University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE HOUSEHOLD CURSE.

Shakspeare.

It was already dark when the hunters arrived, travel-worn
and hungry, at the hospitable portico of the
country tavern, where they were received by the indefatigable
Timothy with tidings, that there were “no but
faive minnits to spare afore 't dinner's be upon t' teable;
so it behooved them look raight sharp an if they
thought to shift themselves.”

“I think to shift myself, for one, Tim,” said his master,
good-humouredly; “so bring up some hot water
to my room as quick as you can.”

“Ditto,” said Frank, before Tim had time to reply.

“T'het wathur is bin i' boath your ro-ooms this 'our
and better,” he replied, half disgusted as it would seem
by the insinuation that a valet of his discretion should
have been guilty of such a solecism as to allow gentlemen

to retire to their dressing-rooms unprovided with
the first requisite of the toilette.

“It is pretty cold water, I should fancy, then, by this
time, Timothy,” said Frank, with a laugh at his own
sharpness as he conceived it.

“Noo, Measter Forester, did you iver ken me to do
a varry simple thing?”

“I cannot say that I ever did, Tim.”

“Weel, and ay reckon 'at you niver will, gin you
were to live mair nor a hoondred years, and a hoondred
upon 't back o' them. And ay think it wud be a varry
simple thing i'deed to tak t' hot wathur oop into twa
cauld chammers. Nay, nay, Measter Frank, that's not
the way as things is doon i' t' West Raiding. There's
twa good blazing fires i' t' stoves, laike, and t' kettles
boiling atop on 'em. But gang your gait, gentlemen,
or t' dinner 'll be overdoon, and then ay's be bla-amed
for 't, ay's oophaud it.”

Within ten minutes, however, their ablutions performed,
and fully rigged from head to foot, Harry and
Frank made their appearance in the little parlour, where
the table awaited them, spread with its clean white linen
and decorated with its glittering glass and silver, and
its four tall wax-lights.

Here they were speedily joined by Tom Draw, who
had contented himself with a wash under the pump,
Dolph declining to form one of the party, but promising

to join them as soon as they should have got through
dinner.

Then, without further delay, Timothy set upon the
table a large tureen full of the strongest and most
delicious mutton broth, as hot as lava, and as perfectly
concocted as the most fastidious palate could desire.

This capital potage was followed by a matelote of
eels from the neighbouring mill-pond, which Frank,
having imbibed a large bell-glassful of dry straw-coloured
sherry after his soup, pronounced equal to
anything that he had ever tasted, even at the Rocher de
Cancale, the house par excellence of all the world, be it
known, for fish.

“I don't think much of eels, nohow,” grumbled Fat
Tom, holding out his plate for a second helping, “but
that ar' rich gravy with the onions and spices and
Madeira wine doos help them some, I swon. Now,
then, Tim, ar'n't you agoin' to open one of them long-necks?”

Tim glanced a doubtful eye toward his master.

“Not for your life, you varlet, until the venison's on
the table. Champagne with fish, indeed!—It's as bad
almost as Tom Dragon, who would eat ham with his
canvass ducks at Snedecor's. It spoiled my appetite
for the day, and I could drink nothing for a week afterward.
Another such shock to my gastronomic nerves
would surely kill me. No! no champagne; give him

a tumblerful of whiskey, if he wants it, and me a
thimbleful—”

“And me ditto!” chimed in Frank Forester.

“And then bring us the haunch! and that done, Tom
shall be gratified with a dash at the Sillery see! Upon
my word!” he added, as the smoking haunch made its
appearance, covered with two inches of fat, crisply
embrowned to the most delicate golden hue; “it is as
fine a one as I have seen these three years. Fill up the
glasses, Tim; we'll drink Dolph's health for this, at all
events in his absence. Another slice, Tom?—It eats
short, don't it, Frank?”

“As short as puff-paste—a glass of champagne with
you, Harry?”

“With pleasure.”

“And what the d—l have I ben adoin' that I carn't
be let into that 'ere party? With only three men, it's
a burnin' shame for two on 'em to be guzzlin' by themselves
selfish like! Besides, 'taint fair noways, for
when we all gits tight, you'll be aswearin' I was drunk
fust, or some sich thunderin' lie.”

“Help yourself, man alive; but don't think, much
less talk about getting drunk, there's no such work as
that to be done to-night. Let me give you another
slice, Frank; I've got a prime cut yet, with a beautiful
streak of fat.”

“You are irresistible, Harry. But won't you keep
me company?”

“To be sure I will. I am only beginning to eat.
I'm a whale at venison, as poor Mac used to say.”

“Poor Mac, indeed!”

“Fust-rate stuff that creawn wine o' his was. I hain't
niver tasted nothin' like that, niver since,” said Tom
with a sigh of regret, not for the excellent fellow who
had departed, but for the excellent wine the memory
of which yet dwelt on his palate.

“Nor ever will, I fancy,” said Harry. “The taste
for champagne in this country is as bad and as false as
it can be, and I think the wine gets worse every day.
If it is tolerably dry it is as thin as vinegar, if fruity and
strong it is as sweet as molasses. This is about the
best in the market, but it is poor thin stuff to my fancy.”

“What is it?”

“They call it the Thorn.”

“Let them call it the Thorn! What else have you
got for dinner, Timothy?”

“Some Stilton cheese and caviar, sir.”

“Fill round the end of that champagne, then; and
let us have a bottle of the old port with the cheese.”

“Ay, ay, sur! It's been doon afore t' fire airing laike
sin' you set doon to t' teable!”

“I hope not too near. If it is too warm it will be
all day with it.”

“Nay! nay! sur, ay's oophaud it's raight. Noo,
mun ay get t' poonch-bowl?”

“Of course you must, and the devilled biscuits, and

the pipes; and that done, see if you can't scare up old
Dolph somewhere or other.”

“He's waiting i' t' bar-room whaile you've got dean.”

“That's well. What the deuce is the matter with
you, Tom? Don't be sick upon the table, man alive!
What ails you, spitting and sputtering in that way?”

But up got the old man, in spite of all exhortations,
rushed to the window, heaved it open might and main,
and spit out a mouthful of the caviar which he had
taken, utterly unconscious what he was absorbing—an
action which was followed by a burst of most vehement
imprecations, and by a reiterated appeal to Timothy for
brandy, a tumbler full of brandy without the darned
drop of water, to wash out the taste of that ere filthy
pison stuff, what Aircher 'd sot upon the table jest to
kill a fellow with.

It was a long time before Frank and Harry could
pacify him at all, for their enormous and irrepressible
laughter at first confirmed his idea that a premeditated
trick had been played off upon him, and that he had
been induced to eat what he styled “some all-fired
ongodly nastiness, of Aircher's fixin'.” And it was
only on seeing Frank and Archer apply themselves to
the odious dish with the gusto of genuine epicures, that
he transferred his abuse from the filthiness of the caviar
to the bestiality of them that could eat such “stinkin'
trash.”

A brimming bumper or two of port did much, however,

to mollify his indignation, and by the time that
the punch made its entree, accompanied by pipes, Turkish
tobacco, and devilled biscuits, the serenity of his
visage and the amiability of his demeanour were perfectly
restored.

By this time, also, Dolph had come upon the scene;
and, having filled his pipe with kinnekinninck, and
accepted a single rummer of the fragrant punch, at
Harry's bidding he began the narrative anent Harry
Barhyte and his handsome wife:—

“Well, Mr. Aircher, there ar'n't much of a story no-how,
and what there is, is right sad and dismal. It's
two year since, no longer, that Harry Barhyte, as you
knowed him in them days, the smartest and likeliest of
all the young chaps hereaway, and the best with the
rifle a great sight, began to be afollowin' and hangin'
round like, arter Mary; she was scarce fifteen year old,
and the purtiest gal the sun shone down upon; but she
was wild and flighty then, and I niver thought no good
would come on't; seein' I'd noticed how, the year afore,
she carried on with black Ned Wheeler, till old Marten
he concaited as things had gone far enough that
away, and turned Ned out o' doors; and arter that he
turned wickeder, and wilder, and more drunkener than
iver, and it 'ud well nigh make your hair rise stret on
eend to hear how he'd rave and rip and roar, and call
down cusses on the gal and all her kin, and swear vengeance
on any one as should so much 's look at her,

let alone like her. Well, arter a spell like, he 'listed
and went off South some wheres, Florida ways, I reckon,
and warn't heerd tell of for a many a day. And
Mary she did nothen but laugh and jeer like, and grew
wilder and merrier and flightier than iver; and carried
on wusser nor afore, only she carried on jest alike with
all the boys now, where afore she only carried on with
Ned like. Still I concaited as she liked Ned, as well
as her triflin', vain charakter 'ud let her like iny one;
and so I telled Harry Barhyte. But bless you, Mr.
Aircher, he was as crazy as a loon, and rared right up
on eend, and swore she wor the best and modestest and
lovin'est gal in the hull range; and hollered at me so
as I couldn't stand it nohow. So he and I kind o'
cooled off like, and hain't niver bin right friends since.
Well, for six months, or better, Harry and she wor one
day sparkin' it the sweetest kind, wanderin' about in
the woods, with his arm about her waist, and her hand
clasped in hisn, or sittin' down by some clear brook-side,
with her head leanin' on his shoulder, and her big
blue eyes lookin' up into hisn as tender and as melancholy
as a faan's. And the next day agin, she'd start
right round, and likely carry on jest as free with some
other chap, and not so much as throw a word to Harry,
or give a civil answer when he'd speak to her. But it
warn't no use, nohow. He seemed to be all the keener
arter her, the wuss she used him, and what should
a' turned him right agin her, sot him the stronger on her
side. And I dun' know how 'twas at last, but she
made Harry believe as she loved him, and it warn't
nothin' but her youth, and light heart, and merriness;
but I knowed—I did—that them was signs of a bad
heart, not a light one, and of a devilish character. But jest
so it was sot to be, and so it had to be, and so it was;
and arter quite a spell of sparkin' and foolin', off and
on, why they got married; and Harry tuk her home;
and he had iverything fixed nice about her; and provided
raal well for her; and niver went to the tavern
like, but passed his evenin's to hum allus, and was the
steadiest, best-doin'est, and fondest husband in the
country. And for awhile she seemed to be contint,
and happy, and proud of Harry as he wor of her, and
with more cause, I tell you, for if she had good looks,
he had good natur'; and what's raal is better nor what's
seemin', inyhow. Arter awhile, agin, she kind o' got
weary, it seemed, and uncontint at hum, and kept on
the run to the neighbour's houses like, and carried
on agin with the young boys, like as if she hadn't bin
a married woman; but Harry he wouldn't see no harm
in it, though it was plain to see as he was sad bytimes,
and thoughtful, and grieved badly, that she couldn't
stay to hum like and be happy by her own fireside.
And then black Ned come hum, with his discharge;
for he'd got wounded pretty smartly by them Injuns,
down in Florida—the wuss luck as they didn't kill
him!—and then there was H— in the house right
away! For she'd be mopin' haaf the time, and cryin'
and sulkin' like a hurt she-bar, and the next minnit
agin, she'd be quarrellin' and hollerin', and vexin'
Harry's heart out. So that he tuk to comin' down to
Jake's, and spendin' all his time there pretty nigh; and
drinkin' till all's blue; and what's wuss yet, he got
friends with black Ned; for he couldn't work none, for
his wound like, but loafed round the bar, and now and
agin 'ud hunt or fish a spell, and so H— to hum drew
Harry into idleness; and idleness, that led him into
drinkin' and drinkin' into friendship with black Ned;
and whereaway that ar' will carry him, it's easier
guessin' nor knowin!”

“A sad story, indeed,” said Harry, with a sigh. “I
am sorry for Barhyte; the other fellow was a scamp
always, and I have little doubt a very ruffian. Are
Harry and he friends yet?”

“Bless you, yes! Friends! why she's persuaded him
to take black Ned to hum, into the very house; and he
lives there all as if he wor Harry's brother; while
iverybody else can see what Harry's eyes is sealed to.
and haaf of his old friends is droppin' off from him;
and some says he's a fool, and some says he's poor-hearted,
and lowminded, and that he winks hard at his
own disgrace. But iny man as says so lies, Mr. Aircher.
For Harry's blinded by his own trustiness and his own
honest natur', and he loves that blackhearted jade with
his whole soul; and I'd not hint to him, what we all

of us knows her to be, no, not for a thousand dollars,
leastways if I didn't want a rifle-bullet driven through
my brain-pan.”

“What strange infatuation! how deplorable! and
yet he used to be a clear-headed, rational, strong-minded
man,” said Archer thoughtfully.

“I've heern say oftentimes, Mr. Aircher, that it is jest
them very men, cl'ar-headed, and strong-minded, as
men carn't fool with nohow, as is the easiest and wust
fooled by women. How is't? I dun know much about
them she-critters, nor doosn't want to know. How is't?”

“I fancy that you are not far wrong, Dolph,” replied
Archer, with a smile. “But what will be the end of
it? Harry must be undeceived some day or other, and
then—”

“And then, I dreads to think what'll turn up.
Harry'll kill him sartin if he should catch him, and I
doubt somehow he'd not live hisself long arter.”

“And she?” asked Harry Archer, with an expression
of strong interest, as he investigated this strange and
tortuous plot of rural crime and passion.

“She! she's as safe from him, as if she wor in heaven,
where she won't niver be! Why he'd not harm a hair
of her head, nor say a word agin her black wickedness,
though he knowed all about it. But she's a drivin' him
to death and to desperation, and means, I guess, to drive
him. I'd not wonder not a mossel, to see Harry Barhyte
dead, and Ned Wheeler married to his wife, afore the

leaves is green agin upon them hills. He's failin' ivery
day, I see that cl'arly. But it's agittin' late, and I've
told my tale, and now I'll be movin'. For if we
means to scour the black brook range to-morrow, we'd
needs be afoot by daylight or afore.”

“And that is precisely what we do mean,” said
Archer. “So good-night, old friend, and rouse us up
before the sun to-morrow. I'll away to my bed, myself,
shortly.”

But, notwithstanding his expressed intention, he did
not move, but sat there with his head buried in his
hands, evidently pondering deeply on what he had
heard, until Frank Forester, who, knowing nothing of
the parties, was less deeply moved than Archer, asked
him half jocularly what ailed him, that he pondered so
gravely on the sins and sorrows of this rustic Mars and
Venus.

“Do not joke, Frank,” he answered; “it is no joking
matter. I know both of these unhappy people well.
Barhyte once saved my life, or something very like it,
when my foot had slipped, and I had fallen on my back
within six paces of a wounded bear, my rifle empty,
and neither knife nor tomahawk at hand. The girl, as
old Dolph told you, has set on my knees a hundred
times, when she was an innocent and lovely child. I
cannot think of these things, look first upon this picture
then on that, without being deeply moved. Beside
which, I know the character of these people so well,

that I anticipate the occurrence, even in this secluded
valley, of some terrible domestic tragedy.”

“Pshaw! Harry, you look too gravely on these matters.
People of this kind rarely or never have so keen
sentiments of honour, or feel so much abased by degradation
of this sort as to have recourse to any very sanguinary
vengeance, much less to suicide, which you seem,
I think, to apprehend.”

“It is you who are in error, Frank, not I. What
you say may be very true, probably is true of the small,
paltry, peddling burghers of the cities, of the toilworn
and brutalized artisans of the factories, nay, even of the
dull drudging peasants of the open country. But these
men, independent yeomen, wild free foresters, living a
life of continual excitement, incurring constant peril,
familiar with the use of arms, their whole lives from the
cradle to the grave one wild and strange romance,
these men, I say, feel wrongs done to their sense of
honour as keenly, and avenge such as ruthlessly, as the
red Indian whom they have supplanted in these hunting-grounds;
and for this poor fellow in particular, this
Harry Barhyte, I am as sure that he will not survive, as
that he will avenge the loss of his honour, and the robbery
of his wife's affections. It makes me sad, and it
makes me sick, to think of it, and yet I do not see what
can be done.”

“Nothing can be done, Harry,” replied Forester, who
was now as grave as his friend. “Interference in such

matters only makes them worse; and involves those who
would do good in the catastrophe, if there be one.
Nothing can be done, Harry; except what I think the
best for both of us, to take one more glass of punch,
tumble into bed, and wake up with brighter thoughts,
please God, to-morrow morning.”

“I believe so,” said Archer, with a sad smile at his
friend's quaintness; and in a moment or two afterward
the night-lamps were lighted, and they retired to rest,
tired enough to make it nearly certain that sleep would
not long avoid their pillows.