Extract from the Memoirs of GABRIEL FOOT, Highwayman.
Our plan of attack upon Nanscarne House was a simple one.
The old baronet, Sir Harry Dinnis, took a just pride in his
silver-ware. Some of it dated from Elizabeth: for Sir Harry's
great-great-grandfather, as the unhappy alternative of melting it
down for King Charles, had taken arms against his Majesty and come
out of the troubles of those times with wealth and credit.
The house, too, was Elizabethan, shaped like the letter L, and, like
that letter, facing eastward. The longer arm, which looked down the
steep slope of the park, contained the entrance-hall, chapel,
dining-hall, principal living-rooms, and kitchens.
The ground-floor of the other (and to us more important) arm was
taken up by the housekeeper's rooms, audit-room and various offices,
the butler's bedroom, and the strong-room, where the plate lay.
On the upper floor a long gallery full of pictures ran from end to
end, with a line of doors on the southern side, all opening into
bedrooms, except one which led to the back-stairs.
Now, properly speaking, the strong-room was no strong-room at all.
It had an ordinary deal door and an ordinary country-made lock.
But in some ways it was very strong indeed. The only approach to it
on the ground-floor lay through the butler's bedroom, of which you
might call it but a cupboard. It had no window, and could not
therefore be attacked from outside. The very small amount of light
that entered it filtered through a pane of glass in the wall of the
back-staircase, which ran up close behind.
I have said enough, I hope, for any reflective man to draw the
conclusion that, since we desired no unpleasantness with the butler
(a man between fifty and sixty, and notoriously incorruptible), our
only plan was to make an entrance upstairs by the long window at the
end of the picture gallery or corridor--whichever you choose to call
it--descend the back-stairs, remove the pane of glass from the wall,
and gain the strong-room through the opening.
The house was dark from end to end, and the stable clock had just
chimed the quarter after midnight, when I went up the ladder.
I never looked for much carefulness in this honest country household,
but I did expect to spend twenty minutes on the heavy lead-work of
the lower panes, and it seemed as good as a miracle to find the
lattice unlatched and opening to the first gentle pull. I pressed it
back; hitched it under a stem of ivy that the wind might not slam it
after me; and, signalling down to Jimmy at the foot of the ladder to
wait for my report, pulled myself over the sill and dropped softly
into the gallery.
And then somebody stepped quickly from behind the heavy window
curtain, reached out, shut the lattice smartly behind me, and said
composedly--
"Show a light, Jenkins, and let us have a look at the gentleman."
Though it concerned my neck, I was taken too quickly aback to stir;
but stood like a stuck pig, while the butler fumbled with his
tinder-box.
"Light _all_ the candles!"
"If it please you, Sir Harry," Jenkins answered, puffing at the
tinder.
The first thing I saw by the blue light of the brimstone match was
the barrel of old Sir Harry's pistol glimmering about six inches from
my nose. On my left stood a long-legged footman, also with a pistol.
But all this, though discomposing, was no more than I had begun to
expect. What really startled me, as old Jenkins lit the candles, was
the sight of two women standing a few paces off, beneath a tall
picture of a gentleman with a big lace collar. One of them, a short
woman with a bunchy shape, I recognised for the housekeeper.
The other I guessed as quickly to be Sir Harry's daughter, Mistress
Kate--a tall and slender young lady, dark-haired, and handsome as any
man could wish. She was wrapped in a long travelling-cloak, the hood
of which fell a little off her shoulders, allowing a glimpse of white
satin. A train of white satin reached below the cloak, and coiled
about her pretty feet.
Now, the change from darkness to very bright light--for Jenkins went
down the gallery lighting candle after candle, as if for a big
reception--made us all wink a bit. And excitement would account for
the white of the young lady's cheeks--I dare say I had turned pretty
pale myself. But it did not seem to me to account for the look of
sheer blank astonishment--no, it was more than this; a wild kind of
wonder would be nearer the mark--that came into her eyes and stayed
there. And I didn't quite see why she should put a hand suddenly
against the wainscot, and from sickly white go red as fire and then
back to white again. If they were sitting up for housebreakers, I
was decidedly a better-looking one than they had any right to expect.
The eyes of the others were fastened on me. I was the only one to
take note of the girl's behaviour: and I declare I spared a second
from the consideration of my own case to wonder what the deuce was
the matter with her.
"Well, upon my soul!" cried Sir Harry, with something between a laugh
and a sniff of disgust; and the footman on the other side of me
echoed it with a silly cackle. "He certainly doesn't look as if he
came from Bath!"
"Sir," I expostulated--for when events seem likely to prove
overwhelming, I usually find myself clutching at my original
respectability--"Sir, although the force of circumstances has brought
me thus low, I am by birth and education a gentleman. Having told
you this, I trust that you will remember it, even in the heat of your
natural resentment."
"You speak almost as prettily as you write," he answered scornfully,
pulling a letter from his pocket.
"This is beyond me," thought I; for of course I knew it could be no
letter of mine. Besides, a glance told me that I had never set eyes
on the paper or handwriting before. I think my next remark showed
self-possession. "Would you be kind enough to explain?" I asked.
"I rather think that should be your business," said he; and faith, I
allowed the justice of that contention, awkward though it was. But
he went on, "It astonishes you, I dare say, to see this letter in my
hand?"
It did. I acknowledged as much with a bow.
He began to read in an affected mimicking voice, "_My ever-loved
Kate, since your worthy but wrong-headed father_--"
"Father!" It sounded like an echo. It came from the young lady,
who had sprung forward indignantly, and was holding out a hand for
the letter. "The servants! Have you not degraded me enough?"
She stamped her foot.
The old gentleman folded up the letter again, and gave it into her
hand with a cold bow. She was handing it to me--Oh, the unfathomable
depth of woman!--when he interfered.
"For your own delectation if you will, miss; but as your protector I
must ask you not to give it back."
He turned towards me again. As he did so, I caught over his
shoulder, or fancied I caught, a glance from Miss Kate that was at
once a warning and an appeal. The next moment her eyes were bent
shamefast upon the floor. I began to divine.
Said I, "If that's a sample of your manner towards your daughter,
even you, in your cooler moments, can hardly wonder that she chooses
another protector."
"Protector!" he repeated, lifting his eyebrows; and that infernal
footman cackled again.
"If you can't behave with common politeness to a lady," I put in
smartly, "you might at least exhibit enough of rude intelligence to
lay hold of an argument that's as plain as the nose on your face!"
"Gently, my good sir!" said he. "Do you know that, if I choose, I
can march you off to jail for a common housebreaker?"