard, Tim roaring, “Stop, ye young varmint! Stop! It’ll be all the worse for ye. Stop, I say!”
Dreading Tim’s ash-plant, we ran on with all speed. The hare in the bag hung heavily on me; when we were out in the furze, I let the bag slip from me, and ran more swiftly. I had need, for Tony was now well ahead, and Tim and the keepers were hot at my heels; I could hear Tim’s snorting as much for anger as the rigour of the chase. Furze tore my breeches and stockings; as we took the bank above the road, a bramble almost led to my undoing; it caught the tail of my jacket, and for the moment held me. Tim charged forward with a yell of triumph; it was premature, for, kicking his toe against a root, he tumbled forward on his nose; on the evidence of his curses he pitched headlong into the bramble. I tore myself away from the thorn, and dashed up the bank after Tony.
Down then we plunged into the road; the keepers, not staying to help Tim to his feet, pressed closely on us. And as we shot down into the road, destiny in a coach and pair—to wit, Mr. Bradbury—encountered us. For scarcely were we on the road, and racing on, than with a flash of yellow lamplight through the dusk, cracking of whip, and rattle of wheels, the coach was driven round a bend in the way, blocking our path, and sending us up against the bank to save ourselves. Tony cried out, for the horses almost trod him down; instantly the pair took fright, and swerved to left. A wheel descending into a deep rut, the coach toppled over; a horse fell, and the driver was lost in a swirl of dust, confusion of struggling, plunging horses and smashing vehicle. On this disaster we might have sped away; no more than my curiosity, or maybe, desire to give a hand to the driver, held me there leaning against the bank and for the moment staring. But then I darted back with Tony, and caught at the bridle of the plunging horse; by then the driver was the master of its fellow. Scarcely had we prevailed, than old Tim, cursing still, was upon us, roaring to his keepers, “Hold the young varmints! Don’t let ’em get away!” Promptly the keepers had Tony and me as securely as we held the horse; Tim was standing glowering at us, ash-plant quivering in his right hand, when out of the wrecked coach stepped Mr. Bradbury.
Now in the days to be from my first meeting with Mr. Bradbury the demeanour and the characteristics of the gentleman were to be stamped so vividly upon my mind that perhaps I write of him here with a detail beyond my perception in the dusk, for the light of the carriage lamps had been put out. I picture him as a keen-faced gentleman,—then of sixty years of age,—as lean and stooping slightly; his black cloak lined with white silk blowing out from his shoulders; his long white hands striving now to secure it at his breast, and now to hold his hat upon his head. He would be wearing his coat of fine black cloth, black, flapped waistcoat, black silken breeches and black silken stockings, shining silver-buckled shoes, linen of superfine quality and whiteness,—I recall the glint of white jewels on his fingers. His hair was snow-white, and bound with a black ribbon; his spectacles were as two owl-like eyes.
“Ha-ha!” the gentleman exclaimed, observing Tony and me in the grip of the keepers. “Whom have we here? Gentlemen of the road?”—and chuckled in a dry, crackling way.
“Poachers,—lads from the village, Mr. Bradbury, sir,” Tim growled, touching his hat. “These young dogs has been poachin’, and I be goin’ to dust their jackets, as they’ve needed dustin’ many a day. ’Twas them as frightened the hosses, an’ nigh broke your honour’s neck and the lad’s there. You’ve took no hurt, sir, I hopes and trusts.”
“None! None!” Mr. Bradbury answered, indifferently. “But my driver?”
“Well enough, sir, thank ’ee,” the fellow said, busying himself with the traces of the fallen horse. “No thanks to these young rascals.”
“Ay! Ay! I’ll be walking on then to the hall,” said Mr. Bradbury, glancing at the ruined coach. “And I’ll leave you free, Tim Kerrick, to dust the jackets and whatsoever else of the attire of these lads as may occur to you.” He chuckled again, and pulled his flapping cloak about him.
“The road’s rough and broken with the rains, Mr. Bradbury,” said Tim. “As like as not you’ll be tumblin’ into the ditch, or missin’ your way. I’ll send one of my lads with you. Hey, you Dick, have you your lantern there?”
“Yes, I’ve it here, Mister Kerrick,” the keeper answered.
“Light it, lad, light it, and go along with Mr. Bradbury! Joe and me can finish our business with these varmint.”
The keeper, relinquishing me to Tim’s custody, lit his lantern, and stood forward to attend Mr. Bradbury, who, leaning on his cane, was scrutinising Tony and me.
“Show the light on this lad here,” said Mr. Bradbury, suddenly, pointing to me. As the light flashed on me, Mr. Bradbury peered at me through his spectacles; his face expressed nothing of his thought; shamefaced I stood before him. “What’s your name, boy?” Mr. Bradbury demanded, sharply.
“John Howe, sir,” I answered.
“Howe!—H’m—Kerrick!”
“Sir?” said Tim, touching his hat.
“Bring this lad to the Hall.”
“After I’ve basted him, sir?”
“Let the penalty be suspended. Later, maybe. Jacket or breeches then, as you will,” said Mr. Bradbury, chuckling. “Who’s the other lad?”
“Parson’s son, sir,—young Vining.”
“Bring them both before Mr. Chelton at the Hall,” Mr. Bradbury ordered. “It’s only just that they should suffer equally, as Mr. Chelton thinks fit; one’s as culpable as the other. Bring them both after me, Kerrick! Now, my man, go ahead with the lantern.”
Wrapped in his cloak, hat pressed down over his brows, Mr. Bradbury went up the road, leaving Tim to curse, since justice and an overdue vengeance on our skins had been taken arbitrarily from his hands.
Chapter II. At the Hall
Chapter II. At the Hall
It was dark long before Tony and I were marched up the drive to the Hall. The great house stood out a grey mass against the starry sky; the windows fronting us were golden with light; and light flowed from the open door and down the steps. I heard loud laughter; the Squire had company, as he might any night of the week. He favoured fox-hunting gentlemen of a like pattern to himself, seasoned to drink under the table any gentleman of fashion and Tory out of session who should quit the Town for the hospitality of Chelton. Hearing the voices and the laughter, and seeing the blaze of light from the dining-room, I had little fear of the temper of Mr. Chelton, before whom Tony and I were presently to be haled. None the less, for the thought that the Squire might think fit to parade us before his company to provide sport for them, I would have begged Tim Kerrick to deal with us summarily; I would have endured the ash-plant about me for all my seventeen years of age but that the sudden interest of Mr. Bradbury had excited my natural curiosity. I pictured Mr. Bradbury standing by us, chuckling to himself, and his piercing look, while the lantern light was playing across my face; and I recalled his queer, sharp tone when he ordered me to be brought on to the Hall. What should the gentleman want with me? Squire’s family lawyer, Tim told me, gruffly, in answer to my eager question. How we should fare with Mr. Chelton was of less concern.
I knew Mr. Chelton for a good-humoured gentleman. I did not fear that, though Tony and I had been found poaching on his preserves, the Squire would do worse than bid Tim Kerrick dress us down with his ash-plant. I did not dread committal, the Assizes and the terror of their Lordships, the Judges. Indeed, I believed that unseen I had dropped the hare out of sight in the furze; and I took it that Tony had long since rid himself of the rabbit from his pocket. Only when we were before the house did I find the chance of a word with Tony. Tim, loosing his grip then, and staring up doubtfully at the door, as if not knowing whether or not to conduct us before the Squire and Mr. Bradbury immediately, I poked my head forward and whispered to Tony, “Did you get rid of that rabbit?”
He whispered back, “No! It’s stuck in my pocket;” but he could add nothing, for Tim gripped me instantly, and shook me, with the observation: “No talkin’! If it’s the rabbit you’re thinkin’ of, it’s in his pocket yet, for I’ve felt it there. And I saw you drop the bag with, belike, another inside. So don’t go thinkin’ yourself clever, John Howe! It’s gaol, or transportation, or at the very least a basting you’ve never felt the like of, and’ll never want to feel again. Squire’s at dinner. You’ll wait till Squire’s dined and wined, you will.”
With this cheerful augury Tim Kerrick propelled me before him, and the keeper following with Tony, we were marched about the house to the stables and into the harness-room. “You’ll be safe and snug here,” Tim said, ere he turned the key upon us, “Squire’ll deal with you, but not for a good two hours or more. So you can just think it all over in the dark.”
Slamming the door Tim locked us in, and stumped away. His assertion that Mr. Chelton would not deal with us, till he had dined, gave me instant concern for my mother’s anxiety at my failure to return for supper. I pictured her dolefully—with my meal set all ready for me; sitting listening for my steps, peering up at the clock, and running out to the gate and waiting there, but seeing still no sign of me. And dreading, I guessed well, lest I should have disappeared as from the face of the earth—vanished with never a word to her, even as my father—of whom I shall tell presently. I cursed Tim Kerrick, Squire Chelton, and Mr. Bradbury.
“What’s going to happen to us now, John?” Tony muttered through the dark. “What’ll the Squire do with us, do you think?”
“Oh, he’ll laugh, for he’s sure to be half drunk when he sees us. Tell us we’ll be hanged, if we’re not shot for poachers first. And if Tim Kerrick makes the case black enough, Squire’ll give him leave to baste us.”
“Yes, but Tim would have basted us properly, and let us go,” said Tony. “Why should that old black crow want to spoil Tim’s sport and bid him bring us here, unless he’s a notion of having us clapped in gaol? But for him we’d have been through Tim’s hands by now, and been limpin’ home. Do you know him, John?”
“Oh, I only know he’s Squire’s lawyer. You heard Tim say so, if you didn’t know before. I’d never heard of him or clapped eyes on him.”
“He seemed to know you.”
“Yes, he did. But I don’t know how. We’ll hear, when Squire’s dined. Pray God, he doesn’t spare the bottle! Sit ye down, Tony, while you’re able.”
And in the dark we sat down on the cold, flagged floor. I tell you the harness-room was like a vault for gloom and chill. The time we were held there seemed unending; only Tim came near us, and then merely to be assured that we were safe, and to growl vengefully at us, as he flashed his lantern down on us. We wearied soon of conjecturing what should happen to us. We sat huddled together silently, and while Tony sought to pull the rabbit from his pocket, and at last succeeded to sling it from him with a curse, I set myself to pondering over Mr. Bradbury’s mysterious interest in me, and to striving to recollect when, if ever, I had set eyes on the gentleman before. Never, so far as my memory served me, though my mother and I had lived ten years at Chelton.
To my seventh year we had lived with my father in London. I remembered my father clearly, tall and darkly handsome, his black hair silver-threaded, though at the time of his mysterious disappearance he was not more than thirty-seven years of age. I remembered the moods of brooding melancholy darkening the natural liveliness of his disposition; his strength, his tenderness with my mother and myself. I remembered, as the most sorrowful time of my childhood, the day of his disappearance,—my mother waiting the hours through from eve till dawn, hoping against hope for the sound of his return,—the days succeeding of alternate hopes never fulfilled and terrors not allayed.
My father had held a poor clerkship with the East India Company. He had left the House late in the day to carry a letter down to the docks for the master of an Indiaman; but had never delivered the letter, and had vanished without trace or word. I remembered my mother’s pitiful distress, as day succeeded day without tidings, and the cloud of mystery was in no way lifted. A countrywoman and friendless, she could make little search for him; it was assumed by the gentlemen of the East India House, that he had been pressed aboard one of the King’s ships; even so, none of his name was ever found among the crews, though the interest of the Company secured inquiry from the Commissioners of His Majesty’s Navy.
And my mother, distraught for many days, seemed stricken with terror of the Town and its associations, and took coach and fled away with me to Chelton; all the years since we had had no word of my father and did not know whether he was alive or dead. We had lived quietly in a little cottage on the edge of Chelton—the last dwelling, indeed, of the village ere the street passed into the great highway. My mother was possessed of small means—a legacy, I believed, from a kinsman, though she would tell me nothing either of my father’s family or of her own. She had not sufficient for our needs; she added to our means by fine needlework for the Squire’s lady and her folk; how she found the five guineas a year for which the Rev. Mr. Vining allowed me to share the studies and the discipline of his son Tony I did not know. Yet, though I, lazy and graceless young dog as I was, urged her to let me seek employment in Chelton or in London itself, she would not hear of this. She declared, dear soul, that she would have me first a scholar; even though I had turned seventeen, there was time and to spare for me to choose a calling. So with Tony I had become an equally indifferent scholar, in spite of Mr. Vining’s cane, and as abandoned a rogue and poacher. So I sat now with the parson’s son awaiting Squire Chelton’s summary justice, and most like Tim Kerrick’s execution of it. But Mr. Bradbury—?
Mr. Bradbury sat in a cushioned chair by the fire; Mr. Chelton supported his huge body more or less steadily against the chimney-piece, when at last Tim Kerrick paraded us before them in the library. It was a vast room,—its shelves lined with books, none of which, I fear, Mr. Chelton had ever opened from the day when his father’s death put him into possession of the Hall and its acres. Old Mr. Gilbert Chelton’s portrait looked coldly down from its gilded frame above the chimney-piece on his stout son, flushed from his drink—his red coat, buckskins and high boots all mud-splashed from the cross-country ride of the day. Squire Chelton had not changed his rig to do honour to his guests, who, I took it from the roars of laughter yet sounding in the dining-room, were gentlemen of tastes similar to his own. His iron-grey hair was wind-blown; his blood-shot eyes were as unsteady as his legs. He exuded good humour—natural to him, but stimulated by as liberal an indulgence in the contents of his cellar as he expected from any gentleman of his company. While Mr. Gilbert’s portrait looked its disapproval, the paintings of four other dead and gone Cheltons of a marked resemblance to the Squire seemed to regard him enviously from their old frames.
Mr. Bradbury, if he had not been permitted to spare the bottle at dinner, made no show of it in his complexion. He sat by the fire, his legs crossed; he had a silver snuff-box set with some glittering gem in his left hand; his face was almost as white as his linen. Observing him, I had a sense that the mind at the back of his broad brow was as keen and as sparkling as the jewels on his fingers. With his leanness, his bloodlessness, his coldly impassive face, his cunning eyes peering through his spectacles, he was as odd a contrast to his stout, drink-flushed patron in his riding-rig as were his air of precision and the trimness of his dress to the frank disorder of the rich furniture in the room. Squire Chelton’s desk was littered with papers and parchments; an inkhorn was overset among them; goose quills had blown to the carpet; hats, cloaks, riding-whips, and gloves were tossed pell-mell on chairs and table. On this dark oaken table a half-emptied flagon of crystal and silver was set, and a circle of glasses stained with the red dregs of wine. The library was lit by many tall candles in silver sticks, and by the leaping flames from the hearth before which Mr. Bradbury warmed himself, with the reflections flashing from his jewelled hands, his snuff-box and the silver buckles of his shoes. I noted the keenness of Mr. Bradbury’s gaze immediately Tim thrust us forward; all the while I remained in the room, I fancied that his eyes never left me.
“Here’s the young varmints, sir and Mr. Bradbury,” Tim announced, touching his forelock.
“Young Vining and young Howe,—hey?” cried Mr. Chelton, essaying to frown majestically. “Caught poaching! Ye’re a credit to the parson who has the schooling of the pair of ye. What have ye to say for yourselves? Come!”
We stared up at Mr. Chelton; grinned foolishly, but said nothing.
“Answer the Squire, varmint! Answer the Squire!” Tim muttered hoarsely at our backs.
“Tell the story for them, Kerrick,” said Mr. Chelton. “Maybe when they hear your account they’ll be ready enough to answer for themselves and call you a liar”—chuckling.
Tim, stepping forward, briskly told his tale—no, he told the tale of poachings from Chelton for the twelvemonth past, not limiting himself to the matter of the evening, the rabbit in Tony’s jacket or the conjectured content of my bag. Not a pheasant, not a hare, not a rabbit had been poached from Chelton, but had gone—on Tim’s assertion—in company with Tony and me,—the worst pair of varmints, Tim dubbed us, as never was. Meanwhile, Squire Chelton from ruddy grew purple, from good-humoured choleric and from choleric nigh choking with passion. From time to time, as Tim proceeded, Mr. Chelton would burst out, “D’ye hear this, Bradbury?” or “D’ye hear that?” Mr. Bradbury nodded; said nothing, and took snuff, while he peered at me through his spectacles. Tim wound up with a narration of the affair of the evening,—glowering at him I rejoiced to see the damage wrought by the bramble to his nose and chin.
“Now, you rogues,—now!” Mr. Chelton stormed. “What have ye to say to me? D’ye know this is a matter for Assizes? D’ye know that ye may be hanged for this? D’ye know that at the least ye’ll be shipped overseas? What d’ye think of it, Bradbury?”
“I think, my dear sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, smoothly, “that Kerrick overstates his case. Indeed, so much he overstates it, that did I instruct counsel for the defence of these lads, I promise that it would end with the committal of Kerrick here on a charge of perjury”—Mr. Bradbury laughed shrilly to himself, and took more snuff.
Tim stared at him with his eyes goggling, his jaw dropping. Mr. Chelton growling thunderously, “Upon my soul, Bradbury! Upon my soul!” lurched to the table, and poured himself a glass of wine. Tony and I rejoicing fixed our eyes on Mr. Bradbury.
“Mr. Chelton,” Mr. Bradbury proceeded, “there’s no more in this matter than the roguery of these lads to-night,—a rabbit or so snared; these lads are poachers, and, no doubt, have taken a pretty picking off Chelton. But Kerrick here would lay to their account the poachings of the countryside,—of gipsies, vagrants, village folk and odd. Without a tittle of proof, Mr. Chelton, without a tittle of proof that would hold good in a court of law.”
“Askin’ your pardon, Mr. Bradbury, sir,” Tim protested, “Parson’s son had a rabbit in his pocket, when we caught ’em, and young John Howe was carryin’ summat in his bag. He dropped it over in the furze.”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Bradbury, testily. “We’ll admit these facts, Tim Kerrick, we’ll admit them; but to seek, as you’ve done, my man, to prove against these lads the losses of a year past—losses which you’ve failed to prevent,—why, it’s preposterous, Kerrick,—it’s rank perjury!”
“Have you turned advocate for rogues and vagabonds, Bradbury?” asked Mr. Chelton, solemnly, though his eyes were twinkling once more, as much from the glass of wine, no doubt, as from Tim Kerrick’s indignation and discomfiture.
“Nay, Mr. Chelton,” cried Mr. Bradbury, “only consider the facts! The parson’s son and, doubtless, excellently schooled by his father.”
“Vining’s a worthy fellow,” Mr. Chelton admitted, grinning. “I could tell you a rare story, Bradbury—” but broke off, as recollecting Tony’s presence, yet continuing to chuckle to himself. Mr. Vining, though devout, was a fox-hunting parson after the Squire’s own heart.
“Ay, and the lad Howe?” Mr. Bradbury asked, observing me steadily.
“A young varmint!” Tim asserted, vengefully.
“His folk, Mr. Chelton?”
“Mother’s a widow woman—a decent body,” Mr. Chelton answered readily. “Never a day behind with her rent. The lad was well enough till he turned poacher with young Vining there.”
“Village folk? Chelton folk?”
“The mother and the lad have lived here these ten years. From London, I’ve heard say, Bradbury.”
