University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Breakfast passed joyously and gaily, no
more allusions were made to the bets,
Spencer carefully avoiding the subject, as
if he thought that he might give offence by
continuing it; but St. Maur and Harbottle
continued to expatiate upon the charms of
Rose Castleton, the felicity of the man
who should have the luck to gain her, and
the certainty of its giving him the greatest
eclat of any one in London, to produce
her in the parks, or at the theatre, as
a part of his menage.

Breakfast was in those days, as I have
said before, a far more solid affair than it
is with us; the draughts, which were quaffed
at it were not mere tea and coffee, but
humming ale and generous wines; and
with the thirst upon them that is the sure
successor of a last night's debauch, and
with their somewhat wild and boyish ha
bits, all drank somewhat largely; not, of
course, to excess at all, or even to exhilaration,
but enough to enliven the blood, and
open something of the reserve which bars
men's hearts at times, till they are thawed
by some such genial application.

And I am sorry to say that between the
slight stimulus of the wine, and the spur
of the witty and licentious conversation
that was going on around him, Sir Edward
soon lost the recollection of the better feelings
which had that morning possessed
him; and now completely under the empire
of false pride, and vanity, and fear of
mockery, and goaded by the burning spirit
of rivalry, felt as completely and as resolutely
bent on ruining pretty Rose Castleton,
as a few hours before he had been determined
to give her to another.

As soon as breakfast was over, while St.
Maur and Spencer excused themselves for
the purpose of writing a few letters, Edward
with Percy Harbottle walked round
the grounds, and visited the stalls, and the
kennels, and the mews of the falcons; and
finally set to amusing themselves by making
the grooms ride the hunters in succession
backward and forward over a high
leaping bar.

While thus employed they were joined
by the others, and the question was put,
how the day was to be spent, until dinner
time.

“Oh! confound dinner!” replied Spencer;
“I hate your regular two o'clock
dinner, it so thoroughly breaks up the day.
Let us go out and hawk or shoot, if Sir Edward
likes my plan, all day; taking some
ale and cold meat with us, and come home
to a good early supper, and we will have
another bout at the Burgundy. What say
you, worthy host of mine?”

“That is a bright thought, and a right
good plan,” answered Hale. “I am like
you; I hate your ceremonious dinner so
early in the day, and I love your extemporaneous
sylvan meal on the green turf, under
the shady trees, or beside some clear
and bubbling runnel.”

“Yes,” answered St. Maur, “or in some

jolly farmer's house, with his pretty daughter
to pour out the ale, and kiss you behind
the door, when the father is looking the
other way.”

A loud laugh followed this characteristic
speech; and then they began to inquire
what should be the order of the day, and it
was speedily decided that they would shoot
rabbits in the park, in preference to hawking
in the meadows, or fishing in the stream
—and Eversly being called in to name a
farm-house situated conveniently for taking
the mid-day meal, suggested, not altogether
unexpectedly to Edward Hale, nor without
having pocketed beforehand a handsome
fee for his advice, suggested farmer Castleton's.

“Ha! ha! Then we shall see the pretty
Rose again—hey, Ned?” said St. Maur.

“And Percy Harbottle will have a chance
of entering the lists, if he will,” said Spencer.

“No, no!” replied Harbottle, “every lad
to his own lass. I stick to my promise; he
gave me a good chance with a pretty girl
yesterday, and hang me if I cross him to-day.”

In a few moments they were all equipped,
and ready for the sport, accompanied
by servants with hunting-poles to beat the
bushes, and spaniels to start the game, and
boys with spare ammunition, and all means
and appliances for a blithe day's sport.

Taking their way across the trout stream,
and through the dense oak grove, they
crossed the tall castle hill, and going out
by a postern in the brick wall of the park,
entered a deep and hollow road, between
high banks of sand, crested on either hand
by the walls of the home park and the deer
park—and overshadowed by the rich foliage
of the huge oaks, which almost crossed
their branches overhead, and made the lane
at noonday almost as dark as midnight. A
second postern, at a short distance up the
lane, gave access to the deer-park—a wild
tract of barren broken land, with many
gulleys and ravines, each watered by its
gushing streamlet, each clothed with feathery
brushwood and tall fern, among which
the gray burrowers, they came in pursuit of,
squatted by hundreds.

At a short distance from the double portions,
they caught a glimpse, as they crossed
the road, of a large rambling brick farm-house,
with tall fantastic pinnacles, and the
twisted chimneys of the Elizabethan style,
peering from out the shade of the dark oaks,
and abutting on the deer-park wall.

“There is the home farm,” said the
keeper—“old Castleton's, you know, Sir
Edward; I sent the boys up with the wine,
and word we would be there at two hours
past noon; and he says, if you please, Sir
Edward, he will be very blithe to see you,
and they will have the goose pie ready.”

“A capital thing, too, is a good goose pie,”
said Hale, “and we will find appetites conformable,
I'll warrant it. Now, give me my
gun, for here we are upon the ground, and
so let loose the spaniels. Are they steady,
Mark?”

“No steadier in England, your honor,”
answered the keeper, “than the two black
King Charles'! they are worth fifty
guineas any day, of any gentleman's gold!
I'll be judged by these gentlemen if they
be not—although I say it who should not,
seeing that it was I who broke them.”

Then, without more ado, they betook
themselves to their sport; and here I might
easily describe the merry pastime, which I
love; expatiate on the sagacity and discipline
of the well trained dogs, the wiles
and exertions of the game, the skill and
woodcraft of the sportsmen, the lovely
woodland scenery, the free fresh air, and
all the pleasant sights and cheery sounds
which give half their charm to the manly
and exhilarating sports of the field. But it
would all too long detain us from matters
of more stirring interest; and, moreover,
such things are far more exciting in reality
than in description, and will pall in the
telling.

Suffice it that the game was abundant,
the day prosperous, the young marksmen
in good cue; the dogs behaved well, the
shooting was extremely good, and the sport
undeniable, for above a hundred rabbits had

been bagged by the three guns before the
hour indicated for their rustic dinner was
announced, by the long keen blast of a
bugle, strongly and scientifically winded,
from the porch of the neighboring farm-house.

“There goes old Castleton,” cried Hale,
“he was the huntsman to my father's pack,
many years since! That says that the
goose pie is ready.”

Leaving the brakes wherein they had
been shooting, a short walk brought them
to the well stocked and hospitable farm-house,
where blunt old fashioned English
hospitality received them, with its cheery
and unceremonious welcome. The goose
pie was pronounced excellent, and such
justice done to it as showed that the praise
was sincere; the home-brewed ale as clear
as amber, as mild as milk, and almost as
strong as brandy, was duly honored; and,
above all, as Edward expected, lovely Rose
Castleton was there—looking, he thought,
even lovelier than before, in her tight fitting
russet jacket, and short blue petticoat,
with her beautiful round arms bare nearly
to the shoulder, and her trim shapely ankles,
displayed by her brief draperies.

There was, however, something in Rose's
manner that Hale did not understand; she
would not talk much to him, nor jest at all;
yet many a stolen glance met his—now
dwelling boldly, now as coquettishly averted;
still he could not exactly make it out,
until, as her father turned aside to speak
to St. Maur, she cast her eye quickly toward
the old man, and laid her finger on
her lips.

Frank Hunter, with the wonted indiscretion
of men and lovers, under such circumstances,
had been to see her that morning;
and, like a fool as he was, instead of coaxing,
had reproached and harrassed her;
and, concluding by calling for her father's
interposition, had procured her a sound
scolding, in set terms, for her flirtiness and
vanity, in fancying that a gentleman like
Sir Edward would demean himself so much
as to look at her.

This, very naturally, excited her ire;
and, as she knew right well that Sir Edward
was not only marvellously well inclined
to look at her, but to accept very
thankfully any favors that she would grant
him, she felt more than half disposed to
prove to her discarded swain how much he
and her father were mistaken, by doing
things that yesterday she would have been
ashamed to think of.

In truth, between the fascinations of the
young lord of the manor, the sulky and unflattering
resentment of her lover, and the
most injudicious violence of her father, who
really had not the least suspicion that Hale
was thinking about his daughter, and fancied
that it was merely an absurd whim of
the girl's, to tease Frank Hunter—in truth,
Rose Castleton was in dread peril of going
irretrievably astray.

Nothing of any moment passed; nor
could Sir Edward find any opportunity of
speaking to the poor girl alone until when the
dinner was finished, and they were returning
to their sports; after they had all quitted
the house with the old farmer, he made
a plea of having left his shot pouch, and ran
back himself, before any one could anticipate
him, to fetch it. He found, as he expected,
Rose Castleton alone, looking out
of the window after them. As he entered
the garden gate she looked round, and seeing
the shot bag, guessed, with a woman's
rapid wit, what it meant—caught it up, and
stepped out into the porch to meet him.

There were two servant girls removing
the dinner things in the hall, and, as if accidentally,
she pulled the heavy door to
after her. The porch was deep and projecting,
and, as Hale entered it, he cast a
quick glance round to see if he was observed,
but all was safe!

The very air of Rose, her heightened
color, the quickened motion of her bosom,
and the trembling of her small hand, showed
that she was not all unconscious.

“I thank you, Rose,” he said quite aloud,
in order to be overheard; “that is just
what I came back for.”

But, with the words, he caught her round
the waist with both his arms, and pressed

her soft and panting bosom to his own—
took one long kiss from her unreluctant
lips, and whispered, “You will come, Rose,
you will come, dearest Rose, to-night?”

“Be sure I will,” she replied—“if they
will let me—if I can slip away; but—but,”
she added, with an arch smile, “you must
promise that you will not harm me.”

Before he could reply, however, the old
man's step was heard without; and putting
her fingers up to her rosy lips, and blowing
him a kiss, she vanished. The door clapped
heavily, and, making as if it had closed
on his own exit, Edward walked out with
the pouch in his hand, spoke a few words
to the old man, and hurried on to join his
comrades.

They returned to their sport,—but the
mind of Edward was too much engrossed
by other matters; his heart beat thick and
fast—his hand was unsteady—he missed
four or five fair shots in succession; and
his friends laughed at him; but he bore all
their jeering in good part, and laughed, in
his turn, at them, as he told them that “He
laughed the loudest who laughed last!”
“Look out,” he added, “look out for your
thousand, captain!”

“Ha! is it so?” said Spencer, “has she
made an appointment?”

“For nine o'clock to-night!”

“Hurrah!” cried St. Maur. “Hurrah!
we shall do the captain—I knew we should.
Halloa! there goes a rabbit, right from between
my legs!” and he took a quick sight
and fired.

“Missed him, by Jove!” said Hale, and
firing himself, he turned the rabbit over;
and the little spaniel, not much bigger
itself than the beast it presumed to carry,
retrieved it very cleverly.

Their shooting was continued until the
shades of evening had begun fairly to set
in; and then, with their shooting ponies
fairly laden with the quantity of game they
had shot, their dogs almost tired out, and
themselves in the highest possible spirits,
they returned homeward to supper.

Just as they came in sight of the house,
the first bell was ringing out clearly and
merrily, so that there was little time to
spare before the social meal should be set
on the board—and this little Captain Spencer,
determined that Edward should have
no more time for quiet consideration, contrived
to make still less, by detaining him
some minutes on the steps of the hall door,
in frivolous conversation.

Then starting suddenly, as if he had forgotten
himself, he said—“Upon my word!
we shall scarce have five minutes to make
our ablutions. Now, pray, lose no time,
my dear Sir Edward, for I am perilous
hungry.”

“Not I, faith,” answered the baronet, running
up stairs in high glee—“I will be with
you in five minutes.”

Then Spencer turned round, with a quiet
smile, to St. Maur, and said—

“The game is won!—that is to say, if
you have not made any blunder in your letter
to Delaval. I wish I had found time to
see it before you sent it off. Mine to Davenant
was a master-piece! Not a word that
could be contradicted; yet not a word that
might not be construed into any thing.”

“I think, for my part, that the game is
lost! Here is this silly wench going to
meet him quietly to-night. He wins her
almost without wooing—wearies of her as
soon as she is won—and there 's an end of
the whole thing, and no one the wiser.”

“That is all you know about it! and,
true enough, that is all that would come of
it, if there were no head wiser than your
own to arrange it.”

“How is it, then? How—”

“Never you mind. It is all well, that
is enough for you. Go away now, and prepare
yourself for supper.”

It was not twenty minutes before to the
light-hearted sports of the day the excitement
of the lighted hall succeeded—the
sumptuous supper—the rich and genial
wines—the frolic mirth—the graceful revelry—the
voluptuous song—the licentious
boasting. Now there was nothing of
the gross and low debauchery which had
rendered the orgies of the past night disgusting
to every refined or gentle spirit;

now there was nothing coarse or boisterous
or obscene; wine flowed, it is true,
liberally, but not to excess; now there was
present every thing that could excite and
stimulate, and nothing that could jar upon
or disgust the senses.

So passed the evening, until the hour
drew nigh for the host's appointment, and
then, easily excused, Sir Edward stole
away to the rendezvous in the low Monk's
Coppice.

The setting moon shed her long rays of
silvery light over the velvet greensward,
and the huge shadows of the giant oaks
slept peacefully amid the sheeny radiance;
there was not a breath of air to stir even
the highest sprays; the fleecy clouds hung
motionless in the depths of the unfathomed
air; there was not a sound abroad, but the
gurgling of the distant trout stream, brought
nearer, as it seemed, by the absence of all
other sounds; the deer were couched
among the tall fern, in dreamless slumbers;
the only living object that met the
eye of the young baronet, as he glided like
a guilty thing through his rich demesne,
was a large white owl sweeping with its
great wings along the wood-side, noiseless
and wary as himself, and like himself in
pursuit of innocent prey.

All abroad was content, and peace, and
tranquillity, but in his heart was the hell of
fierce passions, unchained and for the time
indomitable; the calmness of the scene
was unregarded; or, if regarded, was considered
only as convenient to his purpose;
not as inculcating a lesson, or contrasting
with the turbulence and tumult that he
felt within.

That night, although they waited for
him, and revelled late, his friends saw nothing
of their host; and when, two hours
past midnight, they adjourned, they were
informed by the house-steward that Sir
Edward, not being well at ease, had been
a-bed these four hours.

“I told you so,” whispered Spencer, “I
told you he would not get her very easily.
Good night! good night! to-morrow will
play out the game.”

The morrow came, and when the party
were assembled at the breakfast table, the
brow of Edward Hale was so dark and
moody, that from this alone it was evident
he must have been disappointed; but this
it did not suit his guests to perceive, and
as soon as he entered the apartment, St.
Maur, who was awaiting him, cried out,
with a merry laugh—

“Why this is the very insolence of conquest,
Ned. They tell me that you were
abed at ten o'clock; was not the lovely
Rose worth one hour's attention?”

“Tush!” answered the young baronet,
sharply; “damnation on it! she did not
come at all. Instead of Rose, I met that
great brute, Mark Eversly, at the place, to
tell me she was watched, and could not
get out to meet me. And now, to wind up
the whole, her old dotard of a father has
been here, as soon as it was light this
morning, with Frank Hunter, to ask my
sanction for her marriage, on the day after
to-morrow. He did not directly tell me so,
but it is quite clear that she had told him
every thing, for he talked about a love-quarrel
with her betrothed husband, and
her flightiness, and coquetting with some
other man to punish him! And how sorry
she was now, and how much she repented
of her misconduct, and how willing Frank
was to forgive her, and how anxious he
was himself to marry her at once to the
man she loved, lest scandal, and perhaps
worse should come of it.”

“Pshaw! pshaw! that is the merest
humbug. They have found you out somehow
or other, and have been badgering the
girl out of her wits. It is as clear as day-light
that she loves you, and would rather
be your mistress than that bumpkin's wife.
Only do not despair, and you shall have
her yet.”

“No, no!” replied Hale bitterly, “no—
St. Maur—no! it is impossible. By all the
powers of hell! she is lost to me altogether,
and forever; and I—I—by the Lord that
lives! I would give half my fortune, half
my life to win her.”

“Nonsense, man, nonsense,” replied St.

Maur, “why the deuce should she be lost
to you? It will never do to give it up
thus. Why Spencer will win our two
thousand guineas; I suppose that does not
signify to you, who are as rich as Crœsus,
but it is every thing to me, who have not
been a minor eighteen years, with ten thousand
pounds per annum to accumulate.”

“Why, what the devil would you have
me do, man?” answered Sir Edward, angrily;
“I tell you I would give ten thousand
pounds to win her.”

“Then why don't you win her, baronet?”
said Spencer, laughing. “I could
do it, for a twentieth part of the sum.”

“Oh, you mean buy her, I suppose; buy
her of the father, or the bridegroom! But
you would be very much mistaken if you
were to try that game. You would be
pretty sure to get your head broken with a
quarter-staff, for your pains.”

“Indeed, I mean nothing of the kind,”
said he; “but I could do it.”

“How? how? I will do any thing—
any thing in the world to win her.”

“You forget, baronet, that I have bet
against you; and it is hardly likely that I
should help you to win my own money.”

“Oh, I have lost the bet; I have lost the
bet fairly, for I have consented to her marrying
Hunter,” replied Edward. “I had
given up all hopes of success, and, indeed,
had filled up a draft in your name on my
goldsmith before I came down stairs; here
it is, Captain Spencer. Now we are
straight on that score. So you are free to
help me now. How would you win her?”

“Why, by a little gentle violence. Carry
her off, to be sure,” answered Spencer,
pocketing the draft.

“More easily said, that, than done!”
answered Hale.

“Oh, you are young—you are young,”
replied the other. “Give me the necessary
orders, and I will arrange it all for you, in
the twinkling of an eye.”

“I will give you any thing you please,
captain,” answered the baronet, very
quickly, “if you will show me how you
can do it.”

“Well, just sit down at that table.
You are a magistrate, are you not?”

“Yes; what of that?”

“Every thing—every thing! Just sit
down, and write me an order to take in
charge Francis Hunter, as a poacher, or
vagabond, or any thing you please, and to
put him on board my frigate—and I will do
it this very night—if I take him out of his
own house.”

“But how will you get the force?”

“Never you mind. I have got force
nearer than you think for. My frigate lies
in the Southampton river, and perhaps
my lieutenant and a gang are nearer at
hand than she is. Perhaps I brought them
hither with a view to some fun for myself;
you need not inquire. In these times the
king's very good friends, as I am, can do a
great many very funny things. Only do
you give me the order, and tell me where
to catch Master Frank, and he shall find
himself to-morrow night under hatches of
the good ship Royal Oak, instead of being
under a coverlet with a bonny bride. And,
if he needs must be married, my boatswain
shall be parson, and tie him up to the gunner's
daughter. A saucy scoundrel, to interfere
thus with his betters.”

“That is soon done,” said Hale, who
was now thoroughly maddened between
passion, rivalry, and disappointment, “that
is soon done,” and with the words he drew
an order, signed it, and gave it to Spencer;
“and for the rest, there is no difficulty
in getting hold of Hunter. He told me
himself that he should ride to Alresford
this evening, to buy the wedding ring, or
some such foolery, and return homeward
by the forest road ere midnight; I will
show you where you may post your men,
and catch him—and what then?”

“Why, then, you shall ride out with me,
and show me the spot; and then go on and
call to pay your respects on the good Earl
of Rochefort; and, if he press you, as it is
like he will, stay dinner with him. Then
you must let Mark Eversly show St. Maur
which is the window of the girl's bed-chamber,
and he must have the carriage

waiting in some safe place by the park
wall, and carry off the girl for you, and the
scandal of that will fall on him, not on you;
and he has earned so good a reputation for
such deeds, that one more or less will make
no difference to him; and as for Hunter, I
will not post my men until sunset, and
when the job is done will return quietly to
the Hall, and no one will be a word the
wiser, until a three years' cruise is over,
and by that time the whole thing will be
forgotten.”

“Excellent! excellent!” exclaimed Sir
Edward. “And as I return from Rochefort's,
I will meet St. Maur in the carriage,
have a sham quarrel with him, and
bring her back to her father's as her
rescuer.”

“And so secure a two hour's tête à tête
with her in the first place, in which, of
course, you can overcome all her scruples,
if she have any, and win her for your mistress
under her father's very nose; and
that, too, with his everlasting gratitude to
you for saving her from this vile profligate.
Ah! you are a cunning fellow,
Hale; and, before many years, will be as
deep a hand as myself, I warrant you.”

It needed little time to arrange all
their schemes of iniquity, in due form, and
with every probability of success; and
then, when all was planned, St. Maur
and Harbottle set out to fish the stream;
while Spencer and the young lord of the
manor rode out together, the former, as he
gave it out, to carry letters to the post at
Barnsley, the latter to pay his respects to
the Earl of Rochefort; but it was a matter
of some little surprise to the household
that they took no attendants with them,
and that they ordered a late supper, saying
that they should neither of them be
home until near midnight.