Part 3

‘Some of the combs were old and of a deep brown colour; others were beautifully white, and the honey in their cells was almost limpid. Such of the combs as were entire were placed in camp kettles, to be conveyed to the encampment; those which had been broken by the fall were devoured on the spot. Every stark bee-hunter was to be seen with a rich morsel in his hand, dripping about his fingers, and disappearing as rapidly as a cream tart before the holiday appetite of a schoolboy.’

Not in America alone, but in Africa also, the wild-bee is an object of pursuit by the natives. Even the Hottentots show considerable shrewdness in obtaining the wild-honey. The author of an _Expedition into the Interior of Africa_ thus describes an operation of this kind: ‘One of the Hottentots observed a number of bees entering a hole in the ground which had formerly belonged to some animal of the weasel kind. As he made signs for us to come to him, we turned that way, fearing he had met with some accident.’ It was the home of a recent swarm. ‘When the people began to unearth the bees, I did not expect that we should escape being severely stung; but they knew so well how to manage an affair of this kind, that they robbed the poor bees with the greatest ease and safety. Before they commenced digging, a fire was made near the hole, and constantly supplied with damp fuel, to produce a cloud of smoke. In this the workmen were completely enveloped, so that the bees returning from the field were prevented approaching, and those which flew out of the nest were driven by it to a distance.’

The same writer mentions another incident, even more interesting. ‘Whilst I was engaged in the chase one day on foot with a Namaqua attendant, he picked up a small stone; he looked at it earnestly, then over the plain, and threw it down again. I asked what it was. He said there was the mark of a bee on it. Taking it up, I also saw on it a small pointed drop of wax, which had fallen from the bee in its flight. The Namaqua noticed the direction the point of the drop indicated, and walking on, he picked up another stone, also with a drop of wax on it, and so on at considerable intervals, till, getting behind a crag, he looked up, and bees were seen flying across the sky and in and out of a cleft in the face of the rock. Here, of course, was the honey he was in pursuit of. A dry bush was selected, a fire was made, the cliff ascended, and the nest robbed in the smoke.’

An amusing anecdote is related in _Feminine Monarchy_, an old book printed in 1609, and given by a Russian ambassador to Rome as ‘written out of experience by Charles Butler.’ A man was out in the woods searching for honey. Climbing a large hollow tree, he discovered an immense ‘find’ of the luscious produce. By some means however, he missed his footing, and slipped into the hollow, sinking up to his breast in honey. He struggled to get out, but without avail. He called and shouted, but alike in vain. He was far from human habitation, and help there was none, for no one heard his cries. At length, when he had begun to despair of deliverance, he was extricated in a most remarkable and unexpected way. Strange to say, another honey-hunter came to the same tree in the person of a large bear, which, smelling the honey, the scent of which had been diffused by the efforts of the imprisoned man, mounted the tree and began to lower himself, hind-part first, into the hollow. The hunter, rightly concluding that the worst could be but death, which he was certain of if he remained where he was, clasped the bear around the loins with both hands, at the same time shouting with all his strength. The bear, what with the handling and the shouting, was very seriously frightened, and made speed to get out of his fix. The man held fast, and the bear pulled until, with his immense strength, he drew the man fairly out of his strange prison. The bear being released, made the best of his way off, more frightened than hurt, leaving the man, as the story quaintly says, ‘in joyful fear.’

We conclude this paper with a story of another kind, a version of which was given some years ago in a contemporary; but the French bishop was turned into an English prelate, and the bee-keeping curé into an Anglican clergyman, the story being otherwise greatly changed. The said French bishop, while paying a visit to his clergy, was much distressed by the extreme poverty which met him everywhere. Reaching the house of a certain curate who lived in the midst of very poor parishioners, where he expected to witness even greater destitution, he was astonished to find that everything about the house wore an appearance of comfort and plenty. Greatly surprised by what he saw, the bishop asked: ‘How is this, my friend? You are the first pastor I have seen having a cheerful face and a plentiful board. Have you any income independent of your cure?’

‘Yes,’ said the curé, ‘I have. My household would otherwise starve on the pittance I receive from my poor people. If you will walk into the garden, I will show you the stock which yields me such excellent interest.’

On going into the garden, the bishop saw a long range of beehives.

‘There,’ said the curé—‘there is the bank from which I draw an annual dividend; and it is one that never stops payment.’

The fact was that his honey supplied the place of sugar, leaving him a considerable quantity for sale, in addition to other household uses. Then, of the washings of the comb and refuse honey he manufactured a very palatable wine; while the wax went far to pay his shoemaker’s bill.

Ever afterwards, it is said, when any of the clergy complained to the bishop of poverty, he would tell the story of the bee-keeping curé, following up his anecdote with the advice: ‘Keep bees—keep bees!’

A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.

CHAPTER III.—A GRAVE ACCUSATION.

Thus valiant, the Major entered the library at the appointed time. He was, however, taken aback on finding that it was not only the gentlemen he had to confront, but also two of the ladies—Mrs Joseph and Mrs John. Nellie had positively refused to be present. He had not bargained for an examination in the presence of the ladies, for he could not say before them what he must say in order to exculpate himself. He felt that he was being very unfairly treated. But he was thankful for small mercies. They might have had Miss Euphemia in to witness his humiliation—for humiliation it must be to confess his stupidity in despatching the letters in the wrong envelopes.

The Squire was seated at his writing-table, and assumed something of his magisterial air (he was a J.P.) as he requested the Major to take a chair. The three letters were on the desk before him; and he proceeded to read them carefully, whilst profound silence prevailed. Mrs Joseph darted angry glances alternately at her husband and the culprit. Mrs John looked more serious than usual, but still showed symptoms of an inclination to titter. John Elliott stood in the shadow of a large bookcase; Maynard near the window which opened to the terrace, impatiently twirling his moustache and at intervals glancing fiercely towards the Major, who, in his indignation at the whole proceeding, returned the glance in a like spirit.

The Squire cleared his throat with a raucous cough. ‘You have placed me in a most painful position, Major,’ he began with an evident desire to be friendly, which was checked by the frown of his wife. ‘I am as tolerant as anybody of a joke. You know that well enough, Dawkins; but I can’t stand such a hoax as you have played upon us in sending these letters here.’

The Major rose; he felt so much injured, that he was calm. ‘My dear friend Elliott’——

‘Oh, confound it—there’s the beginning of the plaguy things,’ ejaculated the Squire.

‘Allow me to explain. I intended no hoax. These letters were written with an earnest desire to avert misunderstanding. Unfortunately, in my agitation and haste, I blundered.’

‘Not a hoax—not a joke!’ bellowed the Squire, rising to his feet and thrusting the letters into a drawer of the table. ‘Do you mean to say, then, that I suspected my wife of anything?’

‘No.’

‘Do you mean to say that a word could be spoken about me in association with any one which could or should cause Nellie—Miss Carroll—to be displeased with me?’ broke in Maynard threateningly.

‘No.’

‘Do you mean to say that I am in any way involved with another lady?’ snapped Elliott of Arrowby.

‘No.’

‘Stop a minute,’ interposed Mrs John, in her light-hearted way, coming to the rescue of Major Dawkins, and turning to her husband. ‘The Major did not say you were involved, John; he only warned me not to mind any nonsense I might hear about you. Give our friend time to explain.’

‘I am grateful for your intercession, madam,’ said the Major stiffly. ‘If your husband has read the letter which, as I have told you, fell into Mrs Joseph’s hands by mischance, he knows precisely how the matter stands, and I request _him_ to explain, or to speak to me in private.’

‘I have read the letter, of course,’ was the peevish response of John Elliott; ‘and it does not suggest anything for me to explain, or why you should require a private interview with me.’

The Major had the opportunity to avenge himself on the instant by stating before them all why he had written the letters. But Mrs John was evidently quite ignorant of her husband’s suspicions; why should he pain her by revealing them? The outcome of the revelation would be an inevitable rupture between the man and wife. Nellie Carroll had not heard John Elliott’s scandal about Maynard: why should he, for his own convenience, stir the stagnant pool and increase the distress he had already unintentionally caused? No; he would not do that. He had blundered, and must pay the penalty.

‘Since Mr John Elliott declines to say anything or to grant me a private interview,’ said the Major firmly, ‘the affair must end here. I withdraw everything that is written in these unlucky letters, and request you to give them back to me, so that they may be at once destroyed.’

‘That won’t do,’ rejoined the Squire gruffly; ‘if you won’t make the thing clear to us, it has gone too far to end here. I shall place the letters in the hands of my solicitor to-morrow morning, and leave him to arrange with you.’

‘In that case, you will provoke a family scandal which will cause you all much vexation, and cannot possibly do good to anybody.’

‘It will at least teach _some_ person a serious lesson,’ observed Mrs Joseph sternly.

‘O madam, the lesson has been learned already,’ answered the Major bitterly.—‘But since you, Squire, are not satisfied that I am sufficiently punished for my mistake by the loss of your friendship, but also mean to take legal proceedings, I must summon a friend from town who will convince you that the trouble did not originate with me.’

‘So be it, Major Dawkins; and as things stand, I shall expect your visit to Todhurst to terminate to-morrow,’ said the Squire, getting the inhospitable words out with much difficulty.

‘It would terminate this instant, were it not that I still desire to serve you and your family. So much you will acknowledge to-morrow, and then my presence will no longer disturb you.’

There was a degree of dignity in the Major’s retreat which impressed everybody except the hot-headed lover, Maynard, who muttered between his teeth: ‘If this were not my friend’s house, I would horsewhip the little beggar.’ As he could not enjoy that luxury, he occupied his talents in seeking a reconciliation with Nellie, and unluckily, but naturally, besought the aid of Mrs John. His conversations with her in the drawing-room and on the lawn again irritated the suspicious husband, who, instead of speaking out frankly, endeavoured to hide the bitter thoughts which were passing through his mind, and became more abstracted and more disagreeable than ever.

Mrs Joseph perversely held to her opinion that the guest had ‘something’ to say which she ought to know.

‘But you don’t mean to say, Kitty,’ the Squire expostulated, ‘that if I had any fault to find with you I should not speak it straight out to yourself, instead of blabbing it to other folk? Past experience ought to make you sure that when I am not pleased, you will hear about it soon enough.’

‘I know that perfectly well—there is no lack of fault-finding on your part to myself; and how am I to tell what you have been saying about me to others?’ retorted Mrs Joseph, whose temper being once roused, as has been stated, was not easily allayed.

‘Nonsense, Kitty—you don’t believe that I would speak about you to outsiders.—Come, now; drop this humbug, for you know it is humbug; and, ’pon my honour, I think we have been too hard on poor Dawkins.’

‘Before deciding on that point, I shall wait to hear what this friend he is summoning from London has to say to-morrow.’

‘I take his word for it, that there was a mistake.’

‘Then he should not make such a mistake, and having made it, ought to suffer the consequences.’

‘But, my dear, don’t you see that he is taking the consequences?—and infernally unpleasant ones they are. I tell you there is nothing in it; and if he had only said it was all a joke, I should have been satisfied.’

‘But he said it was not a joke, and told you that if you prosecuted him, it would result in a grave family scandal. How can you answer that?’

‘I can’t, and he wouldn’t; so we must wait for the person who will.’

There was a kind of armed truce declared in this way between the husband and wife—she feeling guiltily conscious that she was somehow making a mountain of a molehill; and he feeling perfectly sure of it.

* * * * *

The Major went straight to his room, resolved that he would hold no intercourse with the family until Mrs John’s brother, Matt Willis, arrived. Had there been a train that evening to town, he would have taken it and brought his friend down; and if there had been a hotel in the village, he would have left the house forthwith. But there was no train and there was no hotel—not even a beershop, for the country folk thereabout mostly brewed their own ale. There was, however, a post and telegraph office in the village, and Hollis was despatched with a message for Willis, entreating him, for his sister’s sake, to come down by the first train on the following morning. That done, he endeavoured to compose himself and to take a calm survey of his position. He had upset everybody, and most of all himself, by his good-natured anxiety to save others from the consequences of their own folly. The thing ought to have resulted in a laugh and a shake-hands all round; but instead of that, it threatened to become a serious affair for the law-courts to deal with; and the Major had no means to enable him to indulge in the luxury of a lawsuit.

What was he to do? Nothing but what he had determined upon—to get Willis to speak out, since John Elliott would not. There was of course the possibility that Willis would refuse, as it was his intense repugnance to interfering with family squabbles which had prompted him to call for the Major’s assistance as mediator between his sister and her husband.

Major Dawkins felt indignant with John Elliott for shrinking from speaking the few words which would have put everything right. But the truth flashed upon him—perhaps the man was so blinded by his jealousy, that he really did not understand what was required of him, when asked to explain the position. Although the Major could only surmise that this was the case, the surmise was correct; but the true reason why John Elliott did not understand him was that he had no idea of his conversation with Willis having been repeated to any one. If that were so, the Major felt that it was his duty to prevent the threatened publicity by every means in his power. Apart from his consideration for the feelings of Mrs John and Nellie, there was his own plight to be taken into account. Publicity would expose him to ridicule, if not contempt, and would inevitably put an end to all hope of winning the hand of Miss Euphemia Panton. He resolved to see the Squire the moment dinner was over, and make another effort to get him to understand the real state of the unfortunate business.

* * * * *

Servants have a special instinct for discovering the ill-luck of the family they serve, and invariably they accept it in a distorted form. Then they sympathise with the master and mistress, or rejoice in their fallen state, according to the perquisites which have been allowed them or withheld from them. Hollis having heard that his master was in disgrace with the family they had come to visit, felt that his own dignity was at stake; therefore, in the housekeeper’s room and in the butler’s pantry he valiantly defended the honour of his chief. He was a little crest-fallen when he found that his master was not to join the family at dinner, for this circumstance appeared to confirm the gossip of the servants’ hall that the Major had been guilty of some grave offence, the nature of which was too dreadful to be mentioned. Hollis was equal to the occasion, and by taking the position as one of great injustice to his master, succeeded, by cautious suggestions of forthcoming revelations, in impressing the housekeeper and butler with the idea that they would reap a large reward in the future by careful attention to the Major’s present needs. The diplomacy of Hollis was used as much on his own account as on that of his master; for he managed to secure command of the dishes which were most favoured by the Major—and himself, as well as a sufficient supply of Clos de Vougeot and Heidsieck.

The Major was scarcely sufficiently appreciative of the attentions of his servant in catering for him so far as the eatables were concerned; and he sadly disappointed Hollis by taking a larger share of the wine than that gentleman had expected. For this loss, however, he contrived to compensate himself when he got downstairs again. Major Dawkins was too eager for the moment when he should be able to speak freely to the Squire to find any delight in eating; and although he took the wine, it was without any of the relish with which he usually partook of rare vintages. When Hollis had cleared the table, he rose immediately, disregarding his digestion, and paced the room. He knew that the dinner would be a more lugubrious affair than the luncheon had been, and he endeavoured to calculate exactly when it would be over.

The time having arrived, he opened his door, which was nearly opposite that of the library. To the latter he advanced quickly, knowing that the Squire frequently went thither after dinner to examine letters or to take a nap. He heard some one moving in the room, and tapped at the door. There was no answer. He tapped again, and still receiving no answer, boldly turned the handle and entered. There was no one visible. He was puzzled, for there had been unmistakable sounds of some one moving about and also of the shutting of a drawer. The window which opened on the terrace was slightly ajar, and possibly the Squire, suspecting who was his visitor, had stepped out in order to avoid him. That was both unfriendly and unjust.

The Major was angry, for he could not conceive any reason for being avoided in this manner. He looked out: no one was visible on the terrace. Then a sudden temptation seized him. He knew exactly in which drawer the Squire had placed those abominable letters. They were his own—why should he not take possession of them and destroy them? In this way the whole miserable business would be ended. Of course, he could not deny having written such letters as would be described, but they would not be forthcoming; and if it should come to the worst, his explanation of the circumstances under which they had been written would be listened to with the more patience and consideration.

The temptation was too much for him. For the sake of the family as well as for his own sake, those letters must be destroyed. He went to the drawer, pulled it open, and there before him lay the letters. He snatched them out and thrust them into the breast-pocket of his coat, with the intention of burning them when he reached his own room; but at that moment his wrists were tightly grasped and he heard the click of handcuffs fastened upon them. He was helpless and speechless. He stood staring at the smiling face of a broad-shouldered fellow who wore the costume of a gamekeeper.

‘Got you at last,’ said this gentleman quite pleasantly. ‘You have given me no end of trouble; but, there, I respect you all the more. Only, you have been coming it rather strong, and I am surprised that you didn’t take a rest, seeing that you’ve had the valuables out of half-a-dozen mansions in the county.’

‘What do you mean?’ shouted the Major furiously.

‘Nothing particular,’ replied the complacent gentleman, ‘unless you count it particular that I should want you to come along with me. I am a constable, and I have been looking out for you for some weeks past. So, you had better make no fuss about the matter, but come along quietly. It’ll be all the better for yourself.’

‘You confounded fool!’ ejaculated the Major indignantly, ‘do you take _me_ for a burglar? I am a guest in this house—I am Major Dawkins.’

‘Alias Captain Jack, alias ’Arry Smith.’

‘Call the family—they will identify me,’ the Major almost shrieked, whilst he endeavoured to free himself from his handcuffs.

‘Oh, I’ll call the family,’ answered the detective, as he lifted up a jemmy which was lying beside the Squire’s desk. ‘I suppose you don’t know what this little tool means, and I suppose you don’t know anything about this drawer which has been forced open with it?’

‘You scoundrel, to suspect me of such’——

‘There now; don’t say anything to commit yourself; I’ll call the family.’

Thereupon, the detective rang the bell.

The summons was answered by Parker the butler, who was somewhat astonished to find a stranger in the library with the Major. The latter’s face—purple with rage—and wild gesticulations, with his fettered hands, presented a spectacle so astounding that Parker could scarcely believe his eyes rested on a guest of the house.

‘Tell your master to come here and release me from this ruffian, who takes me—me, Major Dawkins—for a burglar!’

The detective smiled placidly as he addressed the butler: ‘Yes, if you please, inform Mr Elliott that he is wanted here on particular business.’

ENGLISH COUNSEL AND SOLICITORS.