Christmas Penny Readings Part 21

Mr Todds, who was at my elbow, murmured his approval of his superior's language, but gave a superst.i.tious shiver at the same moment. And then once more we opened out, and tramped through the wood, till regularly beaten out; and, without having heard another shot or seen a single enemy, we reluctantly retraced our steps to the Priory.

The next morning, at breakfast, the parlour-maid again announced Browsem--for my uncle abjures men-servants in the house--and the keeper, looking puzzled and long-faced, appeared at the door.

"Now, then," sputtered my uncle, "have you caught them?"

"They cleared Sandy Plants last night, sir," growled the man.

"Who? what?" cried my uncle, upsetting his coffee.

"Some on 'em--Ruddles's, I s'pose," said Browsem. "Don't b'leeve there's a tail left out'er scores," said the man.

"There, go down and wait, and I'll come directly after breakfast."

But to all intents and purposes my uncle had finished his breakfast, for nothing more would he touch, while his face grew purple with rage.

Gout--everything--was forgotten for the time; and half an hour after, Browsem was pointing out the signs of the havoc made on the preceding night in the fir-plantation. Here and there lay feathers, spots of blood, gun-wads; and many a trunk was scarred and flayed with shot. In one place, where the trees were largest, the poachers seemed to have been burning sulphur beneath the boughs, while twice over we came upon wounded pheasants, and one dead--hung high up in the stubbly branches, where it had caught.

My uncle looked furious, and then turning in the direction of the scene of the last night's adventures, he strode off, and we followed in silence.

On reaching the wood, we very soon found, from the trampled underwood and broken twigs, traces of our chase; but the birds seemed plentiful, and no feathers or blood-stains were to be found.

"They didn't get many here, at all events," muttered my uncle.

Both Browsem and Todds shook their heads at me, and looked ghosts.

"Strange thing, though," muttered my uncle. "What do you think of it, Browsem?"

The keeper screwed up his face, and said nothing.

"Confound you for a donkey!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the irascible old gentleman.

"What Tom-fool rubbish you men do believe. Hullo! though, here's a wad;" and he stooped and picked up a wadding evidently cut out of an old beaver hat. "That don't look ghostly, at all events; does it, b.o.o.by?"

Browsem only screwed up his phiz a little tighter.

"Why, tut, tut, tut! Come here, d.i.c.k!" shouted the old gentleman, excitedly. "We've been done, my lad; and they've cleared out the plantation while we were racing up and down here."

I followed the old gentleman to one of the openings where we had stopped together the night before, when Todds, who was close behind, suddenly gave a grunt, and stooping down, picked up a half-empty horn powder-flask.

"That's Ruddles's, I'd swear," growled Browsem.

"Of course," said my uncle. "And now, look here, d.i.c.k," he cried, pointing to the half-burnt gun-wads lying about near a large pollard oak. "There, shin up, and look down inside this tree."

With very little difficulty, I wonderingly climbed up some fifteen feet, by means of the low branches, which came off clayey on my hands, as though some one had mounted by that same means lately, and then I found that I could look down right through the hollow trunk, which was lighted by a hole here and there.

"That'll do; come down," cried my uncle. "If I'd only thought of it last night, we could have boxed the rascal up--a vagabond! keeping us racing up and down the wood, while he sat snugly in his hole, blazing away directly we were a few yards off."

I was certainly very close to Jenny that afternoon when my uncle, whom we thought to be napping in his study, rushed into the room.

"Hurrah, d.i.c.k! Tompkins has peached, and they sent fifty pheasants up in Ruddles's cart this morning; but the old rascal's locked up, and-- hum! That sort of thing looks pretty," he continued, for we were certainly taken somewhat by surprise. "But, you dog," he roared, as Jenny darted from the room, "you did not catch the scoundrel."

However, after that morning's take, even if a hundred pheasants had been sent in the cart, my uncle would have been plastic as clay, while, an hour afterwards, he exclaimed:

"Why, d.i.c.k, I'd almost forgotten my gout."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE SPIRITS OF THE BELLS.

Heart-sore and spirit-weary, Life blank, and future dreary, Mournfully I gazed upon my fire's golden glow, Pondering on idle errors, Writhing under conscience terrors, Gloomily I murmured, with my spirits faint and low.

I had drained the golden measure, Sipped the sweets of so-called pleasure, Seeing in the future but a time for newer joy; Now I found their luscious cloying, Ev'ry hope and peace destroying, Golden visions, brightest fancies--bitter, base alloy.

Riches, comfort spoke then vainly, To a brain thus tinged insanely, Wildly throbbing, aching, teeming, Fancy-filled with hideous dreaming, Speaking of an aimless life, a life without a goal: While as if to chide my murmur, Came a voice which cried, "Be firmer, Would'st be like the beasts that perish? Think thou of thy soul."

Starting from my chair and trembling, Vainly to my heart dissembling, 'Twas an idle fancy that had seemed to strike my ear; Still the words came stealing round me, Horror in its chains had bound me; Dripping from my aching brow, were beads of deepest fear.

Hurrying to my moonlit cas.e.m.e.nt, Throwing up the sash, Highest roof to lowest bas.e.m.e.nt Seemed to brightly flash, Glitt'ring white, with Winter's dressing; While each crystal was caressing Purest rays that glanced around it from the moon's pale light.

Nature slept in sweetest beauty, Gleaming stars spoke hope and duty: Calmer grew my aching brow, beneath the heavenly sight.

Christmas-Eve! the Christian's morrow Soon would dawn on joy and sorrow, Spreading cheer and holy pleasure brightly through the land; Whilst I, lonely, stricken-hearted, Under bitter mem'ries smarted, Standing like an outcast, or as one the world had banned.

Sadly to my chair returning, By my fire still brightly burning, Battling with the purer rays that through the window gleamed; Like two spirits floating o'er me, Vividly rays played before me, Each to wrap me in its light that on my forehead streamed.

The glowing fire with warm embracing Told of earthly, sinful racing: Warmth and pleasure in its looks, but in its touch sharp pain; While the moonbeams, paler, purer, Spoke of pleasures, sweeter, surer, Oft rejected by Earth's sons for joys that bear a stain.

Suddenly with dread I shivered, As the air around me quivered, Laden with the burden of a mighty spirit-tone, Rolling through the midnight stilly, Borne upon the night-wind chilly, Rushing through my chamber, where I sat in dread alone.

"Soul!" it cried, in power pealing, "Soul!" the cry was through me stealing, Vibrating through each fibre with a wonder-breeding might.

"Soul!" the voice was deeply roaring; "Soul!" rang back from roof and flooring, Booming thro' the silence of the piercing winter night.

Now came crashing, wildly dashing, Waves of sound in power splashing, Ringing, swinging, tearing, scaring, Shrieking out in words unsparing, "Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"

Roaring through my chamber portal, Borne thro' window, borne thro' ceiling Ever to my sense revealing, Still the bells these words were pealing, "Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"

"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"

Till my room seemed filled with bells that rang the self-same strain; While, above the brazen roaring, Mightily the first tone pouring, Boomed out "Soul!" in mighty pow'r, and linked in with the chain.

Then an unseen presence o'er me Leant, and from my chamber tore me: Out upon the night-wind I was swept among the sounds, Whirling on amid the pealing, Warning to the city dealing Of the coming morrow, in reverberating rounds.

Still they cried, as from doom's portal, "Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"

Shrieking all around me as I floated with the wind, Ever borne away and crying, Every bell-tone swiftly flying O'er the silent city, to its slumber now consigned.

Hurried round each airy tower, Writhing with the unseen power Vainly, for a spirit-chain each struggling limb would bind; Doomed to hear those words repelling, Ever on my senses knelling, Still--a booming hurricane--we wrestled with the wind.

Sweeping o'er the sluggish river, Where dark piles the waves dissever, 'Neath the bridges, by the shipping, Sluice-gates, with the waters dripping, By the rustling, moaning rushes, Where the tribute-water gushes; Forced to gaze on ghastly faces, Where the dread one left his traces, Faces of the suicide, the murdered floated on, Whose blue, leaden lips, unclosing, Shrieked out words, my brain that froze in, Crying I had stayed my help in hours long pa.s.sed and gone.

"Hopeless, hopeless!" ever crying, "Hopeless we are round you dying, Asking vainly for the aid withheld in selfish grasp; Hopeless, from the crime that's breeding, Ever to new horrors leading, Horrors, growing, flow'ring, seeding, Soon to spread a poison round more deadly than the asp."

Still an unseen presence bound me; Still the bells were shrieking round me, "Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"

"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"