"Be whipped if I can tell what has got into the child!" stormed Joan.
"Do you want to starve yourself right out?--do you want to----"
"There"s papa," interrupted Katrine, as the house door was heard to open. "You must bring in more tea now, Joan."
This door opened next, and some one stood looking in. Not Mr. Barbary.
Katrine gazed with dilating eyes, as the firelight flickered on the intruder"s face: and then she caught hold of Joan with an awful cry. For he who had come in bore the semblance of Edgar Reste.
"Why, Katrine, my dear, have you been ill?"
Katrine burst into hysterical tears as her terror pa.s.sed. She had been taking it for Mr. Reste"s apparition, you see, whereas it was Mr. Reste himself. Joan closed the shutters, stirred the fire, and went away to see what she could do for him in the shape of eatables after his journey. He sat down by Katrine, and took her poor wan face to his sheltering arms.
In the sobbing excitement of the moment, in the strangely wonderful relief his presence brought, Katrine breathed forth the truth; that she had seen him, as she believed, _buried_ under the summer-apple tree; had believed it all this time, and that it had been slowly killing her. Mr.
Reste laughed a little at the idea of his being buried, and cleared up matters in a few brief words.
"But why did you never write?" she asked.
"Being at issue with Mr. Barbary, I would not write to him: and I thought, Katrine, that the less you were reminded of me the better. I waited in London until my luggage came up, and then went straight to Dieppe, without having seen any one I knew; without having even shown myself at my Chambers----"
"But why not, Edgar?" she interrupted. Mr. Reste laughed.
"Well, I had reasons. I had left a few outstanding accounts there, and was not then prepared to pay them and I did not care to give a clue to my address to be bothered with letters."
"You did not even write to Captain Amphlett. He came here to see after you."
"I wrote to him from Dieppe; not quite at first, though. Buried under the apple-tree! that _is_ a joke, Katrine!"
It was Christmas Eve, I have said. We had gone through the snow, with Mrs. Todhetley, to help the Miss Pages decorate the church, and the Squire was alone after dinner, when Mr. Reste was shown in.
"Is it you!" cried the Squire in hearty welcome. "So you have come down for Christmas!"
"Partly for that," answered Mr. Reste. "Partly, sir, to see you."
"To see me! You are very good. I hope you"ll dine with us to-morrow, if Barbary will spare you."
"Ah! I don"t know about that; I"m afraid not. Anyway, I have a tale to tell you first."
Sitting on the other side the fire, opposite the Squire, the wine and walnuts on the table between them, he told the tale of that past Tuesday night.
He had gone out with Barbary in a fit of foolishness, not intending to do any harm to the game or to join in any harm, though Barbary had insisted on his carrying a loaded gun. The moon was remarkably bright.
Not long had they been out, going cautiously, when on drawing near d.y.k.e Neck, they became aware that some poachers were already abroad, and that the keepers were tracking them; so there was nothing for it but to steal back again. They had nearly reached Caramel Cottage, and were making for the side gate, when a huge dog flew up, barking. Barbary called out that it was the Squire"s dog, and----
"Bless me!" interjected the Squire at this.
"Yes, sir, your dog, Don," continued Mr. Reste. "Barbary very foolishly kicked the dog: he was in a panic, you see, lest the noise of its barking should bring up the keepers. That kick must have enraged Don, and he fastened savagely on Barbary"s leg. I, fearing for Barbary"s life, or some lesser injury, grew excited, and fired at the dog. It killed him."
The Squire drew a deep breath.
"Not daring to leave the dog at the gate, for it might have betrayed us, we drew him across the yard to the brewhouse, and locked the door upon him. But while doing this, Ben Gibbon pa.s.sed, and thereby learnt what had happened. The next day, Barbary and I had some bickering together. I wanted to come to you and confess the truth openly; Barbary forbade it, saying it would ruin him: we could bury the dog that night or the next, he said, and n.o.body would ever be the wiser. In the evening, Gibbon came in; he was all for Barbary"s opinion, and opposed mine. After he left, I and Barbary had a serious quarrel. I said I would leave there and then; he resented it, and followed me into the yard to try to keep me. But my temper was up, and I set off to walk to Evesham, telling him to send my traps after me, and to direct them to Euston Square Station. I took the first morning train that pa.s.sed through Evesham for London, and made my mind up on the journey to go abroad for a week or two. Truth to confess," added the speaker, "I felt a bit of a coward about the dog, not knowing what proceedings you might take if it came to light, and I deemed it as well to be out of the way for a time. But I don"t like being a coward, Mr. Todhetley, it is a role I have never been used to, and I came down to-day to confess all. Barbary is going away, so it will not damage him: besides, it was really I who killed the dog, not he. And now, sir, I throw myself upon your mercy. What do you say to me?"
"Well, I"m sure I don"t know," said the Squire, who was in a rare good humour, and liked the young fellow besides. "It was a bad thing to do--poor faithful Don! But it"s Christmas-tide, so I suppose we must say no more about it. Let bygones be bygones."
Edgar Reste grasped his hand.
"Barbary"s off to Canada, we are told," said the Squire. "A better country for him than this. He has not been thought much of in this place, as you probably know. And it"s to be hoped that poor little maiden of his will get up her health again, which seems, by all accounts, to be much shattered."
"I think she"ll get that up now," said Mr. Reste, with a curious smile.
"She is not going out with him, sir; she stays behind with me."
"With you!" cried the Squire, staring.
"I have just asked her to be my wife, and she says, Yes," said Mr.
Reste. "An old uncle of mine over in India has died; he has left me a few hundreds a year, so that I can afford to marry."
"I"m sure I am glad to hear it," said the Squire, heartily. "Poor Don, though! And what did Barbary do with him?"
"Buried him in his back garden, under the summer-apple tree."
Coming home from our night"s work at this juncture, we found, to our surprise, a great dog fastened to the strong iron garden bench.
"What a magnificent dog!" exclaimed Tod, while the mother sprang back in alarm. "It is something like Don."
It was very much like Don. Quite as large, and handsomer.
"I shall take it in, Johnny; the Pater would like to see it, There, mother, you go in first."
Tod unfastened the dog and took it into the dining-room, where sat Mr.
Reste. The dog seemed a gentle creature, and went about looking at us all with his intelligent eyes. Mrs. Todhetley stroked him.
"Well, that is a nice dog!" cried the Squire. "Whose is it, lads?"
"It is yours, sir, if you will accept him from me," said Mr. Reste. "I came across him in London the other day, and thought you might like him in place of Don. I have taught him to answer to the same name."
"We"ll call him "Don the Second"--and I thank you heartily," said the Squire, with a beaming face. "Good Don! Good old fellow! You shall be made much of."
He married Katrine without much delay, taking her off to London to be nursed up; and Mr. Barbary set sail for Canada. The bank-notes, you ask about? Why, what Katrine saw in her father"s hands were but _half_ the notes, for Mr. Reste divided them the day they arrived, giving thirty pounds to his host, and keeping thirty himself. And d.i.c.k Standish, for once, had not been in the fight; and the Squire, meeting him in the turnip-field on Christmas Day, gave him five shillings for a Christmas-box. Which elated d.i.c.k beyond telling; and the Squire was glad of it later, when poor d.i.c.k had gone away prematurely to the Better Land.
And all the sympathy Katrine had from her father, when he came to hear about the summer-apple tree, was a sharp wish that she could have had her ridiculous ideas shaken out of her.
A TRAGEDY
I.--GERVAIS PREEN