preservethem. The fresh air was free; nobody dared to claim the sunshine. Thenwhy the wild birds, and the hares and rabbits?
Evil company corrupts good manners. That is what his copy-book used totell him. But Bob soon learned to laugh at that, and it is no wonderthat as he reached manhood his doings and daring as a poacher becamenoted far and near.
He was beyond the control of his mother. She could only advise him,read to him, pray for him; but I fear in vain. Only be it known thatBob Cooper really loved this mother of his, anomalous though it mayseem.
Well, the keepers had been very harsh with him, and the gentry wereharsh with him, and eke the law itself. Law indeed! Why Bob was allbut an outlaw, so intense was his hatred to, and so great his defianceof the powers that be.
It was strange that what force could not effect, a few soft words fromBranson, and Archie's gift of the hare he had shot on his birthday,brought about. Bob Cooper's heart could not have been whollyadamantine, therefore he began to believe that after all a gamekeepermight be a good fellow, and that there might even exist gentlefolkswhose chief delight was not the oppression of the poor. He began afterthat to seek for honest work; but, alas! people looked askance at him,and he found that the path of virtue was one not easily regained whenonce deviated from.
His quondam enemy, however, Branson, spoke many a good word for him, andBob was getting on, much to his mother's delight and thankfulness, whenthe final and crashing blow fell.
Poor old widow Cooper! For years and years she had but two comforts inthis world; one was her Bible, and the other--do not smile when I tellyou--was her pipie.
Oh! you know, the poor have not much to make them happy and to cheertheir loneliness, so why begrudge the widow her morsel of tobacco?
In the former she learned to look forward to another and a better world,far beyond that bit of blue sky she could see at the top of her chimneyon a summer's night--a world where everything would be bright andjoyful, where there would be no vexatious rheumatism, no age, andneither cold nor care. From the latter she drew sweet forgetfulness ofpresent trouble, and happy recollections of bygone years.
Sitting there by the hearth all alone--her son perhaps away on thehill--her thoughts used oftentimes to run away with her. Once more shewould be young, once again her hair was a bonnie brown, her form littleand graceful, roses mantling in her cheeks, soft light in her eyes. Andshe is wandering through the tasselled broom with David by her side."David! Heigho!" she would sigh as she shook the ashes from her pipie."Poor David! it seems a long, long time since he left me for the betterland," and the sunlight would stream down the big, open chimney and fallupon her skinny hands--fall upon the elfin-like locks that escaped frombeneath her cap--fall, too, on the glittering pages of the Book on herlap like a promise of better things to come.
Before that sad night, when, while sitting up waiting for her son, shewas startled by the sudden noise of the struggle that commenced at herdoor, she thought she had reason to be glad and thankful for thesoftening of her boy's heart.
Then all her joy collapsed, her hopes collapsed--fell around her like ahouse of cards. It was a cruel, a terrible blow.
The policeman had carried her in, laid her on the bed with a rough sortof kindness, made up the fire, then gone out and thought no more abouther.
How she had spent the night need hardly be said; it is better imagined.She had dropped asleep at last, and when she awoke from fevered dreamsit was daylight out of doors, but darkness in the hut. The window anddoor were snowed up, and only a faint pale light shimmered in throughthe chimney, falling on the fireless hearth--a dismal sight.
Many times that day she had tried to rise, but all in vain. The coldgrew more intense as night drew on, and it did its work on the poorwidow's weakened frame. Her dreams grew more bright and happy though,as her body became numbed and insensible. It was as though the spiritwere rejoicing in its coming freedom. But dreams left her at last.Then all was still in the house, save the ticking of the old clock thathung against the wall.
The Squire speedily effected Bob Cooper's freedom, and he felt he hadreally done a good thing.
"Now, Robert," he told him, "you have had a sad experience. Let it be alesson to you. I'll give you a chance. Come to Burley, and Bransonwill find you honest work as long as you like to do it."
"Lord love you, sir!" cried Bob. "There are few gentry like you."
"I don't know so much about that, Robert. You are not acquainted withall the good qualities of gentlefolks yet. But now, Branson, how are weall to get home?"
"Oh, I know!" said Archie. "Scallowa can easily bear Branson's weight,and I will ride the big hunter along with Bob."
So this was arranged.
It was getting gloamed ere they neared the widow's lonesome hut. TheSquire with Branson had left Archie and Bob, and cut across the frozenmoor by themselves.
"How glad my mother will be!" said Bob.
And now they came in sight of the cottage, and Bob rubbed his eyes andlooked again and again, for no smoke came from the chimney, no signs oflife was about.
The icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; one side of the hut wasentirely overblown with drift, and the door in the other looked morelike the entrance to some cave in Greenland north. Bad enough this was;but ah, in the inside of the poor little house the driven snow met themas they pushed open the door! It had blown down the wide chimney,covered the hearth, formed a wreath like a sea-wave on the floor, andeven o'er-canopied the bed itself. And the widow, the mother, layunderneath. No, not dead; she breathed, at least.
When the room had been cleared and swept of snow; when a roaring firehad been built on the hearth, and a little warm tea poured gently downher throat, she came gradually back again to life, and in a short timewas able to be lifted into a sitting position, and then she recognisedher son and Archie.
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Bob, the tears streaming over hissun-browned face, "the Maker'll never forgive me for all the ill I'vedone ye."
"Hush! Bobbie, hush! What, lad, the Maker no' forgive ye! Eh, yelittle know the grip o' His goodness! But you're here, you're innocent.Thank Him for that."
"Ye'll soon get better, mother, and I'll be so good. The Squire is togive me work too."
"It's o'er late for me," she said. "I'd like to live to see it, but Hiswill be done."
Archie rode home the giant hunter, but in two hours he was once moremounted on Scallowa, and feathering back through the snow towards thelittle cottage. The moon had risen now, and the night was starry andfine.
He tied Scallowa up in the peat shed, and went in unannounced.
He found Bob Cooper sitting before the dying embers of the fire, withhis face buried in his hands, and rocking himself to and fro.
"She--just blessed me and wore away."
That was all he said or could say. And what words of comfort couldArchie speak? None. He sat silently beside him all that livelongnight, only getting up now and then to replenish the fire. But thepoacher scarcely ever changed his position, only now and then hestretched out one of his great hands and patted Archie's knee as onewould pet a dog.
A week passed away, and the widow was laid to rest beneath the frozenground in the little churchyard by the banks of the river. Archie wentslowly back with Bob towards the cottage. On their way thither, thepoacher--poacher now no more though--entered a plantation, and with hishunting-knife cut and fashioned a rough ash stick.
"We'll say good-bye here, Master Archie."
"What! You are not going back with me to Burley Old Farm?"
Bob took a small parcel from his pocket, and opening it exposed thecontents.
"Do you know them, Master Archie?"
"Yes, your poor mother's glasses."
"Ay, lad, and as long as I live I'll keep them. And till my dying day,Archie, I'll think on you, and your kindness to poor poacher Bob. No,I'm not goin' back to Burley, and I'm not going to the cottage again.I'm going away. Where? I couldn't say. Here, quick
, shake hands,friend. Let it be over. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
And away went Bob. He stopped when a little way off, and turned as ifhe had forgotten something.
"Archie!" he cried.
"Yes, Bob."
"Take care of my mother's cat."
Next minute he leapt a fence, and disappeared in the pine wood.
CHAPTER NINE.
THE WHOLE YARD WAS ABLAZE AND BURNING FIERCELY.
One year is but a brief span in the history of a family, yet it maybring many changes. It did to Burley Old Farm, and some of them weresad enough, though some were glad. A glad change took place forinstance in the early spring, after Bob's departure; for Rupert appearedto wax stronger and stronger with the lengthening days; and when
From Squire to Squatter: A Tale of the Old Land and the New Page 11