The Hermit of Far End | Page 7

any way belie his reputation, which was
unsavory in the extreme. Indeed, if report spoke truly, "Black Brady,"
as he was commonly called, had on one occasion only escaped the
gallows thanks to the evidence of a village girl--one who had loved him
recklessly, to her own undoing. Every one had believed her evidence to

be false, but, as she had stuck to what she said through thick and thin,
and as no amount of cross-examination had been able to shake her,
Brady had contrived to slip through the hands of the police.
Conceiving, however, that, after this episode, the air of his native place
might prove somewhat insalubrious for a time, he had migrated thence
to Fallowdene, establishing himself in a cottage on the outskirts of the
village and finding the major portion of his sustenance by skillfully
poaching the preserves of the principal landowners of the surrounding
district.
On this particular morning he was well content with his night's work.
He had raided the covers of one Patrick Lovell, the owner of Barrow
Court, who, although himself a confirmed invalid and debarred from all
manner of sport, employed two or three objectionably lynx-eyed
keepers to safeguard his preserves for the benefit of his heirs and
assigns.
No covers were better stocked than those of Barrow Court, but Brady
rarely risked replenishing his larder from them, owing to the extreme
wideawakeness of the head gamekeeper. It was therefore not without a
warm glow of satisfaction about the region of his heart that he made his
way homeward through the early morning, reflecting on the ease with
which last night's marauding expedition had been conducted. He even
pursed his lips together and whistled softly--a low, flute-like sound that
might almost have been mistaken for the note of a blackbird.
But it is unwise to whistle before you are out of the wood, and Brady's
triumph was short-lived. Swift as a shadow, a lithe figure darted out
from among the trees and planted itself directly in his path.
With equal swiftness, Brady brought his gunstock to his shoulder. Then
he hesitated, finger on trigger, for the lion in his path was no burly
gamekeeper, as, for the first moment, he had supposed. It was a woman
who faced him--a mere girl of twenty, whose slender figure looked
somehow boyish in its knitted sports coat and very short, workmanlike
skirt. The suggestion of boyishness was emphasized by her attitude, as
she stood squarely planted in front of Black Brady, her hands thrust

deep into her pockets, her straight young back very flat, and her head a
little tilted, so that her eyes might search the surly face beneath the
peaked cap.
They were arresting eyes--amazingly dark, "like two patches o' the sky
be night," as Brady described them long afterwards to a crony of his,
and they gazed up at the astonished poacher from a small, sharply
angled face, as delicately cut as a cameo.
"Put that gun down!" commanded an imperious young voice, a voice
that held something indescribably sweet and thrilling in its vibrant
quality. "What are you doing in these woods?"
Brady, recovering from his first surprise, lowered his gun, but answered
truculently--
"Never you mind what I'm doin'."
The girl pointed significantly to his distended pockets.
"I don't need to ask. Empty out your pockets and take yourself off. Do
you hear?" she added sharply, as the man made no movement to obey.
"I shan't do nothin' o' the sort," he growled. "You go your ways and
leave me to go mine--or it'll be the worse for 'ee." He raised his gun
threateningly.
The girl smiled.
"I'm not in the least afraid of that gun," she said tranquilly. "But you are
afraid to use it," she added.
"Am I?" He wheeled suddenly, and, on the instant, a deafening report
shattered the quiet of the woods. Then the smoke drifted slowly aside,
revealing the man and the girl face to face once more.
But although she still stood her ground, dark shadows had suddenly
painted themselves beneath her eyes, and the slight young breast
beneath the jaunty sports coat rose and fell unevenly. Within the shelter

of her coat-pockets her hands were clenched tightly.
"That was a waste of a good cartridge," she observed quietly. "You
only fired in the air."
Black Brady glared at her.
"If I'd liked, I could 'ave killed 'ee as easy as knockin' a bird off a
bough," he said sullenly.
"You could," she agreed. "And then I should have been dead and you
would have been waiting for a hanging. Of the two, I think my position
would have been the more comfortable."
A look of unwilling admiration spread itself slowly over the man's face.
"You be a cool 'and, and no mistake," he acknowledged. "I