it was a pretty place; its name, sunny mead, an appropriate one. for the bright sun (not far yet above the horizon) of the clear and cold december day, shone on it cheerily: on the walls of the dwelling-house--on the green grass of the spreading lawn, with its groups of flowering laurestina and encompassing trees, that in summer cast a grateful shade. the house was small, but compact; the prospect from the windows, with its expanse of wood and hill and dale, a charming one. at its best it was a simple, unpretending place, but as pleasant a homestead for moderate desires as could be found in the county of surrey.
in a snug room, its fire blazing in the grate, its snowy breakfast cloth, laden with china and silver, drawn near the large window that looked upon the lawn, sat the owner, sir vincent yorke, and his cousin gerald. as soon as breakfast should be over, they were going out shooting; but the baronet was by no means one who liked to disturb his morning's comfort by starting at dawn: shooting, as well as everything else in life, he liked to take easily. gerald had arrived the previous night: it was the first time gerald had seen sunny mead: and the very unpretending rank it took amidst baronets' dwelling-places, surprised him. sir vincent's marriage was fixed for the following month, january; and he gratified gerald much by saying that he thought of asking him to be groomsman.
"aw!--very happy--immensely so," responded gerald with his most fashionable drawl, that so grated on a true and honest ear.
"sunny mead has this advantage; one can come to it and be quiet," observed sir vincent. "there's not room for more than three or four servants in it. my father used to call it the homestead: that's just what it is, and it doesn't pretend to be aught else. more coffee? try that partridge pie. have you seen roland lately?"
the cynical expression of disparagement that pervaded gerald's face at the question, made sir vincent smile.
"aw--i say, don't you spoil my breakfast by bringing up him," spoke gerald. "the best thing he can do is to go out to port natal again. a capital pie!"
"this devilled turkey's good, too. you'll try it presently?" spoke the baronet. "how is hamish channing?"
gerald's skin turned of a dark hue. was sir vincent purposely annoying him? catching up his coffee-cup to take a long draught, he did not answer.
"i never saw so fine a fellow in all my life," resumed sir vincent. "never was so taken with a face at first sight as with his. william yorke was staying there at the time of my father's funeral, and i went next day to call. that's how i saw channing. he promised to come and see me; but somebody told me the other day he was ill."
"aw--yes," drawled gerald. "seedy, i believe."
"what's the matter with him?"
"temper," said gerald. "wrote a book, and had some reviews upon it, and it put him out, i hear."
"but it was a first-rate book, gerald; i read it, and the reviews were all wrong: suppose some contemptible raven of envy scrawled them. the book's working its way upwards as fast as it can now."
"who says so?" cried gerald.
"i do. i had the information from a reliable source. by-the-way, is there anything in that story of roland's--that he is engaged to channing's sister? or is it fancy?"
"i do wish you'd let the fellow's name be; he's not so very good to talk of," retorted gerald, in a rage.
but roland was not so easily put out of the conversation. as luck had it, when the servant brought sir vincent's letters in, there was one from roland amidst them. vincent laughed outright as he read it:--
"dear vincent,--i happened to overhear old greatorex say yesterday that sir vincent yorke wanted a working bailiff for the land at sunny mead. i! wish! to! offer! myself! for! the! situation! there! i put it strong that you may not mistake. of course, i am a relative, which i can't help being; and a working bailiff is but a kind of upper servant. but i'll be very glad of the place if you'll give it me, and will do my duty in it as far as i can, putting my best shoulder to the wheel; and i'll never presume upon our being cousins to go into your house uninvited, or put myself in your way; and my wife would not call on lady yorke if she did not wish it. i'll be the bailiff--you the master.
"i don't tell you i'm a first hand at farming; but, if perseverance and sticking to work can teach, i shall soon learn it. i picked up some experience at port natal; and had to drive waggons and other animals. i'm great in pigs. the droves i had to manage of the grunting, obstinate wretches, out there, taught me enough of them. of course i know all about haymaking; and i'd used to be one of the company at old pierce's harvest homes, on his farm near helstonleigh. i don't suppose you'd want me to thresh the wheat myself; but i'm strong to do it, and would not mind. i would be always up before dawn in spring to see to the young lambs; and i'd soon acquire the ins and outs of manuring and draining. do try me, vincent! i'll put my shoulder to the wheel in earnest for you. there'd be one advantage in taking me--that i should be honest and true to your interests. whereas some bailiffs like to serve themselves better than their masters.
"as to wages, i'd leave that to you. you'd not give less than a hundred a year to begin with; and at the twelvemonth's end, when i had made myself qualified, you might make it two. perhaps you'd give the two hundred at once. i don't wish to presume because i'm a relative; and if the two hundred would be too much at first (for, to tell the truth, i don't know how bailiffs' pay runs), please excuse my having named it. i expect there are lots of pretty cottages to be hired down there; may be there's one on the estate appropriated to the bailiff. i may as well mention that i am a first-rate horseman, and could gallop about like a fire-engine; having nearly lost my life more times than one, learning to ride the wild cattle when up the country at port natal.
"i think that's all i have to say. only try me! if you do, you will find how willing i am. besides being strong, i am naturally active, with plenty of energy: the land should not go to ruin for the want of being looked after. my object in life now is to get a certainty that will bring me in something tolerably good to begin, and go on to three hundred a year, or more; for i should not like annabel to take pupils always. i don't know whether a bailiff ever gets as much.
"bede greatorex can give you a good character of me for steadiness and industry. and if i have stuck to this work, i should do better by yours; for writing i hate, and knocking about a farm i'd like better than anything.
"you'll let me have an answer as soon as convenient. if you take me i shall have to order leggings and other suitable toggery from carrick's tailor; and he might be getting on with the things.
"wishing you a merry christmas, which will soon be here (don't i recollect one of mine at port natal, when i had nothing for dinner and the same for supper), i remain, dear vincent, yours truly,
"roland yorke.
"sir vincent yorke."
to watch the curl of gerald's lip, the angry sarcasm of his face, as he perused this document, which the baronet handed to him with a laugh, was amusing. it might have made a model of scorn for a painter's easel. dropping the letter from his fingers, as if there were contamination in its very touch, he flicked it across the table.
"you'll send it back to him in a blank envelope, won't you?"
"no; why should i?" returned sir vincent, who was good-natured in the main, easy on the whole. "i'll answer him when i've time. do you know, gerald, i think you rather disparage roland."
gerald opened his astonished eyes. "disparage him! how can he be disparaged?--he is just as low as he can be. an awful blot, nothing else, on the family escutcheon."
"the family don't seem to be troubled much by him--saving me. he appears to regard me as a sheet-anchor--who can provide for the world, himself included. i rather like the young fellow; he is so genuine."
"don't call him young," reproved gerald; "he'll be twenty-nine next may."
"and in mind and manners he is nineteen."
"he talks of pigs--see what he has brought his to," exclaimed gerald, somewhat forgetting his fashion. "the--aw--low kind of work he condescends to do--the mean way he is not ashamed to confess he lives in! every bit of family pride has gone out of him, and given place to vulgar instincts."
"as roland has tumbled into the mire, better for him to be honest and work," returned sir vincent, mincing with his dry toast and one poached egg, for he was delicate in appetite. "what else could he do? of course there's the credit system and periodical whitewashings, but i should not care to go in for that kind of thing myself."
"are you in want of a bailiff?" growled gerald, wondering whether the last remarks were meant to be personal.
"greatorex has engaged one for me. how are you getting on yourself, gerald?"
"not--aw--at all. i'm awfully hard up."
"you always are, ger, according to your story," was the baronet's remark, laughing slightly.
and somehow the laugh sounded in gerald's ear as a hard laugh--as one that boded no good results to the petition he meant to prefer before his departure--that sir vincent would accommodate him with a loan.
"he's close-fisted as a miser," was gerald's mental comment. "his father all over again. neither of them would part with a shilling save for self-gratification: and both could spend enough on that. i'll ask him for a hundred, point blank, before i leave; more, if i can feel my way to do it. fortune is shamefully unequal in this life. there's vin with his baronetcy, and his nice little place here and every comfort in it, and his town house, and his clear four thousand a-year, and no end of odds and ends of money besides, nest eggs of various shapes and sizes, and his future wife a seventy thousand pounder in her own right; and here's myself by his side, a better man than he any day, with not a coin of my own in the whole world, nor likely to drop into one by inheritance, and afraid to venture about london for fear of being nabbed! curse the whole thing! he is shabby in trifles too. to give me a miserable two days' invitation. two days! i'll remain twenty if i can."
"you don't eat, gerald."
"i've made a famous breakfast, thank you. do you spend christmas down here, vincent?"
"not i. the day after tomorrow, when you leave me, i start for paris."
"for paris!" echoed gerald, his mouth falling at the sudden failure of his pleasant scheme.
"miss trehern and her father are there. we shall remain for the jour de l'an, see the bonbon shops, and all that, and then come back again."
"and i hope the bonbon shops will choke him!" thought kindly gerald.
sir vincent yorke did not himself go in for keepers and dogs. there was little game on his land, and he was too effeminate to be much of a sportsman. he owned two guns, and that comprised the whole of his shooting paraphernalia. breakfast over, he had his guns brought, and desired gerald to take his choice.
now the handling and understanding of guns did not rank amidst gerald yorke's accomplishments. brought up in the cathedral town, only away from it on occasions at dr. yorke's living (and that happened to be in a town also), the young yorkes were not made familiar with outdoor sports. dr. yorke had never followed them himself, and saw no necessity for training his sons to them. even riding they were not very familiar with. roland's letter had just informed sir vincent that he had nearly lost his life learning to ride the wild horses when up the country at port natal. probably he had learnt also to understand something about guns: we may be very sure of one thing, that if he did not understand them, he would have voluntarily avowed it. not so gerald. gerald, made up of artificialisms--for nothing seemed real about him but his ill-temper--touched the guns here, and fingered the guns there, and critically examined them everywhere, as if he were the greatest connoisseur alive, and had invented a breech-loader himself; and finally said he would take this one.
so they went out, each with his gun and a favourite dog of the baronet's, spot, and joined a neighbour's shooting party, as had been arranged. colonel clutton's land joined sir vincent's; he was a keen lover of sport, always making up parties for it, and if sir vincent went out at all, it was sure to be with colonel clutton.
"to-day and tomorrow will be my last turn out this season," observed the baronet, as they walked along. "not sorry for it. one gets a large amount of fatigue: don't think the slaughter compensates for that."
reaching the meeting-place, they found a party of some three or four gentlemen and two keepers. gerald was introduced to colonel clutton, an elderly man with snow-white hair. the sport set in. it was late in the season, and the birds were getting scarce or wary, but a tolerably fair number fell.
"the gentleman don't seem to handle his gun gainly, sir, as if he'd played with one as a babby," observed one of the keepers confidentially in sir vincent's ear.
he alluded to gerald yorke. sir vincent turned and looked. though not much addicted to shooting, he was thoroughly conversant with it: and what he saw, as he watched gerald, a little surprised him.
"i say, gerald yorke, you must take care," he called out. "did you never handle a gun before?"
the suggestion offended gerald: the question nettled him. his face grew dark.
"what do you mean, sir vincent?" was his angry answer. he would have liked to affirm his great knowledge of shooting: but his chief practice had been with a pop-gun at school.
sir vincent laughed a little. "don't do any mischief, that's all."
it might have been that the public caution caused gerald to be more careless, just to prove his proficiency; it might have been that it tended to flurry him. certainly he would not have caused harm wilfully; but nevertheless it took place.
not ten minutes after sir vincent had spoken, he was crossing a narrow strip of open ground towards a copse. gerald, leaping through a gap in the hedge not far behind, carrying his gun (like a senseless man) on full cock, contrived, in some inexplicable manner, to discharge it. whether his elbow caught in the leafless branches, or the trigger caught, or what it was, gerald yorke never knew, and never will know to his dying day. the charge went off; there was a cry, accompanied by shouts of warning, somebody on the ground in front, and the rest running to surround the fallen man.
"you have no right to come out, sir, unless you can handle a gun properly!" spoke colonel clutton to gerald, in the moment's confusion. "i have been watching your awkwardness all the morning."
gerald looked pale with fear, dark with anger. he made no reply whatever only pressed forward to see who was down, the men, in their velveteen coats and leggings, looking much alike. sir vincent yorke.
"it's not much, i think," said the baronet good-naturedly, as he looked up at gerald. "but i say, though, you should have candidly answered me that you were not in the habit of shooting, when i sent you the invitation."
no, it was not much. a few shots had entered the calf of the left leg. they got out pocket-handkerchiefs, and tied them tightly round to stop the hemorrhage. the dog, spot, laid his head close to his master's face, and whined pitiably.
"what sense them dumb animals have!--a'most human!" remarked the keeper.
"this will stop my paris trip," observed sir vincent, as they were conveying him home.
"better that was stopped than your wedding," replied colonel clutton, with a jesting smile. "you keep yourself quiet, now, that you may be well for that. don't talk."
sir vincent acquiesced readily. at the best of times he was sensitive to pain, and somewhat of a coward in regard to his own health. at home he was met by a skilful surgeon. the shots were extracted, and sir vincent was made comfortable in bed. gerald yorke waylaid the doctor afterwards.
"is it serious? will he do well? sir vincent is my cousin."
"oh--mr. yorke; the gentleman whose gun unfortunately caused the mishap," was the answering remark. "of course these accidents are always serious, more or less. this one might have been far worse than it is."
"he will do well?"
"quite well. at least, i hope so. i see nothing to hinder it. sir vincent will be a tractable patient, you see; and a good deal lies in that."
"there's no danger, then?"
"oh no: no danger."
gerald, relieved on the score of apprehension of consequences, had the grace to express his regret and sorrow to the baronet. sir vincent begged him to think no more about it: only recommended him not to go out with a party in future, until he had had some practice. gerald, untrue to the end, said he was a little out of practice; should soon get into it again. sir vincent made quite light of the hurt; it was nothing to speak of, the doctor had said; would not delay his marriage, or anything. but he did not ask gerald to remain: and that gentleman, in spite of his hints, and his final offer to stay, found he was expected to go. sir vincent expressed his acknowledgments, but said he wished for perfect quiet.
so on the day following the accident, gerald yorke returned to town; which was a day sooner than, even at the worst, he had bargained for; and arrived in a temper. taking one untoward disappointment with another, gerald's mood could not be expected to be heavenly. he had fully intended to come away with his pockets lined--if by dint of persuasion sir vincent could be seduced into doing it. as it was, gerald had not broached the subject. sir vincent was to be kept entirely quiet; and gerald, with all his native assurance, could not ask a man for money, whom he had just shot.
