Chapter II: The Jacobite

‘Where did you place the saddle-bags, Derrick?’ asked Sir Carnaby, when Hobb Dipping had quitted the old wainscoted apartment in which his distinguished visitor was about to partake of supper.

Speech was a gift which nature had bestowed very sparingly upon the attendant; moreover, he was possessed of a rough, unmelodious voice. Pointing towards a chair in one corner, he slowly ejaculated: ‘There, sir—underneath.’

‘Good!’ said Sir Carnaby, seating himself at the table.—‘By the way, Derrick, I think it would be just as well to look after the innkeeper: his glances are a trifle too curious to please me. When I have finished my supper, you had better descend into the public room and try to ascertain his opinion of us.’

‘Right, sir,’ replied the attendant.

‘Come from behind my chair, you varlet,’ said the baronet, motioning him at the same time with his hand. ‘Draw up to the table and break your fast with me; we shall gain time by so doing.’

Derrick sat down respectfully at the farther end of the board, and gazed in a thoughtful way at a dark patch of sky which could be seen through the diamond-shaped panes of glass in a window opposite him.

‘You seem in no hurry to refresh the inner man,’ remarked Sir Carnaby. ‘What are you thinking of, Derrick?’

‘A dream, sir.’

‘A what?’

‘A dream, sir,’ repeated Derrick—‘one I had last night.’

‘Well, as your mind appears to be somewhat uneasy,’ remarked Sir Carnaby, with a slight smile playing over his features, ‘I should recommend open confession as being the proper thing to relieve it.’

‘There’s little enough to tell, sir,’ said Derrick; ‘’twas only a bit of dark sky up there that brought it back to me.’

‘Well,’ said Sir Carnaby simply.

‘It seemed to me,’ continued the attendant, ‘as if I was riding alone, holding your horse by the bridle. The moon was up, and the sky looked the same as it does out there. I can remember now quite plain that I felt kind of troubled, but what about, I know just as little as you, sir.’

‘Is that the whole story?’ asked Sir Carnaby with a laugh. ‘Well, I can tell you, good Derrick, so far as riding alone goes, your prophecy is likely to prove a true one, though I certainly don’t intend you to carry off my horse with you.—See here; this is something more important than a heavy-headed dream. You must start to-morrow for the Grange. Be in the saddle early, and don’t spare your spurs.’

‘Am I to go alone, sir?’

‘Certainly. The journey has no object beyond the delivery of this letter; and as inquiry is sure to be pretty rife concerning me, I shall stay where I am and await your return.’

Derrick received the sealed envelope which was handed to him with a gruff but respectful ‘Right, sir,’ and then relapsed into his customary silence.

‘I shall leave it to your discretion to find out the way,’ said Sir Carnaby. ‘Of course you will go armed?’

The attendant opened his coat without speaking and touched the hilt of a stout hanger which he wore at his side.

Sir Carnaby smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said; ‘you are ready enough to play at blood-letting; but that sort of thing is best avoided. Let your movements be as quiet and speedy as possible; and when you reach your destination, seek out Captain Hollis by means of that address. Give the note into his hands, then make haste back. I shall have other work for you when you return.’

‘More plots,’ thought Derrick, but he merely uttered a grunt and pocketed the letter.

‘This room,’ continued the baronet, ‘seems to be parlour and bedchamber in one. So far well. If there should be any occasion to consult me again before you start, one rap at this door will be quite sufficient to wake me. I am a light sleeper.’

‘Anything more, sir?’

‘Nothing more to-night; you have all my orders for the present.—Good-night, Derrick.’

‘Good-night, sir.’

When the last faint clank of Derrick’s boots has ceased to ring upon the staircase, Sir Carnaby Vincent rises and locks the door, glancing outside first, to see that no one lurks without. This being done, he carefully bars the shutters over the window, looks inside two cupboards which the room contains, and then having ascertained that he is not likely to be overlooked, draws forth the afore-mentioned saddle-bags. A strange look of anxiety passes over the fugitive’s face as he plunges his hand into one of them, and brings out a small, shallow, oaken box, black with age. Its contents are apparently of no little value, for the lid is secured by two locks, and a corresponding number of blotchy red seals, upon which may be deciphered the impression of a crest. Sir Carnaby turns the box over and examines its fastenings, then rises and walks slowly round the room, as if in search of something. His manner at this moment is most strange, and the light step with which he treads over the old flooring does not awaken enough creaking to disturb a mouse. Four times round the room he goes, with a curious expression on his face which would puzzle even a skilful physiognomist to interpret, then stooping down, he places the box on the floor and appears to listen.

THE MUSK-RAT OF INDIA.

FROM AN ANGLO-INDIAN.

The musk-rat is from six to eight inches long, of a slatish-blue colour, with a long movable snout, and diminutive eyes. Its skin is very loose, and quite conceals the extremities, only allowing the feet to be seen. This formation occasions the peculiar pattering of its run. The tail, broad at its base, is pinkish and bare of everything except a few hairs; ears are diminutive. Loathed and detested by all, this creature leads a charmed life; only a few dogs will kill it, and then there is always sneezing and a little foaming afterwards. Cats follow but won’t touch it; it is, moreover, equally avoided by more aristocratic rats and mice. As the animal runs along the wall of the room, it emits a kind of self-satisfied purr, which, if alarmed, breaks into a squeak, and immediately the scent-bottle is opened. If there is light to see the tiny creature, you will observe it scanning with its nose all parts of the horizon in search of what caused the alarm; the eyes apparently being unequal to the task.

Musk-rats have a singular habit of always running along the walls of a room, never crossing from one wall to the other; hence, as they are not swift movers, they are easily overtaken, and a blow from a cane instantly kills the animal. Traps are of little use in capturing these creatures; and if one is captured, that trap is for ever useless as regards ordinary rats and mice, which won’t approach it after being contaminated. ‘Muskies’ are omnivorous and very voracious. During the rains, the insect world is on the wing. If at this season you place a night-light on the ground near the beat of a musk-rat, you will be amused at watching its antics in trying to catch some of the buzzers round the light, or those crawling up the wall, and will be surprised at its agility. The captives are ruthlessly crunched, and the animal never seems satiated; at the same time its enjoyment is evinced by its purring. Woe betide him should another musky invade this happy hunting-ground! War is at once proclaimed, and immediately the two are fighting for their lives, squeaking, snapping, biting, rolling over and over, and all the time letting off their awful scent-bottles. You, in the comparative distance, just escape the disgusting odour; but the insect invasion catch it full, and quickly leave the scene. And so the fight goes on, until you happily catch both the combatants with one blow of your cane, and the stinking turmoil ceases; and having thrown open the doors to ventilate the room, you are glad to retire to rest.

I was awakened one night at Arrah by the squeaking and stench of two musk-rats, which were in mortal combat near my bed. Quietly rising and seizing my slipper, I smote the combatants a wrathful blow, to which one succumbed, and the other escaped through the venetian. I then lay down again, but only to hear the hateful p-r-r-r-r of ‘musky,’ who had come to look after his dead brother. Seizing him, he carried him off to the venetian, and there dropped him with a squeak, as I rose to my elbow. Bringing the dead rat back and laying my slipper handy, I again lay down. Very soon I heard the disgusting purr and saw the dead musky being carried off; and now the slipper was true, and both muskies lay prone.

Apropos to this, if you throw out a dead rat or mouse, he is at once swooped upon by a kite or crow; but both these scavengers will avoid a dead musk-rat; the kite will swoop and pass on as if he had not noticed the odour, whilst our old friend the crow will alight at a safe distance, and with one eye survey the dead shrew. Perhaps in that glance a whiff from the scent-bottle reaches him, for he hops off a yard or two, caws, and then rubs his beak once or twice on the ground. Then he takes an observation with the other eye, caws, and flies up into the overhanging nína tree. No one will touch the dead musk-rat; even those faithful undertakers, the burying-beetles, avoid him.

Now, what is the scent of the musk-rat like? When I was last at home in 1875, I went into a greenhouse on a hot summer day, and found it given up to the musk-plant. ‘Muskies! muskies!’ I exclaimed, as I fled from the stifling, dank, and fetid atmosphere. Get up that combination—a hot day, a dank, humid, and suffocating greenhouse given up to the musk-plant, and you will have the full effect of only one full-blown musky. The odour of the plant, heavy when close, is delicate when diffused; the scent of the musk-rat, on the other hand, is heavy when diffused, and insupportable when near. The marvellous diffusibility of this odour is illustrated in many ways. It has long been maintained that the musk-rat has only to pass over a closely corked bottle of wine to destroy its contents. I have tasted sherry so destroyed, and at the same time have placed corked bottles of water in the runs of musk-rats without any defilement. The odour won’t permeate glass, so the bottle of sherry must have been contaminated by a defiled cork. Place a porous water-goblet (_sooráhí_) in the run of a musk-rat, and defilement is secure; and if that goblet endures for a hundred years, it will during that century affect all water which may be put into it. These animals seem to enjoy communicating their disgusting odour to surrounding objects. It doesn’t follow that mere contact conveys it, for I have often handled these animals without contamination; but there is undoubtedly—setting aside the scent-bottle as a means of defence—an instinctive marking of objects for purposes of recognition, sheer mischief, or for the easing of the secretion organ.

Another anomaly pertains to this animal: though so disgusting to others, it is not so to itself; and it is one of the tidiest and most cleanly of animals. Its nesting arrangements, too, are very peculiar; nothing is more greedily utilised than paper, which it tears up. Some years ago, I lived in a boarded house, and used to be nightly worried by a pattering and purring musky dragging a newspaper towards a certain corner. Arrived there, it disappeared down a hole and pulled the paper after it—that is, as much as would enter the hole. If I gently removed the paper, the inquisitive nose would appear ranging round the hole, and shortly after, the animal itself in quest of the paper. I had the boarding taken up, and there, in a paper nest, lay five pink and naked muskies, all heads, with hardly any bodies, and quite blind.

I cannot find one redeeming trait in the character and conduct of _Sorex cœrulescens_, and I must admit that he is an ill-favoured beast, and of questionable utility.

A DAY IN EARLY SUMMER.

A little wood, wherein with silver sound
A brooklet whispers all the sunny day,
And on its banks all flow’rets which abound
In the bright circle of the charmèd May:
Primroses, whose faint fragrance you may know
From other blooms; and oxlips, whose sweet breath
Is kissed by windflowers—star-like gems which blow
Beside pale sorrel, in whose veins is death;
Larch-trees are there, with plumes of palest green;
And cherry, dropping leaves of scented white;
While happy birds, amid the verdant screen,
Warble their songs of innocent delight.
Surely they err who say life is not blest;
Hither may come the weary and have rest.

J. C. H.

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