But he cared less for the new generation really than for the ground landlords, the game-preservers, with the empty slums on their hands, and forced, perhaps, to apply at his Works for jobs. That would be a sweet moment. Margaret’s death had killed the life of his heart; there was no joy there now, only bitterness and a longing to give bitterness.
A local saddler, hoping for his custom, sent him a fixture-card of the Hunt. He read:
“Wednesday (the opening day), Tibb’s Cross, 11 a.m.
Friday, Trumpet Inn, 11 a.m.
Saturday (bye day), Stubbington Market, 11 a.m.”
“Meet at Tibb’s Cross, will they?” he commented. “Well, they’d better not try to get into Spirr Wood.”
He could not keep them from Tibb’s Cross, the crossing-point of the two lanes just beyond his property, but he was resolved to keep them from the field which led to Spirr. He, therefore, went down to examine the gate which led from his field into the lane at Tibb’s Cross. It was a new gate, put in by him. He chained and padlocked the gate. Later, feeling that he had not secured it sufficiently, he went down with some barbed wire and added the wire to the chain.
“That’ll keep ’em their own side of the fence,” he thought.
He looked at the fir-trees at the end of Spirr. As ever, they brought to him a poignant thought of Margaret.
“These fox-hunters want to draw your wood,” he said, “but I’ll keep ’em out, my dear. I think I’ve fixed ’em.”
This was on the Tuesday.
He would have gone to London that night, to be at the Works on the opening morning of the Hunt, but on his return to the house, he found a call from a ship at sea. A young American inventor whom he had met while in the States, was about to land at Southampton, and would much like to stop for a talk as he drove through to North Wales. He liked this young man, who had charm, a tireless energy, and a keen swift intelligence in all matters relating to guns and explosives.
“Certainly, I must see George,” he said. “He may enjoy seeing this place. He’ll be able to come here for the night.”
He, therefore, urged him to come to
George arrived late on Tuesday night, and after a midnight supper, went to bed. In the morning, the two breakfasted together and talked about a new idea. Frampton had liked the young man, and now liked him better. He was a fine fellow, with a mental habit of getting at essentials by short cuts. His race has this habit or power beyond all the races of the world. In appearance, he was a fine big fellow, handsome, active and with an air of command. He had a shock of black hair, worn rather long, plenty of colour in his cheeks, and vivid black eyes. He got a great deal of enjoyment out of life and showed it.
They talked for a full hour after breakfast; then Frampton showed him the house. Again, he was delighted by the young man’s power of enjoyment. He loved the fair old house, and the modern work upon it. He loved the frescoes and the grace and colour of Frampton’s gear.
“Well, come out for a bit, and see the ‘grounds’.” Frampton said, “or rather, see the waters, for they are the chief beauties.”
They walked up the brook to the lake; some wild duck went up from before them, and at the lake’s end a heron rose and slowly flapped away.
“Those are the birds they used to hawk at,” Frampton said; “the heron would rise in great rings, and the hawk would rise, too, to try to get above him.”
“Gee,” the youth said, “I’d like to see some falconing. I never have.”
“I might try it here,” Frampton said. “But my chief interest here is going to be a bird sanctuary, a little farther down the valley.”
“Say,” the young man said, “have you got a bird sanctuary? Would you show it to me? Gee, I’d like to see that. And can you show me your English birds? Can you show me a robin red breast?”
A robin was in sight at that moment; Frampton pointed it out.
“When I was a kid,” the young man explained, “I’d a book with pictures of robins burying the babes in the wood.”
“Come down the valley,” Frampton said. “I’ll show you the wood, such as it is. There’ll be birds about, of course, and you’ll see them now that the leaves are off, but we’d better call at the house for glasses. Don’t expect much of a show.”
They walked down towards the house. Moving slowly down hill, parallel with them in the lane which skirted Frampton’s property on that side was a solitary horseman. At a point where he passed a gate they saw that he was in scarlet.
“Who’s the guy in red?” the young man asked.
Frampton remembered suddenly that it was the opening meet.
“It’s a hunter, of sorts,” he said. “There’ll be others.”