CHAPTER VII.

THE POACHERS.

SHALL we explain to our readers what it was that made Tom Haines "trouble himself," as Mr. King called it, about Frank Hardy? The reason was simply this. Tom was mixed up with the gang of poachers of whom Walter's mother had spoken as infesting the preserves on Squire Forbes' estate.

Now, it so happened that the Mill Cottage was a place where the stolen game could be very conveniently deposited, as nothing was easier than to bring the spoil through the woods down to the other side of the stream which ran at the end of the Hardys garden, and then to convey it across in the boat, which was always lying there. This done, the stolen game was concealed among some thick bushes in the garden until it was transferred to the care of a carrier, whose tilted cart passed the end of the little lane before daybreak every other day on its way to a distant market town.

The carrier was in league with the poachers, so there was no difficulty about him; the only thing was, how to secure the services of the Hardys.

"Leave that to me," Tom Haines had said; and he soon managed the matter.

He began by flattering Frank, who was weak enough to be flattered by the notice taken of him by one so much older than himself, and then, when once he had got Frank to commit himself, and to take part in one of their midnight excursions, and even to accept a sum of money as his share in the spoil, he turned round upon him, and dared him to refuse to do anything he bid him.

"You are in my power now, Frank," said Tom.

And Frank knew it only too well, and became the tool of Haines and his associates. At all times the bondage was very bitter; and some seasons there were, too, when better thoughts would come over Frank, and he would have given anything to have been free, to have been like Walter, whose sunny face and blithe whistle would, at such moments, add to Frank's miserable feelings.

"I never whistle like that now," he would say to himself; "once I used to, but now—"

Yes, but that "once" was before Frank had sold himself to work wickedness, since which time there had been no real happiness for him.

"There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked."

Did John Hardy and his wife know what was going on? John's evenings were regularly spent at "The Plough," whence he generally returned home more or less the worse for drink. His son's absence from home at night was, therefore, rarely remarked by him; and if occasionally a suspicion had arisen in his mind, a bribe from Haines had made him conveniently blind to anything that took place afterwards. Frank's mother also must have known that something wrong was going on; but an occasional present of a rabbit at a time when food chanced to be particularly dear kept her silent, and thus caused her to aid and abet in her son's road to ruin.

It was Frank's place to wait every night at the bank of the stream to receive what the poachers might bring down through the wood. There was no certainty at what time they might come; but Frank had always to be on the alert, and ready at the first sound of the low whistle to push the boat over to the other side of the stream, and receive the sack of game, which was then hidden until the following morning, when he had to be on the watch for the carrier, who always waited a few seconds at the corner of the lane. The money he got was hardly earned, let him boast as he might to Walter about his "easy way."

Many long, weary hours he had to spend in the wet and cold, with the constant dread of detection hanging over his head, and the taunts and threats of Tom Haines to bear if he ever failed to be at his post when they wanted him.

Walter was right: it was no "easy way" after all!

When Walter left work that evening, the first thing he did was to follow his master's advice, and to call at the post-office on his way home and deposit his five shillings in the Post-Office Savings' Bank. As he came out of the shop, he ran against Frank.

"Where have you, been, Walter?"

With pardonable vanity, Walter exhibited his bank-book, and told how he had got the money.

Frank thrust his hand into his pocket in a bragging manner, and drew out some silver. There were quite five shillings, if not more. "I can earn money too, you see," he said with a laugh; but the laugh sounded hollow to Walter's ears, and he caught his companion by the sleeve as he was hastening on.

"Frank, it is not yet too late to join the night school; will you make up your mind to come? I feel sure you would be much happier than you are now if you would but come; and, as to the money," and Walter shuddered in spite of himself, "I am certain you would be better and happier without it than with it. Do come; say you will—there's a good fellow." And Walter looked earnestly in Frank's face.

"It's of no use, Walter," cried Frank, as he freed himself from his friend's grasp; "it is too late, too late." And he passed on with a deep sigh.

That sigh haunted Walter all the evening, even while sitting at his mother's cheerful fireside, and listening to her expressions of pleasure at the sight of her son's bank-book.

Was Frank right? And was it REALLY too late for him to do better? Too late for him to retrace his steps? Certainly not.

"While the lamp holds on to burn, The vilest sinner may return;—"

And as long as God spares our lives, so long is it in our power to pray God for His grace to enable us to break the chains of our sins, and to lead better lives. To say, then, that it is "too late," whilst God gives us our life, is only another way of saying that we have not the moral courage to make the effort which is required to do better, and that we prefer remaining in our sins to taking any steps to be set free from the power of them.

Frank Hardy was a moral coward, and preferred displeasing God to incurring the vengeance of Tom Haines.

"I tell you what it is, mother," said Walter, that evening, as they sat by the fire talking about Mr. Danvers and the ornamented gable, "if I can only get on in the world so as to be able to keep you without your having to trouble yourself any more with the shop, I shall be perfectly happy."

"Nay, Walter, as long as I have strength to work, I will never be a burden to any one, not even to my very dear son."

"A burden, mother! Why, it will be the happiest day of my life when I can say to you, 'Shut up shop, mother.' What should I have done without you all these long, long years, I should like to know; and it will be my turn one of these days, mother dear; and, then, if I don't keep you like a lady, why—"

"You are a good boy, Walter, and have always been an affectionate son to me, and I'll take the will for the deed."

"Nay, mother, nothing short of the deed itself will content me, as you shall see, if God only gives me health and strength."

———————

The next morning the village was in a state of the greatest excitement in consequence of the news that there had been a desperate affray with the poachers at Oak Glen during the night, and that the gamekeepers had pursued them through the wood, and had captured three of the gang, besides wounding several others. Thus much Walter heard on his way to work; and his worst fears about Frank were realised when he found that his companion did not make his appearance at the yard that morning.

When Mr. King came, he learned the whole truth. The gamekeepers had chased the poachers down to the banks of the stream, and, after a severe struggle, during which several shots were fired, they succeeded in capturing three of the party,—namely, Bill Turner, who was known to be one of the chief ringleaders, and Tom Haines and Frank Hardy, the latter being taken in the act of receiving a bag of game from one of the poachers. The whole party had been marched off to the nearest town, there to be locked up until their trial.

Walter felt very sad all day. It seemed so dreadful to think that he who had for so long worked at the same bench with him, and been his daily companion, should now be a prisoner, awaiting his trial and sentence for breaking the laws of his country! And yet amid all Walter's grief, there arose a deep feeling of thankfulness to God, who had kept him from yielding to a like temptation; for he knew that it is by grace alone that we are able to stand upright, and that to God alone belongs the praise.

An anecdote is related of Bishop Fisher, that, seeing a prisoner one day being led handcuffed through the streets, he said to the friend with whom he was walking,—

"There goes Bishop Fisher, but for the grace of God;" by which he meant that it was through God's grace alone, acting upon his sinful nature, that he was enabled to do right.

Walter was glad, too, when he thought that he had let no opportunity pass by of endeavouring to turn Frank from his downward course. Had it been otherwise, how bitterly would he have reproached himself!

When he went home to dinner, he heard that another great sorrow had fallen upon the family at the Mill Cottage. John Hardy had broken his leg that morning, having been caught by some of the machinery of the mill-wheel. The neighbours did not scruple to say that he was scarcely sober at the time of the accident; but be that as it might, he was now laid up with a fractured limb, incapable of doing any work for some time to come, and thus adding to the sorrow and anxiety of his wretched wife.

There was an excellent club in Springcliffe, to which all provident people belonged, and from which fund a good allowance was paid to any member during the time of sickness or accident; but John Hardy had spent all his spare money, and far more than he could or ought to have spared, in the tap-room of "The Plough;" and now, in the hour of his trouble, he had nothing whatever to fall back upon. Had it not been for Farmer Giles, the whole family must have either starved or gone to the workhouse during the long, long time of John Hardy's confinement to the house with his broken leg.

It was, indeed, a wretched home! The eldest son a prisoner, and the mother's conscience telling her, but too plainly, that she was very far from being free from blame in the matter. Added to this, her husband's accident, and the long illness of her blind child, from which she now knew Gracie would never recover.

The doctor had told Mrs. Hardy plainly, when he last came to see Gracie, that the little girl would never be well again. She might linger for several months, he said; and as the small room in which she lay was both confined and damp, he advised that the child's bed should be removed into her mother's room, which was much larger, and the walls of which were dry. So Gracie's bed was moved only a few days before her father's accident.

Her kind Sunday-school teacher had been to see her the day she was removed, and Grace had asked her to tell her the truth whether she would ever get well again; for the child had overheard something that the doctor had said to her mother during his last visit. Gently, very gently and lovingly did the kind teacher break the truth to Gracie; and she was almost surprised at the calmness with which the little girl heard that she must die. But God had dealt very mercifully with Gracie, and she had no fear of death. She knew that her Saviour had died for her, and that for His blessed sake her sins would be forgiven her; and God had given her grace to love and trust in her Redeemer, and to look far beyond this fleeting world.

"There remaineth, therefore, a rest to the people of God." How much that word comprises, every child of God can tell. Rest from toil; rest from pain; rest from sorrow; rest from strife; and, greatest blessing of all, rest from sin—from the constant warning against temptation, which is the lot of every Christian during his mortal life. So when her teacher spoke of that heavenly rest, Grade pointed upwards, and a happy smile lighted up her pale face.

"All will be rest up there, teacher; rest and peace; no quarrelling; no bad words! O teacher! I am quite, quite ready to go; only if father would but learn to love me before I went, I should die happier."

"Pray to God, Gracie dear," said her teacher at parting. "He will hear you, and grant your prayer in His own good time."

A few days afterwards, when she had heard of Hardy's accident, and found that he and his little dying child would be likely to pass some time together in the same room, she felt as if God had already answered the blind child's prayer, and was bringing about what she had so longed for. And so it proved.

When John Hardy was first brought in to his cottage, helpless and suffering, and was laid upon his bed, he made use of dreadful language, wishing he had never been born, and saying such sad words that Gracie trembled as she lay in her little bed in one corner of the room. For some time she was afraid to speak, and then some feeling within her led her to make an effort, painful though it was to her.

"Is it very bad to bear, father?"

The words were few and simple, but the little weak voice was full of pity.

Her father made no answer, but lay groaning as terribly as before.

"Is it so very bad to bear, dear father?" repeated the child.

"Awful bad," groaned Hardy.

Grace said no more at the time; but her father heard her presently murmuring, in a low voice—"O God, give father grace to bear his pain well, and make him better, for Jesus Christ's sake!"

The doctor came shortly afterwards and set the limb, after which Hardy felt somewhat easier; and, worn-out with pain, he fell into a sound sleep. Grace listened to his heavy but regular breathing, and knew that he still slept. Some hours passed away, and then she heard her father move in his bed, and utter a deep sigh.

"Is the pain better, father?"

"A great deal better, Gracie; perhaps, after all, God heard your prayer, child."

Grace did not until then know that her father had overheard her, and a thrill of joy passed through her heart as she heard him call her "Gracie," and speak more gently to her than he had done for years.

"God always hears our prayers, father," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "Let us both thank Him for having done so to-day."

"Amen," said John Hardy, as Gracie thanked God in her own childish language for giving her father ease from his pain.

Her prayer was answered. During the many weeks he was confined to the house, John Hardy learned to love his little blind daughter dearly; and, better still, he learned to know and trust the God whose commandments he had for so long a time set at naught. And so, when the end came, and Gracie's ransomed spirit returned to the God who gave it, the child died calmly and happily, feeling that, through God's grace, her father would be a better and a happier man for the time to come.