Kitabı oku: «Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 714», sayfa 2

The Society has been encouraged in its benevolent exertions by a letter from Her Majesty the Queen, addressed in 1874 to the Earl of Harrowby, in his capacity as President. There was an assembly in London of foreign delegates representing similar associations, on the occasion of the holding of the half-century jubilee of the parent Society. Her Majesty requested the President to give expression publicly to her warm interest in the success of the efforts made here and abroad for the purpose of diminishing the cruelties practised on dumb animals. 'The Queen hears and reads with horror of the sufferings which the brute creation often undergo from the thoughtlessness of the ignorant, and she fears also sometimes from the experiments in pursuit of science. For the removal of the former the Queen trusts much to the progress of education; and in regard to the pursuit of science, she hopes that the advantage of those anæsthetic discoveries from which man has derived so much benefit himself, in the alleviation of suffering, may be fully extended to the lower animals. Her Majesty rejoices that the Society awakens the interest of the young by the presentation of prizes for essays connected with the subject, and hears with gratification that her son and daughter-in-law shew their interest and sympathy by presenting those prizes at your meetings.'

Looking to the distinguished patronage of the Society from Her Majesty downwards, its vast array of supporters, and the large number of Societies which it has helped to originate at home and abroad, we naturally rely upon it for promoting a consolidation and expansion of the laws against cruelty to animals. These laws, as has been seen, are composed of shreds and patches, brought into existence with difficulty, and in many respects imperfect. The time appears to have come when the whole should be combined in a statute applicable to all parts of the United Kingdom. That certain actions should be deemed cruelties punishable by law in England and not in Scotland, is anything but creditable, and not a little ludicrous. This is a point to which the attention of legislators should be seriously invited. From the fragmentary and confused condition of the statutes, we have experienced much difficulty in ascertaining what, as a whole, the law really is. This chaotic state of things detracts, we think, not a little from the glory which may be freely claimed by the English for their legislation in behalf of animals. A consolidated Act with all reasonable improvements, would be something to point to with satisfaction, and probably go far to insure a legalised system of kind treatment of animals all over the globe.

W. C.

FROM DAWN TO SUNSET
A STORY IN THREE PARTS
By Alaster Græme
INTRODUCTORY

Every man loves the land where he got life and liberty. The heart of the mountaineer is chained to his rugged mountain-home; he loves the wild and whirling blast, the snow-storm and the brooding clouds. Every true heart beats truly for country and for home. Thus the 'children of the peat-bog' and the fen cling to the illimitable wolds and the 'level shining mere,' beautiful even now.

Beautiful then, when long ago, primeval forests clothed the land. When in later times the bells of minster towers sounded far and near, and the deep bay of the Bruneswald hounds awoke the echoes of the wold; when old Crowland's towers gleamed through mist; and the heights of that far-famed isle, the Camp of Refuge, where, amidst blood and battle, and beneath the 'White Christ' uplifted, the gallant Saxon fought the wild Viking; where the Saxon made his last dread stand for England's liberty, while men fell dead, and bones lay bleaching on every island and valley of the fen.

Beautiful now, O Fen-land! where still I seem to hear the wild shout of your outlaw hunters, hunting the red-deer and the wolf; where still I seem to hear the war-cry of the men of Danelagh, or imagine the great fires sweeping the boundless plains. Wide are your marshes still, and dark and deep your woods; the keen winds bring the driving snow; dense fog and mist and drenching rains sweep strongly from the sea; dark and capricious are the autumn days, and full of storm; yet overhead stretches a free heaven, boundless and open; underfoot stretch the free plains, wide and open; and over all sweeps the magnificence of the cloud-scenery, unbroken and unopposed; and the splendour of the sunrise and the sunset lights the low isles like flame.

PART I. – DAWN

CHAPTER THE FIRST

Thus did the suns rise and set in glory across the level lands of Enderby; old Enderby manor, where the Flemings had dwelt for centuries; old Enderby, with its 'clanging rookery,' its grand timber, its turrets and its towers. Under that arched gateway has swept many a gay cavalcade with hawk and hound; has passed slowly many a hearse with sable plumes and horses; has stepped many a brave bridegroom leading his blushing bride, while the far-famed bells of Enderby pealed out loud and clear.

It is nearly two centuries ago, and it is evening; the sun is setting. Sir Vincent Fleming stands under the gateway; he is booted and spurred; his jaded horse stands in the court-yard, and has been ridden fast and far. Sir Vincent puts a whistle to his lips and whistles loud and shrill; he is looking across the wide holt with a smile – his eyes laugh under his thick black brows, and his long white hair is flowing free in the wind. He opens his arms wide, and there come flying towards him two little dark figures neck and neck, shrieking with laughter and with glee. Panting, breathless from their long run, a boy and girl rush through the gateway, and leap boisterously into Sir Vincent's arms.

'My two little pets of Enderby!' he cries, and there is a wail in his voice, half of sorrow and half of joy.

'An' what have you brought us, father?' asks Deborah, leaping and dancing in her gladness. 'I see your flaps are full! – Nay, Charlie; get away; you shall not have father all to yourself!'

But the boy fights hard. 'You are a greedy Deb!' he cried. 'Your thoughts are ever o' sweetmeats an' o' toys.'

'Nay; it is not so,' retorted Deborah shrilly and scarlet as a rose. 'I am glad when things come. – But father, I am gladder to have you come.'

'I believe thee, sweet heart!' and Sir Vincent, lifting little Deborah to his shoulder, and taking his boy by the hand, turned towards the house.

In those days many a care pressed hard on Sir Vincent Fleming. His beautiful wife, the mother of his children, lay dead in the little churchyard. For a short time the children had run wild; then for a time Sir Vincent gave them a hard, hard step-mother, and the children went from bad to worse. Little Deborah cut her hair like a boy, and the two ran away from home. But ere long the hard step-mother died, leaving Sir Vincent free and the children like two mad colts. Sir Vincent tried the experiment no more. He could not cope with his two wild ones; they were beyond him; they were given over entirely to old Dame Marjory, and she voted them 'a handful.' Never wilder youngsters trod the earth. The hot blood of the Flemings and the Stuarts, with a dash of cast not so easily pedigree'd, coursed in their veins, and they could not brook a word of opposition or reproof. Dearly did they love their father, and dearly loved they one another – in a wild way more intensely than either knew.

One day they were running in one of their mad games, 'Hare and Hounds,' with all their village crew behind them, when their course led straight through the churchyard of Enderby. Vaulting over the low wall, they rushed bounding over the graves with yell and whoop and laughter. Soon the whole gay thoughtless throng passed away. But an hour after, in the twilight, a boy and girl came gliding back alone hand in hand; half-wistful and half-scared, they opened the churchyard gate, Deborah urging forward Charlie.

'What do you want?' asked the boy half sullenly. 'I'll not come!'

'I do want,' said little Deborah, 'to go to mother's grave! Dost know what we did, Charlie? An' my heart has ached ever since, nor could I hunt the hare for thinkin' of it. We trampled over mother's grave! When we jumped over yon wall, I tell you, Charlie, we ran on mother's grave! Come with me, Charlie, an' kneel down to her to forgive you an' me!' In the highest state of excitement, the little child caught his unwilling hand.

'But she won't hear us,' said the boy; 'mother's gone to heaven, Marjory saith. Thou art a girl!' he cried, as they stood beside the grave. 'These be bones that lie here. It is like your fancies! Mother's gone to heaven, I tell you.'

'That's true,' said Deborah; 'but mother sees her grave, an' she looks down an' has seen us run over it this day, an' laugh! Maybe she thinks we have forgot her; maybe she thinks we have forgot the prayers she taught us. – O mother, it is not so!' With unconscious and most exquisite fervour, the little Deborah fell on her knees, and raised her eyes and clasped hands to heaven: 'We are naughty, but we've not forgot you, sweet mother. Charlie has not forgot you, mother; an' Charlie an' me look up to you as you are lookin' down, an' ask you to forgive us for treadin' on your sweet grave. Mother, dear mother, forgive us!'

The boy stood looking on in dogged silence, knitting his brows; but when he saw Deborah's tears, tears rushed to his own bright eyes. With a cry of passionate sorrow and remorse, he flung himself on his mother's grave and cried as if his heart would break. Charlie Fleming had idolised his mother. He was two years older than Deborah; he remembered the mother better. He never forgot her memory. Proud, reserved, and shy, he hid that memory in his heart, and would let no hand drag it forth. In his mad freaks, when old Dame Marjory, driven to distraction, solemnly upbraided him about his 'poor dear mother' and what she would have thought, he mocked, and ran away shouting his derisive laughter. Seldom would a tear dim those bright roving eyes; neither rod, nor threat, nor lecture made Charlie Fleming quail; clenching his teeth and his hands, he stood his ground like a little demon: his stubborn heart would have broken rather than yield a whit.

And what of Deborah Fleming? she who, at eight years old, cut her flowing locks like a boy, and ran away from home. She was not behind her brother in mischief, wit, or daring; wondrously bold was the spirit of the little Fleming. But the caprices of the child shall speak for themselves.

CHAPTER THE SECOND

One afternoon Deborah was playing by the lodge-gates with little Margaret Dinnage, the bailiff's child, when a tall gipsy woman strode to the gate and looked through. Meg ran away with a scream of terror, but Deborah stood and stared up at the gipsy.

She was a tall woman, dressed in faded red, with a yellow and scarlet shawl tied over her head; long glittering rings in her ears, and black, black eyes. Deborah never all her life forgot that woman looking through the gate; the vision was riveted on her childish memory.

'Come to me, pretty one,' said the woman, tossing her head backward; then imperiously: 'Come!'

'Where?' asked Deborah.

'Over yonder – to the camp. We want a pretty one like thee. I am gettin' old, child, an' I want you to come run arrands an' tell the fortunes o' the qual'ty.'

'I am the quality,' said Deborah gravely.

'You!' retorted the gipsy, with sudden and savage scorn. 'You are o' the scum o' the airth!' Then in a moment the wild passion passed, she resumed her half-coaxing, half-imperative manner: 'Come, come, pretty love!'

Deborah had been half startled; now she knew not what to make of the gipsy woman. Did the gipsy really like her, and wish to be kind? Deborah had never moved her large wondering eyes from the gipsy's face.

'I will not come,' she said, 'without Charlie.'

'Well, fetch Charlie, quick!' answered the gipsy with intense eagerness, and stooping forward to whisper the words. Deborah drew back; something within her rebelled; the woman was too imperious and too bold.

'Charlie will not come,' she answered; 'he hates gipsies.'

'Then thou shalt come alone.' Quick as thought the long arm was thrust through the half-open gate and the iron hand round Deborah's wrist, as if to draw her out, when Deborah cried at the top of her voice: 'Jordan, Jordan, Jordan!' An old man in a red waistcoat and his shirt sleeves came running round the lodge from the wood, and at the same moment the gipsy woman, pushing Deborah violently backward, darted away. Deborah was thrown on the back of her head; she got up at once, and stood looking up at old Jordan in silence, with her hand at the back of her head.

'She hath hurt thee, the jade!' said the old man indignantly. 'What has she been a-sayin' and a-doin' to thee?'

Deborah gazed at her fingers: there was blood on them; she raised her clear gray eyes to Jordan's face.

'Why, she hath cut thy head open, my lassie, and badly too! I know them cussed gipsies! Spiteful demons! See ye never meddle with them agen. This comes on it.' And assuming a scolding tone, the old man took Deborah's hand and hurried her angrily into the lodge. He was frightened, very pitiful and very angry, all in one; now he coaxed, now he threatened.

'Let me bind up thy broken head, my lassie; it is broken badly. But thou'rt a brave little lady! This comes o' meddlin'; thou'rt all too inquisitive by half. Leave them gipsies alone; or sure as thou'rt alive, I'll tell the master. Now then, thou'rt a brave little lady. Doth it pain thee, Lady Deb?' He stooped to peer anxiously with his old gray eyes into his little mistress's face.

Deborah was sitting on a high chair in the middle of the table, looking very white and grave. 'I should think it doth,' she said; 'you are a gaby to ask it, Jordan Dinnage. Finish to tie my head; and see that you do not tell father who cast me down,' she added with dignity.

The little Margaret was standing below, gazing upward at the operation in affright, with her round eyes and mouth wide open.

'Tell thy father!' retorted old Jordan with supreme disdain as he finished his surgery. 'Why, he would burn the camp and all the varmin in it for this. Fine times there'd be for Enderby with them revengeful cats. They'd be burnin' Enderby. Where wouldst thou be then?'

'In the flames, Master Dinnage,' said Deborah coolly.

Old Jordan Dinnage laughed loud and long. 'Thou art a little bold wench!' he said; then turning to his little daughter, added with mock gravity: 'Mistress Dinnage, well mayst thou gape an' stare. Thy young mistress will be the death o' me; for floutin' an' for scorn, I never knew'd her equal.'

The little maiden went quietly home, rather proud of her bandaged head than not; and the sight was so little novel to Dame Marjory's eyes, that well as she loved the child, she scarcely asked a question. That night Deborah tossed in her little bed and could not sleep. The pain in her head she heeded not; her wild and fitful fancy was conjuring up the gipsy camp. A hundred tall figures went trooping by, all with yellow and scarlet shawls tied over their heads; and tall men with black eyes, and little children, little boys with beautiful black eyes and curly hair. Dogs were lying about, and great pots full of meat were slung on poles over fires, and the red watch-fires blazed over all. She fancied all these men, women, and children came and kneeled to her, and said she was their queen. One little boy, more beautiful than the rest, said he was destined for the king, and she would be his wife. Then they hung about her necklets and bracelets, and set a crown upon her head, and the little maiden saw herself queen of the gipsies. Deborah loved power, and knew the power of beauty. She fancied herself dancing before the gipsies, in the light of the fires, in a glitter and blaze of beauty.

On the other side of the room slept Dame Marjory; she was snoring loudly. Deborah, hot and excited, sat up and gazed round; she could not rest. She started up, and sped like a little ghost into the next room, to Charlie's bedside; she seized his arm, and shook it: 'Charlie, Charlie!' The boy gave a cross snort. 'Charlie, art well awake? I have somewhat to tell, love. The gipsy camp is out on the fen, an' to-morrow I am goin' to visit them! You will come too Charlie, for there be dogs an' horses in plenty. An' mayhap you will be made the king. I mean to be the queen; for the gipsy woman has been to the gate this afternoon, an' invited me to go an' bring you along.'

Charlie stared in the dim light, well awake then, yet very cross. 'You! You are always "bringin' me along," forgettin' you are the youngest by two years. You are very wise an' grand. I am not so fond o' gipsy folk; they are sneaks and cowards.'

'Nay; they are not! If you are afeard, I'll go alone; an' I'll ride on the vans from one end o' the world to the other. So good-e'en.'

'Stay!' cried the boy. 'You say I am afeard. Then you know it is a lie! A Fleming never knew fear. So father tells you. Dost say I am afeard?'

But Deborah, feeling the grasp of his hands on her arm, cried: 'Nay, nay; you are not afeard! Belike you are wise, an' that is why. But I will go alone.'

'Nay; that you shall not!' cried the boy, glad to see a way to change. 'Why, they would kill you,' he said, with an air of superior wisdom and scorn. 'If you will go, I go too. I will take my big stick, an' (say not a word) a knife under my clothes, for the gipsy folk be sly as foxes, an' in one minute might stick you through. I must be fully armed.'

'An' so must I,' quoth Deborah.

'You!' said the boy in loud derision; 'you are a girl; though I ne'er knew the like for tomboyin'. Run to bed; an' we will see what to-morrow brings.'