“That’s the end of the bit wood, sir,” he said. “We’ve been a’roound.”
Certainly the beat had been very satisfactory. A roe had fallen to Jim (one ought also to have fallen to me, but remained, if not standing, at any rate running away). We had a dozen of black-game, four pigeons, six brace of grouse (these were, of course, but outliers, as we had not gone on to the moor proper at all), some thirty rabbits, and four couple of woodcock. This, it must be understood, was just from the fringe of plantations about the house, but this was all we meant to do today, making only a morning of it, since our ladies had expressly desired first lessons in the art of angling in the afternoon, so that they too could be busy. Excellently too had Sandie worked the beat, leaving us now, after going, as he said, all ’round, a couple of hundred yards only from the house, at a few minutes to two.
So, after a little private signalling from Jim to me, he spoke to Sandie, dropping the hare-question altogether.
“Well, the beat has gone excellently,” he said, “and this afternoon we’ll be fishing. Please settle with the beaters every evening, and tell me what you have paid out. Good morning to you all.”
We walked back to the house, but the moment we had turned a hum of confabulation began behind us, and, looking back, I saw Sandie and all the beaters in close whispering conclave. Then Jim spoke.
“More in your line than mine,” he said; “I prefer shooting a hare to routing out some cock-and—bull story as to why I shouldn’t. What does it all mean?”
I mentioned what I had found in Elwes last night.
“Then do they think it was we who killed the old lady on the road, and that I was going to kill somebody else this morning?” he asked. “How does one know that they won’t say that rabbits are their aunts, and woodcock their uncles, and grouse their children? I never heard such rot, and tomorrow we’ll have a hare drive. Blow the grouse! We’ll settle this hare-question first.”
Jim by this time was in the frame of mind typical of the English when their rights are threatened. He had the shooting of Achnaleish, on which were hares, sir, hares. And if he chose to shoot hares, neither papal bull nor royal charter could stop him.
“Then there’ll be a row,” said I, and Jim sniffed scornfully.
At lunch Sandie’s remark about the “sickness,” which I had forgotten till that moment, was explained.
“Fancy that horrible influenza getting here,” said Madge. “Mabel and I went down to the village this morning, and, oh, Ted, you can get all sorts of things, from mackintoshes to peppermints, at the most heavenly shop, and there was a child there looking awfully ill and feverish. So we inquired: it was the ‘sickness’—that was all they knew. But, from what the woman said, it’s clearly influenza. Sudden fever, and all the rest of it.”
“Bad type?” I asked.
“Yes; there have been several deaths already among the old people from pneumonia following it.”
Now, I hope that as an Englishman I too have a notion of my rights, and attempt anyhow to enforce them, as a general rule, if they are wantonly threatened. But if a mad bull wishes to prevent my going across a certain field, I do not insist on my rights, but go ’round instead, since I see no reasonable hope of convincing the bull that according to the constitution of my country I may walk in this field unmolested. And that afternoon, as Madge and I drifted about the loch, while I was not employed in disentangling her flies from each other or her hair or my coat, I pondered over our position with regard to the hares and men of Achnaleish, and thought that the question of the bull and the field represented our standpoint pretty accurately. Jim had the shooting of Achnaleish, and that undoubtedly included the right to shoot hares: so too he might have the right to walk over a field in which was a mad bull. But it seemed to me not more futile to argue with the bull than to hope to convince these folk of Achnaleish that the hares were—as was assuredly the case—only hares, and not the embodiments of their friends and relations. For that, beyond all doubt, was their belief, and it would take, not half an hour’s talk, but perhaps a couple of generations of education to kill that belief, or even to reduce it to the level of a superstition. At present it was no superstition—the terror and incredulous horror on Sandie’s face when Jim raised his gun to fire at the hare told me that—it was a belief as sober and commonplace as our own belief that the hares were not incarnations of living folk in Achnaleish.
Also, virulent influenza was raging in the place, and Jim proposed to have a hare-drive tomorrow! What would happen?
That evening Jim raved about it in the smoking-room.
“But, good gracious, man, what can they do?” he cried. “What’s the use of an old gaffer from Achnaleish saying I’ve shot his grand-daughter and, when he is asked to produce the corpse, telling the jury that we’ve eaten it, but that he has got the skin as evidence? What skin? A hare-skin! Oh, folklore is all very well in its way, a nice subject for discussion when topics are scarce, but don’t tell me it can enter into practical life. What can they do?”
“They can shoot us,” I remarked.
“The canny, God-fearing Scotchmen shoot us for shooting hares?” he asked.
“Well, it’s a possibility. However, I don’t think you’ll have much of a hare-drive in any case.”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t get a single native beater, and you won’t get a keeper to come either.”
“You’ll have to go with Buxton and your man.”
“Then I’ll discharge Sandie,” snapped Jim.
“That would be a pity: he knows his work.”
Jim got up.
“Well, his work tomorrow will be to drive hares for you and me,” said Jim. “Or do you funk?”
“I funk,” I replied.
The scene next morning was extremely short. Jim and I went out before breakfast, and found Sandie at the back door, silent and respectful. In the yard were a dozen young Highlanders, who had beaten for us the day before.
“Morning, Sandie,” said Jim shortly. “We’ll drive hares today. We ought to get a lot in those narrow gorges up above. Get a dozen beaters more, can you?”
“There will be na hare-drive here,” said Sandie quietly.
“I have given you your orders,” said Jim.
Sandie turned to the group of beaters outside and spoke half a dozen words in Gaelic. Next moment the yard was empty, and they were all running down the hillside towards Achnaleish.
One stood on the skyline a moment, waving his arms, making some signal, as I supposed, to the village below. Then Sandie turned again.
“An’ whaur are your beaters, sir?” he asked.
For the moment I was afraid Jim was going to strike him. But he controlled himself.
“You are discharged,” he said.
The hare-drive, therefore, since there were neither beaters nor keeper—Maclaren, the head-keeper, having been given this “dayoff” to bury his mother—was clearly out of the question, and Jim, still blustering rather, but a good bit taken aback at the sudden disciplined defection of the beaters, was in betting humour that they would all return by tomorrow morning. Meanwhile the post which should have arrived before now had not come, though Mabel from her bedroom window had seen the post-cart on its way up the drive a quarter of an hour ago. At that a sudden idea struck me, and I ran to the edge of the hog’s back on which the house was set. It was even as I thought: the post-cart was just striking the high-road below, going away from the house and back to the village, without having left our letters.
I went back to the dining-room. Everything apparently was going wrong this morning: the bread was stale, the milk was not fresh, and the bell was