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COWARDICE COURT

By George Barr McCutcheon

Illustrated by Harrison Fisher

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COWARDICE COURT




CHAPTER I--IN WHICH A YOUNG MAN TRESPASSES

“He's just an infernal dude, your lordship, and I 'll throw him in the
river if he says a word too much.”

“He has already said too much, Tompkins, confound him, don't you know.”

“Then I'm to throw him in whether he says anything or not, sir?”

“Have you seen him?”

“No, your lordship, but James has. James says he wears a red coat and--”

“Never mind, Tompkins. He has no right to fish on this side of that
log. The insufferable ass may own the land on the opposite side, but,
confound his impertinence, I own it on this side.”

This concluding assertion of the usually placid but now irate Lord
Bazelhurst was not quite as momentous as it sounded. As a matter of
fact, the title to the land was vested entirely in his young American
wife; his sole possession, according to report, being a title much
less substantial but a great deal more picturesque than the large,
much-handled piece of paper down in the safety deposit vault--lying
close and crumpled among a million sordid, homely little slips called
coupons.

It requires no great stretch of imagination to understand that Lord
Bazelhurst had an undesirable neighbour. That neighbour was young Mr.
Shaw--Randolph Shaw, heir to the Randolph fortune. It may be fair to
state that Mr. Shaw also considered himself to be possessed of an odious
neighbour. In other words, although neither had seen the other, there
was a feud between the owners of the two estates that had all the
earmarks of an ancient romance.

Lady Bazelhurst was the daughter of a New York millionaire; she was
young, beautiful, and arrogant. Nature gave her youth and beauty;
marriage gave her the remaining quality. Was she not Lady Bazelhurst?
What odds if Lord Bazelhurst happened to be a middle-aged, addle-pated
ass? So much the better. Bazelhurst castle and the Bazelhurst estates
(heavily encumbered before her father came to the rescue) were among the
oldest and most coveted in the English market. Her mother noted, with
unctuous joy, that the present Lady Bazelhurst in babyhood had extreme
difficulty in mastering the eighth letter of the alphabet, certainly a
most flattering sign of natal superiority, notwithstanding the fact that
her father was plain old John Banks (deceased), formerly of Jersey City,
more latterly of Wall street and St. Thomas's.

Bazelhurst was a great catch, but Banks was a good name to conjure with,
so he capitulated with a willingness that savoured somewhat of suspended
animation (so fearful was he that he might do something to disturb
the dream before it came true). That was two years ago. With exquisite
irony, Lady Bazelhurst decided to have a country-place in America. Her
agents discovered a glorious section of woodland in the Adirondacks,
teeming with trout streams, game haunts, unparalleled scenery; her
ladyship instructed them to buy without delay. It was just here that
young Mr. Shaw came into prominence.

His grandfather had left him a fortune and he was looking about for ways
in which to spend a portion of it. College, travel, and society
having palled on him, he hied himself into the big hills west of Lake
Champlain, searching for beauty, solitude, and life as he imagined it
should be lived. He found and bought five hundred acres of the most
beautiful bit of wilderness in the mountains.

The same streams coursed through his hills and dales that ran through
those of Lady Bazelhurst, the only distinction being that his portion
was the more desirable. When her ladyship's agents came leisurely up
to close their deal, they discovered that Mr. Shaw had snatched up
this choice five hundred acres of the original tract intended for their
client. At least one thousand acres were left for the young lady, but
she was petulant enough to covet all of it.

Overtures were made to Mr. Shaw, but he would not sell. He was preparing
to erect a handsome country-place, and he did not want to alter his
plans. Courteously at first, then somewhat scathingly he declined to
discuss the proposition with her agents. After two months of pressure of
the most tiresome persistency, he lost his temper and sent a message to
his inquisitors that suddenly terminated all negotiations. Afterwards,
when he learned that their client was a lady, he wrote a conditional
note of apology, but, if he expected a response, he was disappointed. A
year went by, and now, with the beginning of this narrative, two newly
completed country homes glowered at each other from separate hillsides,
one envious and spiteful, the other defiant and a bit satirical.

Bazelhurst Villa looks across the valley and sees Shaw's Cottage
commanding the most beautiful view in the hills; the very eaves of
her ladyship's house seem to have wrinkled into a constant scowl of
annoyance. Shaw's long, low cottage seems to smile back with tantalizing
security, serene in its more lofty altitude, in its more gorgeous
raiment of nature. The brooks laugh with the glitter of trout, the
trees chuckle with the flight of birds, the hillsides frolic in their
abundance of game, but the acres are growling like dogs of war. “Love
thy neighbour as thyself” is not printed on the boards that line the
borders of the two estates. In bold black letters the sign-boards
laconically say: “No trespassing on these grounds. Keep off!”

“Yes, I fancy you'd better put him off the place if he comes down here
again to fish, Tompkins,” said his lordship, in conclusion. Then he
touched whip to his horse and bobbed off through the shady lane in a
most painfully upright fashion, his thin legs sticking straight out, his
breath coming in agonized little jerks with each succeeding return of
his person to the saddle.

“By Jove, Evelyn, it's most annoying about that confounded Shaw chap,”
 he remarked to his wife as he mounted the broad steps leading to the
gallery half an hour later, walking with the primness which suggests
pain. Lady Bazelhurst looked up from her book, her fine aristocratic
young face clouding with ready belligerence.

“What has he done, Cecil dear?”

“Been fishing on our property again, that's all. Tompkins says he
laughed at him when he told him to get off. I say, do you know, I think
I 'll have to adopt rough methods with that chap. Hang it all, what
right has he to catch our fish?”

“Oh, how I hate that man!” exclaimed her ladyship petulantly.

“But I've given Tompkins final instructions.”

“And what are they?”

“To throw him in the river next time.”

“Oh, if he only _could!_” 'rapturously.'

“_Could?_ My dear, Tompkins is an American. He can handle these chaps in
their own way. At any rate, I told Tompkins if his nerve failed him at
the last minute to come and notify me. _I 'll_ attend to this confounded
popinjay!”

“Good for you, Cecil!” called out another young woman from the broad
hammock in which she had been dawdling with half-alert ears through
the foregoing conversation. “Spoken like a true Briton. What is this
popinjay like?”

“Hullo, sister. Hang it all, what's he like? He's like an ass, that's
all. I've never seen him, but if I'm ever called upon to--but you don't
care to listen to details. You remember the big log that lies out in the
river up at the bend? Well, it marks the property line. One half of its
stump belongs to the Shaw man, the other half to m--to us, Evelyn.
He shan't fish below that log--no, sir!” His lordship glared fiercely
through his monocle in the direction of the far-away log, his watery
blue eyes blinking as malevolently as possible, his long, aristocratic
nose wrinkling at its base in fine disdain. His five feet four of
stature quivered with illy-subdued emotion, but whether it was rage or
the sudden recollection of the dog-trot through the woods, it is beyond
me to suggest.

“But suppose our fish venture into his waters, Cecil; what then? Isn't
that trespass?” demanded the Honourable Penelope Drake, youngest and
most cherished sister of his lordship.

“Now, don't be silly, Pen,” cried her sister-in-law. “Of course we can't
regulate the fish.”

“But I daresay his fish will come below the log, so what's the odds?”
 said his lord-ship quickly. “A trout's a lawless brute at best.”

“Is he big?” asked the Honourable Penelope lazily.

“They vary, my dear girl.”

“I mean Mr. Shaw.”

“Oh, I thought you meant the--but I don't know. What difference does
that make? Big or little, he has to stay off my grounds.” Was it a look
of pride that his tall young wife bestowed upon him as he drew himself
proudly erect or was it akin to pity? At any rate, her gay young
American head was inches above his own when she arose and suggested that
they go inside and prepare for the housing of the guests who were to
come over from the evening train.

“The drag has gone over to the station, Cecil, and it should be here by
seven o'clock.”

“Confound his impudence, I 'll show him,” grumbled his lordship as he
followed her, stiff-legged, toward the door.

“What's up, Cecil, with your legs?” called his sister. “Are you getting
old?”

This suggestion always irritated him.

“Old? Silly question. You know how old I am. No; it's that beastly
American horse. Evelyn, I told you they have no decent horses in this
beastly country. They jiggle the life out of one--” but he was obliged
to unbend himself perceptibly in order to keep pace with her as she
hurried through the door.

The Honourable Penelope allowed her indolent gaze to follow them. A
perplexed pucker finally developed on her fair brow and her thought was
almost expressed aloud: “By Jove, I wonder if she really loves him.”

Penelope was very pretty and very bright. She was visiting America for
the first time and she was learning rapidly. “Cecil's a good sort, you
know, even--” but she was loyal enough to send her thoughts into other
channels.

Nightfall brought half a dozen guests to Bazelhurst Villa. They were
fashionable to the point where ennui is the chief characteristic, and
they came only for bridge and sleep. There was a duke among them and
also a French count, besides the bored New Yorkers; they wanted brandy
and soda as soon as they got into the house, and they went to bed early
because it was so much easier to sleep lying down than sitting up.

All were up by noon the next day, more bored than ever, fondly praying
that nothing might happen before bedtime. The duke was making desultory
love to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. De Peyton was leading him aimlessly
toward the shadier and more secluded nooks in the park surrounding the
Villa. Penelope, fresh and full of the purpose of life, was off alone
for a long stroll. By this means she avoided the attentions of the duke,
who wanted to marry her; those of the count who also said he wanted to
marry her but couldn't because his wife would not consent; those of
one New Yorker, who liked her because she was English; and the pallid
chatter of the women who bored her with their conjugal cynicisms.

“What the deuce is this coming down the road?” queried the duke,
returning from the secluded nook at luncheon time.

“Some one has been hurt,” exclaimed his companion. Others were looking
down the leafy road from the gallery.

“By Jove, it's Penelope, don't you know,” ejaculated the duke, dropping
his monocle and blinking his eye as if to rest it for the time being.

“But she's not hurt. She's helping to support one of those men.”

“Hey!” shouted his lordship from the gallery, as Penelope and two
dilapidated male companions abruptly started to cut across the park
in the direction of the stables. “What's up?” Penelope waved her hand
aimlessly, but did not change her course. Whereupon the entire house
party sallied forth in more or less trepidation to intercept the strange
party.

“Who are these men?” demanded Lady Bazelhurst, as they came up to the
fast-breathing young Englishwoman.

“Don't bother me, please. We must get him to bed at once. He'll have
pneumonia,” replied Penelope.

Both men were dripping wet and the one in the middle limped painfully,
probably because both eyes were swollen tight and his nose was bleeding.
Penelope's face was beaming with excitement and interest.

“Who are you?” demanded his lordship, planting himself in front of the
shivering twain.

“Tompkins,” murmured the blind one feebly, tears starting from the blue
slits and rolling down his cheeks.

“James, sir,” answered the other, touching his damp forelock.

“Are they drunk?” asked Mrs. De Peyton, with fresh enthusiasm.

“No, they are not, poor fellows,” cried Penelope. “They have taken
nothing but water.”

“By Jove, deuced clever that,” drawled the duke. “Eh?” to the New
Yorker.

“Deuced,” from the Knickerbocker.

“Well, well, what's it all about