Sporting Facts and Fancies

By J. P. Wheeldon

This vintage book contains a collection of anecdotes and accounts related to various sporting experiences. Wonderfully written and both interesting and entertaining, "Sporting Facts and Fancies" will appeal to modern sporting enthusiasts and is not to be missed by collectors of vintage literature of this ilk. Contents include: "Miss Burton of Craigmuir", "The Hope of His House", "At Charlton Manor House", "A Morning with the Pike at the Heron's Haunt", "The Dean's Decision", "A Night Gallop for Dear Life", "Yellowhammer's Christmas Box", "Pigbury's Pond", "The Last Day in the Woods", "By Sedge and Stream in Winter Time", "Roach Fishing in Western Waters", "Thames Trouting on the Derby Day", "Fen Shooting at Huggins Carr Farm", et cetera. Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. We are republishing this volume now in an affordable, high-quality edition complete the original artwork and text.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Country Books
• Release date: Sep 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781473341425

Book preview

MISS BURTON OF CRAIGMUIR.

A FISHERMAN’S CHRISTMAS STORY.

CHAPTER I.—THE HOPE OF HIS HOUSE.

THE snow fell softly, whitening the housetops and the grimy chimneys of London streets, whilst the bare ugly squares of the great city grew less prim and austere under the magical influence of the chaste mantle of snowflakes. It fell softly over suburban gardens, where, at the trim villa windows, troops of happy children, with eyes glistening like stars, clapped merry hands in boundless glee over the sackfuls of feathers that Mother Bunch was showering down to earth for their special behoof and amusement—fell softly between narrow courts and the walls of filthy rookeries, as though it would fain blot out the sin and crime which among such reeking dens hath its abiding place—fell upon the gratings which served for windows to foul cellars, where, huddled round struggling fires, blear-eyed women hugged frowsy, pinched children to barren bosoms, waiting, mayhap, for the return of one who had gone to get bread and temporary oblivion, in the shape of gin, somehow—blocking out the last rays of expiring daylight from kitchens, where, gathered round a huge fire, keen wolf-faced men, with the imprint of villainy writ large in every line, and keener boys, with eyes that shone in the firelight like those of rats in a sewer, who catch the glint of the shoremen’s lanthorn, sit half afraid lest every creak of the door bespeaks a foe, talking in low muffled tones in twos and threes, and listening between audible puffs at their short clay pipes, black and chipped with use, to the bubbling of a huge cauldron that hangs over the blaze. Still falling in heavy flakes, it whitened the half-deserted Strand—empty, save for the last of the homeward-bound omnibuses, such cabs as had fares, and unfortunate pedestrians who were perforce compelled to plod through such a night—lighting here and there with soft touch upon the fur and sealskin wrapped round the shrinking forms of richly caparisoned daughters of the night—settling equally gently upon the straw bonnet and dowdy flowers of another less fortunate sister—roysterers, full to the bung, slipped upon the sloppy, greasy pavement—while the porter at the Temple gate, peeping out, stood lost in wonder at the unwonted sight of Fleet-street half deserted at 9 o’clock!

A man, muffled up to the chin, turned in at the gate, to whom the porter touched his hat respectfully, watching his tall form striding with long steps along the lane, until lost in a narrow turning among the snow-covered cloisters. This is Burton Meredith, one of the leading persons in our little drama. As such, he merits ten lines of introduction. That done, the reader, knowing something of him, finds it plainer sailing.

No man ever went to Oxford with fairer prospects than he—no man ever more neglected his chances. The only son of George Meredith of Carlton, and descending from an old and long line of sturdy English gentlemen, some of whose bones rest where they fell, at Marston Moor, when riding shoulder to shoulder under the chivalric fiery sabreur, Prince Rupert; his father, perhaps one of the sternest men that ever lived—and yet one of the most just and upright, had destined him for a high position—had had wild longings, not perhaps unnatural from his son’s early promise, of seeing his name some day in the Marlslaire Gazette, the hero of a stinging attack upon his opposite party in the House. Like many more fathers, he got grievously disappointed; the boy did fairly at Harrow, and delighted everybody when home for the vac. by geting up on The Kitten, a nearly thoroughbred mare, one day when the Chesterton foxhounds met to draw his father’s spinneys, and going straight and hard from find to finish, over the roughest part of the Carlton country, swishing through bullfinches and topping timber magnificently without ever swerving an inch from his line, a piece of straightgoing which drew from the M. F. H., good old Sir Richard, the remark that he’d be the best of the bunch after a wold fox yet. A brilliant shot, a skilful hand with the rod, a capital dancer, and a mauler of the first order when necessary. Had George Meredith destined his son to play the rôle of a country gentleman alone, he had a subject made, ready to his hand, and it would perhaps have been far better had the lad never gone to Oxford at all. Once there, he dropped, after a few months of steady application, among a very fast set, some of whom had wine parties at their rooms and heavy play every night, who rigorously sported their oak in the face of any and every man not in their own set—men who lived hard, drank hard, played hard, and whose moralistic notions, upon each and every topic, were of the most elastic type. Small wonder, then, that the boy went wrong. Once among them, hailed as one of us, even a very liberal allowance was not sufficient to keep up with the pace at which he rode, and heavy gambling debts were met by unlimited paper, which, to men who did not really want the money, was as good, with Burton Meredith’s name attached, as cheques payable at sight. Then came one day, when up the river, Meredith gave his chums a taste of his milling prowess, whopping a stalwart bargee, the acknowledged champion of the towing-path, into a senseless lump of humanity. From that very hour he became the leader of his set, the king of the crew, and well he carried out, according to their lights, his supremacy. His play debts amounted to a very heavy sum, and dreadful was his father’s explosion of just rage when he was called upon to pay them. He at first swore lustily that nothing should induce him to do so. Then pride came to the rescue, and it would clearly never do for a Meredith of Carlton to be whispered of as a defaulter at play, so he filled up a cheque, not without a groan at the amount, and sent it to his son, with a stern letter, saying that it was the first and the last money he would ever receive for such a purpose, and Meredith, reading his father as an open book, knew that it would be as he said, and from that hour gave up gambling, on paper at any rate.

Of course he lost caste, and was voted bad form among the fast set, perhaps a little faster since the accession of some new blood, and little by little he dropped from among them. Then he drifted aimlessly among a fresh set of men altogether, and got into a row over a pigeon match, half-killing some low betting cad who had dared to call him a liar over a dispute as to the boundary and the exact spot where the bird fell. Out of that mess, some ugly rumours about a girl at a pastrycook’s got afloat, and finally, Meredith quitted college altogether.

Thus we find him, a stalwart, handsome man, in the prime of life, with crisp curly hair, a dark well-trained moustache, keen grey eyes of varying expression, at one time fierce and restless as a wild falcon’s, at others soft and humid as a loving woman’s, and so we will follow him to his bachelor chambers, where for two years he has read hard and diligently, under a famous coach, has passed his examination brilliantly, and has at last been admitted one of Her Majesty’s counsel learned in the law, and where, by devoting his spare time to smart leader writing for the Press, he is putting money away slowly for one settled purpose. As yet but little legal work has found its way up Meredith’s dark stairs, but Messrs. Patchem and Stoppit, an old Bedford-row firm, never failed to speak highly of Meredith’s smart handling of a dry case, anent a right of of way, wherein he held a junior brief, and in which he, in his leader’s absence, had made a brilliant fight, with all his old stubbornness of purpose in another kind of battle, and won the day for his clients.

Opening his door, on which was painted his own name and that of Mr. Arthur Frere, another sucking barrister, with a latch-key, Meredith passed through his professional room, where a table littered with books and papers, and dry musty tomes held a place upon the shelves, and into an inner apartment, his sleeping room, and here a bright fire gave an air of comfort to the place. A handsome fox-terrier with a long, lean, hound-shaped head, and perfect drop ears, accorded him a boisterous welcome. Steady Nettle, old woman, steady! said Meredith, and then he flung off his wet coat and spread it over a chair, crossing directly afterwards to the mantelshelf, over which hung an exquisitely coloured photograph of a fair, brown-haired woman, with sweetly winning blue eyes, over which some peculiarity in the droop of the lids, and the long lashes, gave a wondrous charm.

My darling! the man murmured softly; ah, my own Lizzie, when shall I see you again? Poor fellow, it was his one only love, and among all women, fair-haired Lizzie Arundel, the Dean of Chesterton’s daughter, held high estate, and sole and only sovereignty in Meredith’s heart. At home, directly after leaving Oxford, and after he had determined upon the Bar as a profession, he had gone straight to the Dean, told him how he loved his daughter, and asked him for her hand. The Dean, a man whose principles were as honest as the sun, quietly asked his visitor how he proposed to establish his wife, and upon what. He had long known that his daughter loved his old friend Meredith’s son, and preferred not to interfere in a matter which he secretly half wished might be brought about.

As a matter of course, the moment the question was asked, Meredith was at sea, and muttering something about my father, coloured ruby red to the roots of his hair. No, my friend, said the Dean, gripping Meredith’s hand; while your father is alive you have no right to trade upon him, besides, I hear more than a whisper that he has been heavily tried already. I love your father, my oldest and best friend, dearly, and to no one would I give my girl sooner than to his son, although, I hear, he has many faults. Still, I have known you, Burton, from a boy, and I think they are faults of the head rather than the heart. Stick to your profession, and when you can tell me that you have a good practice, and have saved a few thousands, you shall have Lizzie, and my girl shall not come to you empty handed. That is your final answer, sir? queried Meredith, while the usually firm voice trembled. Absolutely, returned the Dean, and his visitor went out with a heavy heart, for to him saving a few thousands out of what he might do, seemed about as likely as liquidating the National Debt.

Three days before Christmas Day!! the day upon which, two years ago, he had held the sweet face nestling close to his broad bosom, and each had vowed they would be true to their love. Two years ago—it seemed a vast blank in this man’s life! And now, as the year was drawing to its close, and tottering in its old age, an indescribable longing filled his soul to look yet once again upon the face of the only woman he had ever loved, to hold her soft clinging fingers locked within his own, and press her supple, yielding frame to his bosom in warm embrace. During all that time he had never once been to his home, for the simple reason that his father had never asked him to come, and Meredith himself was too proud to sue for forgiveness. His mother had written, of course, frequently, for she, with her great expansive heart, would have forgiven a blacker fault than ever her only son had committed, and secretly longed to see him once again at the old manor house among the broad Yorkshire acres. The Dean’s daughter had also written, and her letters ever breathed devoted constancy.

As he stood wrapped in moody reverie, he heard someone enter the outer room, and went out to find Charlie Frere, his chum, who had just entered. Ha, Meredith! said the new-comer, a frank, open-faced lad; I heard you come in, and want you to do me a favour.

Tell me what I can do for you, old fellow, said the other.

Well, Brown has written to say he has got me a team of rattling terriers. I’m going down to the Moat, you know, for Christmas, and I want you to run over and look at them; if you don’t I’m done, as sure as eggs, for, upon my soul, I hardly know a fox-terrier from an ostrich. I want to take these dogs home with me, I shall have no end of fun with them; so say you’ll come, there’s a dear fellow, and save me from being laughed at.

Meredith shook his head, but the other pressed his point so warmly that he yielded, and, muffling themselves up to the noses, the two men went again into the bitter night.

A knowing hansom cabman hailed them with a jerk of his whip, and getting his directions, rattled them off through a well-lighted main thoroughfare for half a mile or more, then, branching off under a railway arch, through a labyrinth of dirty, sweltering streets, the gutters choked up with filth—oyster shells, cabbage leaves, and garbage of all kinds—emitting an unwholesome odour, he pulled up at the door of a dimly-lighted public-house, and here both men alighted, Meredith telling the cabman to wait and have something to keep the cold out, while Frere pushed the swing door, and, followed by his friend, entered the bar, where some half-dozen men were lounging. The host, in all the glory of a remarkably white shirt, and what had been a remarkably black eye, now in the green-blue-and-yellow stage, shook Charlie heartily by the hand, saying, with a peculiar backward glance at Meredith, Friend o’ your’n, I s’pose, sir? Yes, said Frere, and one of the right sort, too; got one or two dogs of his own in the country.

Glad to see yer, sir, bust me if I ain’t! vociferated the landlord, with an unusual show of heartiness, one whom we may as well introduce as the celebrated Joe Brown, one of the best dog trainers and seconds of modern times, and who, still addressing Meredith, continued But come inside, there ain’t nobody here, and lifting a flap of the counter, the two friends passed into the private sanctum.

A dingy little room, even with the gas turned full on, the walls hung with sporting prints, some of departed bruisers—Dutch Sam, Crib, and Molyneux; a steeple chase scene, grimy and dirty from smut and smoke; Captain Beecher and Vivian; a bay horse jumping a stone wall. The Flying Dutchman and Voltigeur running the match at York; a large engraving of the great battle between Sayers and Heenan, and these, together with several stuffed dogs’ heads looking out from a front view of a kennel, with a little straw artistically arranged in front, some coloured prints of several famous birds, long-distance pigeons, and a print of the trotting pony Daisy over the fire-place, in lieu of the mirror of society, comprised Mr. Brown’s art gallery. Dogs-collars, broad and heavily plated, muzzles of all sizes, and sweaters of various sizes and degrees of thickness, hung on nails on the wall. An old white dog, nearly blind, and as deaf as a post, lay blinking in the firelight, being presently introduced to Meredith as the dog Pincher, a wonderful celebrity in the rat-killing line, and one who once accomplished something in that grade of business that was looked upon by The Fancy as being just short of marvellous.

Later on, after the discussion of some curious fluid that passed duty for whiskey, and after Meredith had cordially approved of four out of five terriers that were to be sent on approbation to Frere’s place in Staffordshire, the friends prepared to start, much to the landlord’s disappointment.

Well, gents, if you must, you must, though I’m sorry to lose your company, dash me if I ain’t. We’ve got a grand show o’ dawgs here next Sunday. Hope you’ll come; Jim the Coachman shows his spannels, and I’m promised by a gen’elman in the City a grand young bulldog. ‘The Captain’ takes the cheer.

Well, I’ll come if possible, Brown, said Frere, but its very doubtful. Good-night!

Good-night, gen’elmen, and pushing through the dirty crowd at the bar, the two men, followed by the cabman, emerged into the street and the calm night, where the moon sailing high above shed its silver radiance upon the surrounding squalidity.

A man followed them with hasty steps, a man with a damaged frontispiece and an optic organ that looked as though it had been in perpetual mourning for an unknown period. He had eyed them attentively on going out, and now accosted them, as they were in the act of getting into the hansom, in a voice between an asthmatic croak and a whisper, the joint effects of gin and bad tobacco. Beg your pardon, gents, both; I know’d you wos sports. I’m Ipswich Bill, I am, as you’ve heerd on, I dessay. Fought Conky for fifty quid, s’help me, I did so, an’ licked him. Well, I’m hard up, an’ I’m a goin’ to have a ben, at Brown’s o’ Tuesday. Yer’ll take cupple o’ tickets, I know; bob a piece they is. Help a cove wot’s down.

A florin placed in Bill’s grimy hand caused him to shuffle off, with a werry much obliged, gents, both, although the tickets were forgotten by the vendor, and twenty minutes afterwards the friends stood at the Temple gate, waiting for its janitor to admit them.

Opening his door, Meredith saw a bundle of papers that had been crammed through the slit, and a letter lying on the floor. Both men went into the inner room, where the fire still burnt brightly, and, turning up the gas, Meredith, looking at his bundle, saw with glistening eyes the inscription, in a round legal hand—"Simpkins v. East Muggleton Railway. Brief for the Company, Mr. Burton Meredith, 50gs.—with you Mr. Pheeble." It was his first leading brief, and Frere’s joy and exultation was as great as his own.

Hip, hip, hurrah! Meredith, three times three. If you don’t call that a Christmas-box you’re a cannibal. Goodnight, dear old boy, and now I’ll leave you to your letter.

It was from his mother.

CHAPTER II.—AT CARLTON MANOR HOUSE.

THE letter still lay open upon the dressing-table, where Burton had laid it after his perusal on the preceding night, and as he opened his big grey eyes at the first blush of dawn on a cold wintry morning, he stretched out his hand for a fresh peep at its contents. A kind, loving letter, penned by a good woman, with a mother’s great heart bubbling over with love for an only son. But that upon which Meredith’s attention was almost wholly centred was a paragraph in his father’s heavy caligraphy, a few words only, but breathing a whole volume to one who knew the writer’s nature so well as did his only son—Come to us this Christmas, my dear lad, I long to see you and tell you that early errors are forgotten by your father.

Little enough; but sufficient to tell Burton, who could almost see his father laboriously shaping his letters, that a warm welcome awaited him. Will he go? Look at his eyes as they rest on the fair face over the mantel-shelf—they will answer sufficiently.

His preparations occupied him a short space only. A dress suit, sundry shirts and ties, patent leathers, and a rough tweed coat and continuations were hastily bundled into a portmanteau; then followed the famous brief, a case of cigars, a huge packet of tobacco, and he was ready. Frere left chambers the same day, and as soon as everything was put into ship-shape form, Burton crossed over to his friend’s room, rousing him from sleep to tell him of the sudden change which had been effected by the receipt of the all-important letter.

Bravo, old fellow, I’m downright glad! exclaimed Charlie, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. And, oh, my wig! he continued, what a case of spoons it will be by this time to-morrow. My compliments to Queen Elizabeth, Burton.

Lie down, you vagabond! said Meredith laughing, and whipping up a pillow, he knocked Frere over like a skittle-ball. Now, good-bye, dear old boy, for I’m off. I shall catch the Doncaster express, and be at the Manor in time for a smack at the ducks, if there are any.

"Addio, old man, and God bless you!" and Frere wringing his friend’s hand, so they parted.

A quarter of an hour afterward he had breakfasted, had his portmanteau on the roof of a hansom, and was bowling along the hard road en route for the Great Northern. Something over three hours afterwards the train quietly glided into the big station at the Yorkshire racing town, and Burton, jumping hastily out, nearly upset an elderly lady who was volubly insisting upon a red-bearded porter taking instant action in the matter of transferring her luggage.

I beg your pardon, madam, I was shamefully clumsy! and then, catching sight of the lady’s face, who took not the slightest notice of his apology, he wheeled suddenly in front of the excited dame, saying, Miss Burton, of Craigmuir, if I mistake not?

That is my name, sir; but I haven’t the remotest idea who you are, for all that, she replied in vinegary tones.

Well, my dear aunt, no one should know me better, if report speaks truly, for I have heard that you were present at my appearance in this vale of tears. My name is Burton Meredith.

Taking it for granted—although I don’t know you an atom—for heaven’s sake, see after my luggage—all labelled; there’s two trunks and four bandboxes, one tied up with cord, and a large brown-paper parcel; this wretched man here (waving her umbrella at the red-bearded porter) is next door neighbour to a heathen.

Pushing his way through a crowd of passengers to the luggage van, Meredith found his aunt’s boxes, a huge pile shot unceremoniously out upon the platform, and returned to comfort the irascible little woman with the news that they were all right, his own portmanteau being among them.

And so you are Burton Meredith, eh? she queried, peering up into his handsome face. Aye, aye, you’re like your father; and you are going to Carlton! Good, so am I—take care of me!—and she linked her arm in his.

The Carlton carriage, a roomy old family affair drawn by two grand Yorkshire browns, was in waiting for Miss Burton; and Zachary, the old coachman, who had gone through the degrees of stable lad, head boy with the horses, stud groom, and lastly his present rank in the family, fairly broke down when he saw his young master, whom he taught to jump hurdles in the straw-yard, and heard that he was coming home for the bonny Christmastide.

Dal it all, ma lad, but I am glad! and the tears ran down the old man’s face, as he told Burton of what lots of ducks there were, and what a frightful state the roads were in with snowdrifts—Soom on ’em, oop t’harses heads, he concluded.

It was impossible to pack all the luggage, and sorely against Miss Burton’s wishes some of her boxes were left behind; the lady was then comfortably wrapped up in rugs and furs, and they started on their cheerless drive through the snow-shrouded country.

Meredith had plenty to tell his aunt about, and found her a willing listener; he had always been a wonderful favourite with the old lady, his mother’s eldest sister—an eccentric, wealthy woman, and one who, owing to an early disappointment in love, had never once contemplated a matrimonial engagement.

Thus they jogged quietly along until, in turning an angle in the road, the carriage gave a sudden jolt, swung round, and next instant toppled partly over on its side. Miss Burton gave one piercing scream, enough to have aroused the whole country side, and instantly lapsed into insensibility, while Meredith, scrambling out as best he could, found poor old Zac thrown from his box, badly cut about the head, the pole smashed clean as a carrot, and the horses plunging madly in a deep snowdrift which had masked a treacherous ditch.

Without a second thought, Burton, at serious risk of having his legal lore scattered upon the snow, instantly cut the traces, and getting hold of the offside horse’s head, had him on his feet in a twinkling. The other, snorting with fear, made an ineffectual attempt to get up the slippery side of the deep ditch, but stumbled back again, and not until aided by the powerful arm of the barrister, who had had to deal with horses in the like predicament before, could the animal make anything like a successful struggle. Planting his feet firmly, Meredith aided the horse with hands and voice; presently getting firmer foothold, the gallant brown scrambled out, and quivering from head to foot, stood on the firm roadway.

A few deep flesh wounds seemed to be the extent of the horse’s injury, and Meredith, after fastening both animals to the overturned vehicle, went across to where poor old Zac, looking the very personification of misery and grief, his face blotched and stained with blood, still sat among the deep snow, where he had fallen.

Eh me, ma lad, said he in mournful tones, this is a bad marnin’s wark. What un ever wilt t’maister say?

Oh! never mind about that, Zac, now. Let me look at your head. Oh! come, now, not so terrible, after all, he added cheerfully, upon finding that, badly as the old man had been cut, the wounds in themselves were not serious, and would likely enough soon heal.

Now then, let us see how you can walk—up you come! and suiting the action to the word he lifted the old coachman like a child in his powerful grasp and set him upon his feet.

Oh, dod rot it, I canna walk. Hold me up, hold me up, lad, I’m fair dazed! cried the old man in querulous tones, as soon as he was on his legs, and had it not been for Meredith’s care, he would again have gone to mother earth. Seeing that he was severely shaken, Meredith took him in his arms and carried him to the carriage, in the further corner of which lay his aunt, seemingly still in a fainting condition.

Lord save us! said old Zac, as he bumped down upon the cushion. We only want a couple ’o dozen howlin’ wolves, all on ’em nigh gone mad, to be like them heathen Rooshans, t’ther side the world. He was interrupted by an ear-piercing scream from Miss Burton, who at the mention of wolves seemed to suddenly wake up, and volubly insisted on being told where she was.

My dear aunt, said Meredith soothingly, we’ve had an accident, and Zachary is badly hurt. We are a mile or more from the hall, and I’m going to ride one of the horses home and bring assistance.

And leave me here alone with this horrid person? she shrieked; then added, in tones of shrill entreaty, I can’t, I won’t. Burton, I’ll go, too; so please take me with you.

Impossible, aunt, he said gravely. The snow is knee deep in places, you could not, therefore, walk, and I must ride without a saddle. In half an hour I’ll be back, and, believe me, you are as safe as if you were in my mother’s drawing-room; while poor old Zac hastened to assure Miss Burton that if it would be any consolation to her, he’d take a cushion and sit out in the snow. Dal it all, concluded the old fellow, in an undertone, p’raps best, too, for Lord A’mighty knows what the old cat will be up to! And so, while Meredith was getting the horse ready, but he bundled, and no amount of persuasion could make him resume his seat.

Now, aunt, I’m off! said Burton cheerily, already up on the big brown. Sit quite still, and I’ll be back in no time, and away he went at a gallop up the snow-covered road, followed by old Zas’s eyes, who muttered that The lad’s seat and hands were as good as ever.

A mile or more from the scene of the accident stood Carlton Manor House, a grand old pile of the early Elizabethan period, covered on the west wing with a magnificent growth of ivy from the ground to the highest turret, from among which the windows, when lit up by roaring fires in the interior of the tapestried rooms, shone out as bright flashing beacons over the surrounding country. Many an ugly tale had been told over cosy ingle nooks about this west wing, in which the picture gallery lay, of times when roystering crews, clad in doublet and silken hose, were wont to meet in the great rooms, when dice were thrown for high stakes, and rare old wine was poured down brawny throats like fair water. Tales, too, had been told of how fierce oaths and high words, followed by the ring and clash of angry blades, had floated out on the calm night, but none more sad and terrible than one, wherein Geoffry Meredith, a gay gallant of the first Charles’s frivolous court, had quarrelled over a main, hotly drawn steel upon his adversary, and been flung, the broken blade still quivering in his bosom, headlong from one of the embrasured windows, where he was found stiff and stark in the grey morning, his fair locks dabbled with blood, his proud, haughty features well-nigh unrecognisable from the fearful effects of his fall, and half buried in the turbid, festering waters of the moat which lay beneath the windows.

This deep moat, full of slimy tench and ponderous carp, together with tremendous pike, ran partly round the hall domains, straggling through the surrounding grounds, now a mere ditch a few feet wide, presently an expansive pool, gloriously covered with lovely water lilies in the summer, and had to be crossed by means of a beautiful old stone bridge before the carriage drive up to the hall gates could be gained. Across the bridge—the brown hard ridden and flecked with foam—Meredith went at a gallop, and pulling up at the great oaken gates set in pillars of massive stone, on which a slumbering lion lay keeping watch and ward over the family motto, cut in quaint old English letters, I fear not, he tugged lustily at the great bell. An old gardener, a dry, withered Scotchman named Patterson, ran hastily out from the lodge, and flung the gate open. The Lord be mercifu’ to us, and keep us in the narrow path! he exclaimed with upraised hands on seeing Meredith. Here’s Death on a black horse at last, and my young master’s ghaist come home for Christmas!

Shut up, Patterson, and don’t be a fool. Keep the gate open, there’s been an accident, and I’m going up to the Hall for another carriage!

God be gude to us, he’s joost daft! piped the gardener, as Burton dashed up the drive, scattering the snow among the laurels and firs, and the old man watched him turn through the opening in the trees that led to the back of the house and the stables.

The horse, clattering over the stones, brought out the head groom, Reynolds, a canny Yorkshireman, in an instant. This man had the rare gift of listening without making comment, and before the barrister’s tale was done, had the stable doors open and a grey in the shafts of a smart brougham ready to start. Then, calling a boy to attend to the brown, Meredith left a hasty pencil scrawl for his mother apprising her of his arrival, and away they bowled down the drive, and were shortly at the scene of the upset, where they found Zac quietly sitting out in the snow, crooning over an old song, and Miss Burton in a high state of alarm in the interior of the overturned vehicle.

To get her out nicely was a matter of no small difficulty; but here, again, Meredith’s great strength stood him in good stead, and lifting