Part 6 (1/2)

”Sitting, and nearly hatched,” said the lad. ”Might wait for them, and bring them up. I dunno, though. Sing best in the trees. Wouldn't hop about the courtyard and cliffs like the young ravens. Wonder where they build?”

He went on, to stop and watch the trout and grayling, which kept darting away, as he approached the riverside, gleaming through the sunlit water, and hiding in the depths, or beneath some ma.s.s of rock or tree-root on the other side.

”Rather stupid for me, getting to be a man, to think so much about birds' nests; but I don't know: perhaps it isn't childish. Old Rayburn is always watching for them, and picking flowers, and chipping bits of stone. Why, he has books full of pressed gra.s.ses and plants; and boxes full of bits of ore and spar, and stony sh.e.l.ls out of the caves and mines.--Well now, isn't that strange?”

He stopped short, laughing to himself, as he suddenly caught sight of a droll-looking figure, standing knee-deep in the river, busy with rod and line, gently throwing a worm-baited hook into the deep black water, under the projecting rocks at the foot of the cliff.

The figure, cut off, as it were, at the knees, looked particularly short and stout, humped like a camel, by the creel swung behind to be out of the way. His dress was a rusty brown doublet, with puffed-out breeches beneath, descending half-way down the thigh, and then all was bare. A steeple-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, from beneath which hung an abundance of slightly-curling silvery hair, completed the figure at which Mark Eden gazed, unseen; for the old man was intent upon his fis.h.i.+ng, and just then he struck, and after a little playing, drew in and unhooked a finely-spotted trout, which he was about to transfer to his basket, when he was checked by a greeting from the back.

”Morning, Master Rayburn. That's a fine one.”

”Ah, Mark, boy, how are you?” said the old man, smiling. ”Yes: I've got his brother in the basket, and I want two more. Better come and help me to eat them.”

”Can't to-day.--Quite well?”

”Yes, thank G.o.d, boy. Well for an old man. I heard you were back from school. How's that?”

”Bad fever there. All sent home.”

”That's sad. Ought to be at work, boy. Better come and read with me.”

”Well, I will sometimes, sir.”

”Come often, my boy; keep you out of mischief.”

”Oh, I shan't get into mischief, sir.”

”Of course not; idle boys never do. Not likely to get fighting, either.

I see young Ralph Darley's at home. Fine chance for you,” said the old man, with a sarcastic ring in his voice, as he slipped his trout into the basket.

”Is he?” cried the lad excitedly.

”Oh yes; he's up at the Cliff. Now then, why don't you fill your pockets with big stones to throw at him, or cut a big club? Oh, I see, though. You've mounted a skewer. Pull it out, and try if the point's sharp. I suppose you're going down the river to lay wait for him and kill him.”

”There, you're as bad as ever, Master Rayburn,” cried the lad, flus.h.i.+ng, and looking mortified. ”Last time I saw you it was just the same: laughing at, and bantering, and sneering at me. No wonder my father gets angry with you, and doesn't ask you to the Tor.”

”Yes, no wonder. Quarrels with me, boy, instead of with himself for keeping up such a mad quarrel.”

”It isn't father's fault, sir,” cried the lad quickly. ”It's the old feud that has been going on for generations.”

”Old feud! Old disgrace!” cried the fisherman, throwing away the worm he was about to impale on his hook, to see it snapped up at once by a good fish; and standing his rod in the water, like a staff to lean on, as he went on talking, with the cold water swirling about over his knees, and threatening to wet his feather-stuffed breeches. ”I'm ashamed of your father and Ralph's father. Call themselves Christian gentlemen, and because a pair of old idiots of ancestors in the dark ages quarrelled, and tried to cut one another's throats, they go on as their fathers did before them, trying to seize each other's properties, and to make an end of one another, and encouraging their sons to grow up in the same vile way.”

”My father is a gentleman and a knight, sir,” cried Mark Eden hotly; ”and I'm sure that he would never turn cut-throat or robber if he was left alone.”

”Of course; and that's what Sir Morton Darley would say, or his son either; and still the old feud is kept up. Look here, boy; suppose you were to run against young Ralph now, what would happen?”

”There'd be a fight,” cried the lad, flus.h.i.+ng up; and he drew in his breath with a hiss.

”Of course!” sneered the old man.

”Well, he never sees me without insulting me.”