Hard Held. A sporting novel: being a sequel to 'Curb and Snaffle.'

Chapter I. Conroy Castle

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees Rogers. F the numerous mansions that stud the landscape of the Midland Counties, Conroy Castle stands pre-eminent for its stateliness and beauty. Here we find a wealth of architecture marking its various periods in history. In the ruined walls and square tower, covered with ivy from battle ment to base, clinging fondly to the right wing of a later date of architecture, we read the period of the foundation of the Fitzmurray family and that of the Castle, what time Sir Amyot Fitzmorrois fought under Cœur de Lion against the Saracens. Then follow the B Renaissance, Elizabethan, and Queen Anne periods ; until, finally, at the extremity of the left wing, the billiard and smoking-rooms mark the architecture of to-day in modern Gothic. It is a glorious jumble, pleasing from its very irregularity and massive grayness of tone.

A broad gravel terrace, with a heavy stone balustrade, extends along the whole front, dividing the Castle from the park. To the left, opening from a conservatory, is the flower garden, whilst huge urns, filled with flowers of many colours, placed at intervals, break the regular monotony of the balustrade. The hall door, under a Gothic portico, is reached by a ilight of marble steps, which cut the terrace in its centre. The Gothic portico itself is beautiful in its architecture, whilst the massive oak door carries one back to the days of the Commonwealth. Surrounding the Castle, which is approached by an avenue a mile in length, sweeps a mag nificent park of many hundreds of acres, dotted here and there with clumps of oak, beech, and ash ; whilst nearer to the Castle are various CONROY CASTLE 3 kinds of foreign trees, suitable to an English climate, growing in wild luxuriance.

A trout stream flows through the centre of the land scape. Patches of ferns, in the remoter parts, form coverts for the deer that lazily browse in large numbers upon the luxuriant verdure. Cock pheasants, in all their gaudy plumage, strut about in the sunshine, mingling their challenge with the harsh cry of the peacocks on the terrace and the distant call of the wild fowl on the decoy. Rabbits scurry hither and thither, hares feed in security, and the tender cooing of the wood-pigeon comes softly from among the tree-tops. Immediately in the rear of the Castle are the stables and coach-houses, separated from the main building by a vast courtyard, in the midst of which plays a foun tain. The stables and coach-houses form two sides of a square, the third side being devoted to the dairy and servants' offices.

There is an entrance into the stables from the billiard-room, so that the owner of Castle Conroy can at any moment find himself amongst his horses. Half a mile in rear of the stables is the home-farm, where the steward resides, the buildings cover- B ing a space of ground almost equal to the Castle itself. So much for the outside of Castle Conroy. Let us now enter by the oaken door under the portico and view the interior. We are ad mitted into a vast hall, on either side of which are two large open fireplaces. Facing us is a grand oak staircase, which, after a gentle ascent, branches off right and left. Upon the first landing, so to speak, and facing the doorway, is an organ of dark polished oak. At the head of this flight, right and left, are two gigantic bronze figures holding candelabra.

The hall is wainscoted high in black oak, and the ceiling is of the same wood, elaborately carved. The floor is of marble, in different colours, strewn about which are rugs made of the skins of various animals. On either side of the fire place are figures in armour, whilst the walls are decorated with weapons of different nations and epochs. Scattered here and there are easy chairs, whose modern date seems to assimilate ill with the surroundings, but whose comfort looks undeniable. Two doors off the hall, right and left, admit CONROY CASTLE 5 you to the drawing-room and dining-room, each capacious, and furnished in the latest style, replete with elegance and luxury. Off the drawing-room is a boudoir opening into a conservatory ; off the dining-room are the billiard and smoking-rooms before mentioned.

On the first landing, on the one side is the picture gallery, running the whole length and immediately over the dining-room, whilst a corresponding door on the opposite side admits you into the library over the drawing-room, at the far end of which is the study. In rear of these and on the floors above are innumer able bedrooms, dressing-rooms, bath-rooms, and boudoirs. About a mile away from the Castle, on the banks of the trout stream above mentioned. just where a stone bridge crosses it, stands a red-brick cottage, built in the modern style and covered with ivy. The shutters are closed, and the garden which surrounds it lies neglected and run wild. Weeds grow in the once trim gravel walks, whilst the poultry7-run and dog kennel at the back give no sounds of life. Strange, that what to all appearance indicates a head keeper's house, standing in the centre of the park, should be untenanted.

And yet it is so. For the last two years, since the death of the head keeper, the second keeper has taken charge of the vast preserves ; whilst as to the open ground, it was always understood that the tenants of the various farms were the best keepers. The master of Conroy Castle is very con servative, not only in politics but in everything else ; so that when the head keeper died of sheer old age, Sir Julian Fitzmurray shut up the cottage, not Wishing even to promote the second keeper, as it would entail his removal to the above-named cottage, where the innova tion of a new face seemed to him almost a sacrilege ; besides, the second keeper was too young, and not calculated to command the respect of his subordinates, watchers, beaters, etc. At any rate, Sir Julian merely raised the second keeper's wages, and that was all that was done ; no questions were asked, no remon strance made ; Sir Julian's word was law.

After his father's death and his sister's marriage, Sir Julian was left alone ; and on CONROY CASTLE 7 his return from India, whither he had gone in search of his sister and cousin, the manner of which has been fully detailed in " Curb and Snaffle," he shut up Conroy Castle, fitted out the Constance, a 150-ton schooner, and went for a cruise. Sir Julian has been absent five years ; he has just returned ; and when our story reopens he has arrived at Conroy Castle, much to the delight of his retainers in particular, and of the county people in general.

Chapter II. Sir Julian Fitzmurray

IGHT years have passed since we saw Julian on the battle-field of Jhansi. Of the personages we left in " Curb and Snaffle," some are gone to join the great majority, whilst of the others we shall hear something more in these pages. Amongst the former, our old friend, Mr. Jellybody, died in his adopted daughter's arms soon after his return from India. That journey had been too much for the old man, although, sooth to say, Gertrude's marriage and her new-found, high-born relatives separating her from him, added to the consequent solitary life he passed at The Briars, somewhat accelerated the end. Of the others, Lessing has married that gay S/R JUL/AN F/TZMURRA Y 9 widow, Mrs. Daintree, and left the 129th Lancers ; and of all those who went with that regiment to India, not one remains ; death and retirement have given a new lot of officers.

Conroy and his wife live at The Briars during the hunting season, where old Brewster is in stalled as stud-groom, and at the Castle for the shooting. General and Mrs. Fitzmurray still reside in Bayswater, paying occasional visits to Conroy Castle and The Briars. Miss Fitz murray, Conroy's sister, has gone to live with Aunt Felicia ; and George Hazelhurst, the forger, blackleg, and convict, brother-in-law of the late Bishop of Beverley, uncle of Mrs. Conroy Fitzmurray, and uncle by marriage to Sir Julian, had disappeared and left no trace. The story of the Bishop of Beverley's first marriage is now known to only four living persons, viz., Sir Julian, Gertrude, her hus band, and George Hazelhurst ; but as that worthy had made no sign, it was devoutly hoped that death had put an end to a miser able and wretched existence.

It is also necessary to inform the reader that, on his return from India, and previous to Conroy's marriage, Julian, with that respect for the memory of his father's wishes, had taken holy orders. When he had found himself suddenly left his own master, to embrace or reject a pro fession which, from his earliest boyhood, had been most distasteful to him ; when — after battling against this feeling, and endeavouring by strong and repeated self-arguments to con vince himself that, after all, it was wicked to revolt against that upon which his father had so earnestly built his hopes, a sacred legacy left to him to fulfil — he had found him self free to do as he felt most inclined, then was Julian more sorely tempted than he had ever been. It was hard to have to become a priest at his age, with youth, the command of a large fortune, hosts of friends — for what young man with such a position and income lacks friends by the million ?

Julian was sorely tried. Upon one occasion his cousin Conroy had spoken to him upon the subject, and had expressed his opinion that the responsibilities of a clergyman were too exacting for Julian to undertake, with his tastes for sport and gaiety. S/R JUL/AN F/TZMURRA Y 11 To which Julian had replied that he believed it to be good for some natures to be " hard held," as he termed it, using, all unconsciously, a sporting expression to express his feelings. After this no one ventured to argue with the master of Conroy Castle. His yachting trip round the world had certainly not improved his temperament. The shooting and fishing he had had in the Far West, on the coast of Africa, the Mediter ranean, the slopes of the Himalayas, the plains of the Deccan, and amongst the heavy jungles of the Concan, had inspired him with a desire, which almost amounted to a passion, for the vagabond life of a sportsman.

Then there was the Constance, his schooner - y7acht ; what a delight she had been to him ! True freedom of life can only be comprehended by those who, loving yachting, are able to possess a fine, stout, sea-going craft — not one of your wedge-like coffins, in which it is nowadays the custom to hold on everything, and spill the wind out of the sails, with the leerail under, and the water up to the combings of the hatchway, but a stout, good, comfortable craft, able to stand up under a press of canvas, with plenty of beam ; and to make good weather ol it in a gale of wind and a heavy sea, with speed enough to get fourteen knots going free, and weatherly enough to beat out from a lee shore with half a gale of wind in your teeth. Such was the Constance. But the time had arrived when Julian must give this up.

His sacred calling demanded that some portion at least of his life should be spent in the service of Him who was his Heavenly Master. So true had been the Bishop's training, and so noble the soil upon which he had sown, that, with a mighty wrench of the heart, Julian bade adieu to the Constance in Southampton Water ; and once more we find him at Conroy Castle, ready to commence a new life. These last years have altered Julian much. Let us look at him as, seated in the study, he is listening to the report of his bailiff. His hair has already commenced to turn gray. The clean-shaven face, full of interest, is a young old face, surmounted by a lofty forehead, across which the lines of thought or trial have begun S/R JUL/AN F/TZMURRA Y 13 to show themselves. The eyes are blue, large, and full of kindness.

The mouth is firm, though the lips are full, whilst the heavy jaw shows determination. The face is bronzed, and full of health, and, as he rises from his chair to lean against the mantelpiece, we see that his figure is tall, whilst the heavy set of the shoulders and depth of chest indicate muscular power of no ordinary character. He is a heavy man, and yet, withal, his movements are full of grace and lightness. And in all these eight years since his father's death, in the many wanderings he has made, has Julian Fitzmurray never seen a woman who could make him happy ? For Julian is by no means a woman-hater, on the contrary, he enjoys their society. Then, too, his cousin Conroy's marriage has been childless, and if Julian dies without an heir the estates will go out of the main branch. Perhaps it is this motive, together with his stern determination to carry out his father's wishes respecting the Church, that has brought him home.

On the other hand, it is hardly to be supposed that a young and handsome man — for he is but twenty -nine years of age — with a rent-roll of ,£50,000 a year, and a baronet, has escaped the manœuvrings of designing mothers with daughters to marry. And yet, out of the many perilous assaults he has gone through in this direction, Julian has come uncaught, un scathed, heartwhole, until the world has put him down as a confirmed bachelor. And now, as he listens to the report of his steward respecting his tenants and the broad acres he controls, the responsibility of his position becomes more and more apparent to him. He feels that he is placed in a situation where the good or evil of hundreds of his fellow creatures depends upon his example, his fiat ; and he determines to accept the situation, and to throw all that energy into the government of his large estates, and his sacred calling, that he has hitherto shown in the pursuit of sports in distant lands ; indulging in such of them, from time to time, as may not interfere with his responsibilities, and at the same time keep up the vigour of his frame.

In politics Julian is a moderate Conserva tive; in religion he is a High Churchman — S/R JUL/AN F/TZMURRAY 15 not of the extreme type, but approving of such ordinances as make the service of the Church impressive and attractive to a congregation. And yet, if we look into Julian's heart of hearts, I fear we shall find that these selfimposed duties are still not to his taste. The old leaven of love for hunting, shooting, fishing, and yachting lies throbbing there, hard held, but ready to burst out on the slightest provocation. To guard against any such outburst is the constant aim of Julian Fitzmurray 's life. Sometimes he doubts his own power to do so, and humbly prays for aid from the Giver of all things. On Sundays he has made up his mind that, although he will have a curate, he will take at least one service in the little church which stands in the park, and holds only his tenantry and domestics, as such a course, he imagines, will serve to keep him steadfast in his purpose. Well, let us see how he will come out of the battle he has to fight.

Chapter III. The May-fly

Lorsque je veux, sans y faire semblant, me livrer aux meditations d'une douce philosophic, je vais a la peche. — Tactique des Recreations. T was in the middle of the month of May — the month sacred to the trout fisherman ; the month that he dreams of during the long winter, when golden leafed September has closed his season of en joyment ; the month that may, par excellence, be called the Fly Fishers' Month — that Julian returned to Conroy. Rattling, brawling, bub bling in its sinuous course, the little Con makes its way through the park, now leaping over the shallows, anon gliding over deep holes where the heavy fish love to lie after their morning or evening meal ; now lost in the deep curve of the bank, where winter floods have eaten into the alluvial soil ; now breaking into mimic cascades between posts, boulders of rock and concrete placed, haphazard, to form a refuge for the fish ; fringed here and there with alder bushes, banks of rushes, or thickets of haw thorn in bloom ; shaded now and then as it pursues its course through a copse of oak, ash, and withies, with here and there an old pollard slump to mark some favourite cast, whilst tiny bridges now and then span the rapid current, so placed for the convenience of the fisherman, to enable him to dodge the wind.

A right merry stream is the Con, and holds good fish — fish that want catching, although there are plenty of them. Julian has returned to Conroy just as the first of the May-fly is born into life. He saw them the afternoon of his return, as he drove over the bridge past the deserted keeper's cottage, and, with a fisherman's delight, he watched the eddying circles made by the fish as they sucked the fragile insect from the surface. Mentally he made up his mind that to-morrow should c see him on the banks, and that some of those spotted beauties should be his. And so it was that the day after his arrival found him on the banks of the river, rod in hand. It was a heavy, muggy day. The wind, what little there was, came from the south west, and the sky was dark and lowering. The green drake was coming down thick upon the water in spasmodic flights.

Some times there was not one to be seen, and the next minute the surface of the stream was all in a hail with the rising fish. As Julian put his rod together — for he had, as was his wont, come down without attendant, merely giving directions for the keeper to bring lunch down to the cottage before mentioned — he thought of those quaint old lines of John Bunyan's : You see the ways the fisherman doth take To catch the fish ; what engines doth he make ? Behold ! how he engageth all his wits, Also his snares, lines, angles, hooks, and nets : Yet fish there be, that neither hook nor line, Nor snare, nor net, nor engine can make thine ; They must be groped for, and be tickled too, Or they will not be catched, what e'er you do. As he spliced a six-feet greenheart top on to a hard deal butt twelve feet in length, and ran the well-dressed line through the standing rings, the memory of his boyhood's days, when he had first learnt from the old keeper, now no more, how to throw the natural fly with this combination, came back to him, full of episodes which the present scene revived ; and as he selected a tapered gut casting line and two small hooks tied back to back, how he had bungled over putting on the two natural flies.

But all is now ready7, memories give way to facts. There is a heavy fish feeding at the tail of that weed opposite to him, and there is just enough wind to send the line out through the rings without injuring the lure. What! Has his wrist lost its cunning ? It must be so, for the flies drop a yard beyond the fish, and the gut comes across his nose, which he resents with a mighty flourish of his tail and a downward plunge, as he disappears beneath the shelter of the waving weed. No need to try him again just yet ; but a circlet lower down tells the whereabouts of another fish, and so, c winding up the line, Julian steals down a little below the place and full ten yards from the bank ; then, kneeling down behind a bunch of fern, trembling like a girl, for he can see the fish, he casts the flies up stream, about a foot above the place ; they drop lightly on the water and commence to struggle as they float.

Oh, that moment of agonised suspense ! His eye is on the fish, not the flies — fatal imprudence, for as the fish rises he sees him, and strikes too soon. Another chance gone! But now a fresh lot of new-born insects come floatinodown, and Julian is soon made happy by the bending of the long top, and the skirring of the reel. This time the hook has gone home, and a lovely two pound trout is soon lying on the bank. And so with varying success he fishes towards the deserted keeper's house, until having reached it he counts three brace of beauties, and is hungry. The keeper has brought the key of the cottage in case of rain, and so Julian elects to have his luncheon in the little parlour. The place is little changed, though dusty and somewhat littered. Some of the furni ture still remains : a table, a chair or two, and, hanging on the wall over the mantelpiece, a photograph of his father.

As he eats his luncheon Julian thinks once more of the past, the photograph recalls to his memory the last days of his father's life, and that revelation respecting his sister. Then, in the train of his thoughts naturally comes the person of his quondam uncle by mar riage, George Hazelhurst. What had become of him ? Was he alive, and if so, where was he ? He had made no sign, this vagabond blackguard. He was poor ; the Bishop of Beverley had given him no money that he knew of. Oh ! the matter was clear. He must be dead, or else he would surely have applied before this for assistance. True, he had not asked his steward, or made any in quiries of his lawyers, as to whether any one tallying with the description of Hazelhurst had inquired after him during his absence. No, he tried to assure himself that this blot on his escutcheon, if it was one, was ob literated, and that he had nothing to fear ; and so lighting a cigar, Julian sent his at tendant home with the lunch-basket and the trout, intending to finish his afternoon's fishing in a leisurely way.

Now just below the bridge opposite the cottage was a deep, swift-running pool, con taining some large fish ; these fish, as a rule, made their haunt under the archway, and, when the cottage was inhabited, were fed by the refuse thrown into the river, and, being accustomed to the traffic over the bridge and the people living in the cottage, were less shy than in other and wilder parts. At this par ticular spot lay a traditional fish, whose weight had been estimated at all sorts of avoirdupois ; that he was a large fish there could be no mistake, and as Julian crossed the bridge he naturally7 peeped cautiously over to see if anything lay there. The water was perfectly clear, and he could see to the very bottom ; his astonishment, therefore, was unbounded when he failed to observe the ghost of a fin.

Suddenly, as he raised his head, a mighty splash was apparent in the thin water at the tail of the pool, where a large fish was evidently making his way over the shallow. Julian watched a May-fly as it floated down, and to his unbounded satisfaction, as it came over the spot where the fish lay, it was immediately taken. Creeping cautiously below, he floated a couple of flies directly over the place ; in a moment they were seized, and he knew he was in a big one. First came the heavy jerk of the head, and then as the line tightened the fish shot up the pool and made his way for the arch of the bridge, running the line off the reel with that music that delights the true fisherman's ear. Julian followed, and got as nearly opposite to the fish as he could, and, as he watched the play of his top joint, wondered if the tackle would stand the strain he was forced to put upon it, so as to prevent the fish running up under the bridge and breaking the line against the stonework.

It was perilous work, holding on with that light tackle, but the only thing to be done ; and the fish, finding his efforts to gain the intricacies of the piles and what not under the bridge abortive, turned and came back down stream at a tremendous pace ; over the shallows and into the next deep pool he went, angrily shaking his head. Julian followed him, always keeping opposite to him. Then the fish sank to the bottom and sulked. After tapping the rod, throwing stones, and putting on all the strain he dared, the fish com menced to move and began slowly ascending the stream again, making his way to the: shallow, where Julian again stopped him. Upon feeling this extra strain, the noble fish jumped two feet into the air, and was off again down stream like a racehorse. Once more in the heavy deep water, the struggle is renewed, and after a few minutes the golden belly turns up, and Julian gets ready his landing-net.

Just then a voice at his side says : "Give me the net; he's too heavy for you to land;" and almost snatching the net from Julian's hand, the stranger kneels on the bank and deftly puts the net under the fish, and in another second he is on the bank. " Five pounds if he is an ounce ; what a beauty ! " he says, contemplating the fish. And then Julian has time to look at his impromptu assistant as he kneels, carefully disengaging the hooks from the fish's mouth. THE AL A Y-FLY 25 A man well advanced in life, with gray hair and beard ; shaggy gray eyebrows cover his eyes, which are black and piercing ; and as he removes the rough wideawake he wears to wipe the perspiration from his brow, the lines on his forehead and face tell the tale of sixty years or more. His complexion is tanned the colour of mahogany ; so are his hands, which are large and bony, and as he rises from his kneeling posture he must stand full six feet in his stockings.

His dress is that of an ordinary keeper ; a brown velveteen jacket and waistcoat, with metal buttons, drab breeches, long leather gaiters, and a blue and white spotted handkerchief tied loosely round his neck. " Much obliged to you for your assistance, my man," says Julian, still gazing at him ; "are you one of my tenants ? " " No, Sir Julian, I'm not." " And yet you seem to know me. I can't remember ever having seen your face before." " I don't think you've ever seen my face before, though I've seen y7ours man and boy." " Indeed, that's strange. Do you live here ? I mean in Cropshire." " Sometimes." " Well, what brought you into the park ? This road is private, and is only for the use of those who have business at the Castle." " Well, I didn't say I had no business at the Castle." The tone of the man's voice, his inde pendent manner, and somewhat insolent way of answering, irritated Julian considerably ; there was an air of mystery about him, too, that tempted his curiosity.

" Well, my man," he said, " if your business is with me, I am here to hear what you've got to say." " Did you ever hear of one George Hazel hurst?" the man replied, looking fixedly at Julian. Julian started ; it had come at last, the skeleton was unearthed, there was going to be trouble. " Yes, I have heard of that individual," he replied, as calmly as he could. " Well, I've got a message from him to you; but," looking round, "this is no place to give it in." THE MAY-FLY 27 Julian knew not what fear was ; so, beckoning the man to follow him to the cottage, he opened the door, leant his rod against the porch, and entered the sitting room. "Will this do?" " Quite well," said the stranger, closing the door and facing Julian, who had taken a seat with his back to the light. " Well, sir, go on.

What message do you bring me from that scoundrel ? " " Scoundrel!" and the man winced. "Well, well, let that pass ; hard words break no bones. I've come a long way to give you this message, Sir Julian ; many thousands of miles." " Well, sir, how far you have come is of no importance to me ; state your message, and be brief." " I will do so, Sir Julian," and, as he replied, a spasm of pain contracted his face, and he placed his hand to his side. " Take a pull at this," said Julian, handing him his flask, "and sit down." " No, sir ; not spirits of any kind touches my lips. I've done with them, years ago. A little water and — and the chair." Whilst the man tottered to the chair, Julian hastened to fill the cup of his flask from the river, and returning, the stranger, after a moment's pause, thus commenced.