For two or three days before the all-important First of September, Roland, the old gamekeeper, Gavin Fowler, young Malcolm Skene, and even the pardoned poacher Jamie Spens, had all been busy in a vivid and anxious spirit of anticipation as the day approached. Many a time had they reconnoitered by the King's Wood, the Mains of Dron, in the Fairy Den, and elsewhere, till they knew every rood of ground—ground over which Roland's father had last rambled on his old shooting pony—by stubble field, hedgerow, and scroggy upland slope, where the coveys of the neighbourhood lay, and knew almost the number of birds in every covey; and many a time and oft the route of the first day was planned, schemed out, and enjoyed in imagination; while the dogs were carefully seen to in their kennels, and the guns and ammunition inspected in the gunroom, as if a day of battle were at hand.
Yet, even in the Lowlands of Scotland, the palmy days of shooting are gone in many places never to return. Muirland after muirland has been enclosed, marshes reclaimed, and in other parts the hill slopes, that were lonely, stern, and wild—often all but inaccessible—have now become the sites of villas, mansions, and new-made railway villages, till people sometimes may wonder what Cowper meant in his 'Task' when he wrote—
'God made the country, and man made the town!'
But much of this applies more to England than to the sister kingdom.
The last evening of August saw a gay dinner party in the stately old dining-hall of Earlshaugh, with Roland acting as host, and Mrs. Lindsay, pale and composed as usual, but brilliant in his mother's suite of diamonds (heir-looms of the line), too brilliant, he thought, for the occasion, at the head of the table.
Among other friends who had come for the morrow's shooting were Jack Elliot and Malcolm Skene, both most prepossessing-looking young fellows; and the style and bearing of both—but especially of the former, who had about him that finishing touch which the service, foreign travel, and good society impart—inspired the heart of Mr. Hawkey Sharpe with much jealous rancour and envy, and with something of mortification too.
It may be superfluous to say that in all the elements that make a perfect gentleman, and one accustomed to the world, he far outshone the unfortunate Hawkey; and as he sat there, clad in evening costume, toying with his wine-glass, and conversing in a pleasantly modulated voice with Annot Drummond, who affected to be deeply interested in Cairo and Alexandria, Tel-el-Kebir and Kassassin, he had no more consciousness or idea of finding a rival in such a person than in old Gavin Fowler, the keeper, or Funnell, the butler, who officiated behind his chair.
But Deborah—Mrs. Lindsay—was observing Elliot, and thought of her brother's jealousy, his ambition and avarice, and his recent threats with secret dread and misgivings, and, knowing of what he was capable, she glanced at him uneasily from time to time as he sat silent, almost sullen, and imbibing more wine than was quite good for him.
The appurtenances of the table, especially so far as plate went, were all that might be expected in a house of such a style and age as Earlshaugh, and the great chandelier that hung in the dome-shaped roof with its profusely parqueted ceiling, shed a soft light over all—on many a stately but dim portrait on the walls—among others, one of the Lindsay of the Weird Yett, above the stone mantelpiece, on which was carved the fesse-chequy of Lindsay, crested by a tent, with stars overhead, and the motto, Astra castra, numen lumen.
In the centre of the board towered a giant silver épergne (the gift of the Hunt to the late laird) laden with fruit and flowers, a tableau representing the gallant King James V., the 'Commons King,' slaying a stag at bay in Falkland Wood.
Several attractive girls were present, but none perhaps were more so in their different degree than Maude, with her sunny hair and winning blue eyes; Hester, with her pure complexion, soft bearing, and rich dark-brown braids; and Annot, with her flower-like face, childish playfulness of manner, and glorious wealth of shining golden tresses.
Nearly all at the table were young, and the dinner was a happy and joyous one, save perhaps to Mr. Hawkey Sharpe, who felt himself, with all his profound assurance, somewhat de trop, though he deemed himself, as he was, certainly 'got up as well as any fellow there.'
He was as vain of the form and whiteness of his hands as ever Lord Byron was, and he was wont to hold forth his right one, clenching a cambric handkerchief, with a brilliant sparkling ring of unusual size. His tie was faultless, his eyeglass arrogant and offensive, especially to Elliot, after a time; his would-be general air of stiffness and languid exclusiveness (imitated ill from others) sat as grotesquely on him as his habit of leaving remarks unanswered, while to all appearance critically examining the condition of his spiky finger-nails.
His presence on this particular occasion, though under the auspices of his sister, at first roused Roland's anger to fever heat, and the latter took his seat at table with a very black expression in his handsome face indeed; but he saw or felt the necessity for dissembling, and ignored his existence. Then after a time, affected by the geniality of his surroundings, by the bright, pleasant faces of his friends, the conversation, and the circulation of Mr. Funnell's good wines—more than all, by the presence of such a sunny little creature as Annot, who had been consigned to the care of Jack Elliot—he completely thawed, and acted the host to perfection.
At his back stood old Funnell, his rubicund visage shining like a harvest moon, radiant to see Roland in his father's chair and place at the foot of the table, even though she, Mrs. Lindsay (née Deborah Sharpe), was at the head thereof, though 'not Falkland bred,' an old and unforgotten Fife saying of the days of the princely James's which conveys much there with reference to birth and breeding.
So Roland tried to forget—perhaps for the time actually forgot—the probable or inevitable future, and strove to be genial with her, though it was quite beyond him to be so with her cub of a brother; and, indeed, he never stooped to address him at all.
From the opposite side of the table Elliot silently enjoyed the luxury of admiring his merry-eyed and bright-haired Maude, and all the natural grace of her actions; but Hawkey Sharpe was seated directly opposite to her too; yet her manner betrayed—even to his keen and observant eyes—none of the annoyance or constant confusion which might have shown itself as regarded him and a recent episode, as she entirely ignored his existence, while the presence of Jack shed an ægis over her.
After the ladies withdrew, in obedience to a silent sign from Mrs. Lindsay, the conversation of the gentlemen, as they closed up towards Roland's chair, developed some unpleasant features; for Hawkey Sharpe, whose tongue was loosened and his constitutional impudence encouraged by Funnell's excellent Pomery-greno, evinced an unpleasant disposition to cavil at and contradict whatever Elliot advanced or mentioned—rather a risky proceeding on the part of Mr. Sharpe, as Elliot was what has been described as a 'stand-offish sort of man, with whom one would not care to joke on an early acquaintance, or slap on the back and call 'old fellow,' or abbreviate his Christian name;' so, when the different breeds of sporting dogs and new fire-arms were under discussion, the steward said abruptly:
'Guns—oh, talking of guns, there is nothing I know for sport like that with the new grip action, with Schultze powder.'
'Ah! you mean,' said Elliot, 'the one with the only action that works independently of the top lever spring.'
'Yes.'
'But not for partridges or pheasants.'
'For anything,' said Sharpe curtly.
'Come, you are mistaken,' replied Jack.
'Not at all,' said Sharpe doggedly.
'Excuse me,' said the young officer; 'as a sportsman and an ex-instructor in musketry, you may permit me to have some knowledge of fire-arms; but the one you refer to is for big game, and will neither stick nor jam like the Government rubbish issued to us in Egypt, and is based on the non-fouling principle.'
'Non-fowling? It will shoot any fowl you aim at,' replied Sharpe, mistaking his meaning; 'but you don't know what you are talking about.'
Elliot simply raised his eyebrows and stared at the speaker for a moment.
'You heard me?' added Sharpe, with an angry gleam in his eye.
Elliot turned to Skene and spoke of something else; but his cool and steady, yet inoffensive, stare, and his ignoring the last defiant remark, exasperated Hawkey Sharpe, who had—we have said—imbibed more wine than he was wont; and, like all men of his class, particularly felt the quiet contempt implied by the other's silence and utter indifference to his presence—a spirit of defiance very humiliating and difficult to grapple with, especially by the underbred; thus, 'while nursing his wrath to keep it warm,' Sharpe was determined to pursue a system of aggravation, and when Elliot remarked to Roland, in pursuance of some general observations, that shooting, even in the matter of black-game and muirgame, should never begin till October, as thousands of young partridges that are not fair game would escape being shot by gentlemen-poachers, or falling a prey when in the hedges and hassocks to the mere pot-hunter—Hawkey Sharpe contradicted him bluntly, without knowing what to urge on the contrary, and made some blundering statements about following young game into the standing corn, and how jolly it was to pot even young pheasants in the standing barley during the month of September.
'In these little matters, my good man, you are rather at variance with Colonel Hawker.'
'Who the devil is Hawker?' said Sharpe.
'A great authority on all such matters, sir,' said young Skene, 'and not to have heard of him argues that you are—well, imperfectly up in the subject.'
'Which we had better drop,' said Roland, with a dangerous sparkle in his dark eyes; 'but pass the decanters, Jack—they stand with you.'
Mr. Hawkey Sharpe gave an audible sniff of contempt, meant, doubtless, for Elliot, whose cool stare at him was now blended with a smile indicative of curiosity and amusement, that proved alike enraging and baffling.
When the gentlemen rose to join the ladies in the drawing-room, whence came the distant notes of the piano and the voice of Annot Drummond with her inevitable 'Du du,' Hawkey Sharpe, with an unpleasant consciousness that he had been somewhat foolish and had the worst of his arguments, withdrew to his sanctum in the Beatoun wing to growl and smoke over his brandy and soda, and was seen no more for that night.
Pausing in the entrance-hall, Elliot said:
'Pardon me, Roland, but who is that unmitigated cad who contradicted me so at table?—seemed to want to fix a quarrel, by Jove!'
Roland coloured.
'Why, you redden as if he was a bailiff in disguise—a man in possession!' said Elliot, laughing.
'You forget, Jack, that such officials are unknown on this side of the Border.'
'Then who or what is he?' persisted Elliot.
'My overseer—steward.'
'Steward—the devil! and you have a fellow of that kind at table.'
'Mrs. Lindsay has—not I,' replied Roland, with growing confusion and annoyance. 'There are wheels within wheels here at Earlshaugh, Jack—a little time and you shall know all, even before the pheasants you disputed about are ready for potting.'
But before that period came, or the opportunity so lightly referred to, much was to happen at Earlshaugh that none could at all foresee.