A lakh, my friend, is a hundred thousand rupees, say twelve thousand
pounds. And I warrant you I will not squander it as a certain gentleman
we know squandered his."
"You mean General Clive?"
"Colonel Clive, my friend. Yes, I say Colonel Clive has squandered his
fortune. Why, he came home with thirty lakhs at the least: and what
does he do? He must ruffle it in purple and fine linen, and feed the
fat in royal entertainments; then, forsooth, he stands for a seat in
Parliament, pours out his gold like water--to what end? A petition is
presented against his return: the House holds an inquiry; and the end of
the sorry farce is, that Mr. Robert Clive's services are dispensed with.
When I think of the good money he has wasted---- But then, sir, I am no
politician. Colonel Clive and I are two ruined men; 'tis a somewhat
strange coincidence that he and I are almost of an age, and that we
both, before many weeks are past, shall be crossing the ocean once more
to retrieve our fallen fortunes."
Walking side by side during this conversation they had now come into the
road leading past Desmond's home. In the distance, approaching them,
appeared a post-chaise, drawn by four galloping horses. The sight broke
the thread of the conversation.
"'Tis the Squire at last!" cried Desmond. "Sure he must have put up at
Newcastle overnight."
But that he was intently watching the rapid progress of the chaise, he
might have noticed a curious change of expression on his companion's
face. The smile faded, the lips became set with a kind of grim
determination. But Diggle's pleasant tone had not altered when he said:
"Our ways part here, my friend--for the present. I doubt not we shall
meet again; and if you care to hear of my adventures by field and
flood--why, 'I will a round unvarnished tale deliver,' as the Moor of
Venice says in the play. For the present, then, farewell!"
He turned down a leafy lane, and had disappeared from view before the
chaise reached the spot. As it ran by, its only occupant, a big,
red-faced, white-wigged old gentleman, caught sight of the boy and
hailed him in a rich, jolly voice.
"Ha, Desmond! Home again, you see! Scotched the enemy once more! Come
and see me!"
The chaise was past before Desmond could reply. He watched it until it
vanished from sight; then, feeling somewhat cheered, went on to report
to his brother that the Squire had at last returned.
He felt no little curiosity about his new acquaintance. What had brought
him to so retired a spot as Market Drayton? He could have no friends in
the neighbourhood, or he would surely not have chosen for his lodging a
place of ill repute like the _Four Alls_. Yet he had seemed to have
some acquaintance with Grinsell the innkeeper. He did not answer to
Desmond's idea of an adventurer. He was not rough of tongue or
boisterous in manner; his accent, indeed, was refined; his speech
somewhat studied, and, to judge by his allusions and his Latin, he had
some share of polite learning. Desmond was puzzled to fit these
apparent incongruities, and looked forward with interest to further
meetings with Marmaduke Diggle.
During the next few days they met more than once. It was always late in
the evening, always in quiet places, and Diggle was always alone.
Apparently he desired to make no acquaintances. The gossips of the
neighbourhood seized upon the presence of a stranger at the _Four Alls_,
but they caught the barest glimpses of him; Grinsell was as a stone wall
in unresponsiveness to their inquiries; and the black boy, if perchance
a countryman met him on the road and questioned him, shook his head and
made meaningless noises in his throat, and the countryman would assure
his cronies that the boy was as dumb as a platter.
But whenever Desmond encountered the stranger, strolling by himself in
the fields or some quiet lane, Diggle always seemed pleased to see him,
and talked to him with the same ease and freedom, ever ready with a tag
from his school-books. Desmond did not like his Latin, but he found
compensation in the traveller's tales of which Diggle had an
inexhaustible store--tales of shipwreck and mutiny, of wild animals and
wild men, of Dutch traders and Portuguese adventurers, of Indian nawabs
and French buccaneers. Above all was Desmond interested in stories of
India: he heard of the immense wealth of the Indian princes; the
rivalries of the English, French, and Dutch trading companies; the keen
struggle between France and England for the preponderating influence
with the natives. Desmond was eager to hear of Clive's doings; but he
found Diggle, for an Englishman who had been in India, strangely
ignorant of Clive's career; he seemed impatient of Clive's name, and was
always more ready to talk of his French rivals, Dupleix and Bussy. The
boy was impressed by the mystery, the colour, the romance of the East;
and after these talks with Diggle he went home with his mind afire, and
dreamed of elephants and tigers, treasures of gold and diamonds, and
fierce battles in which English, French, and Indians weltered in seas of
blood.
One morning Desmond set out for a long walk in the direction of Newport.
It was holiday on the farm; Richard Burke allowed his men a day off once
every half year when he paid his rent. They would almost rather not
have had it, for he made himself particularly unpleasant both before and
after. On this morning he had got up in a bad temper, and managed to
find half a dozen occasions for grumbling at Desmond before breakfast,
so that the boy was glad to get away and walk off his resentment and
soreness of heart.
As he passed the end of the lane leading towards the Hall, he saw two
men in conversation some distance down it. One was on horseback, the
other on foot. At a second glance he saw with surprise that the mounted
man was his brother, the other Diggle. A well-filled money-bag hung at
Richard Burke's saddle-bow; he was on his way to the Hall to pay his
rent. His back was towards Desmond; but, as the latter paused, Richard
threw a rapid glance over his shoulder, and with a word to the man at
his side cantered away.
Diggle gave Desmond a hail and came slowly up the lane, his face wearing
its usual pleasant smile. His manner was always very friendly, and had
the effect of making Desmond feel on good terms with himself.
"Well met, my friend," said Diggle cordially. "I was longing for a
chat. Beshrew me if I have spoken more than a dozen words to-day, and
that, to a man of my sociable temper, not to speak of my swift and
practised tongue--'lingua celer et exercitata': you remember the phrase
of Tully's--is a sore trial."
"You seemed to be having a conversation a moment ago," said Desmond.
"Seemed!--that is the very word. That excellent farmer--sure he hath a
prosperous look--had mistaken me. 'Tis not the apparel makes the man; my
attire is not of the best, I admit; but, I beg you tell me frankly,
would you have taken me for a husbandman, one who with relentless
ploughshare turns the stubborn soil, as friend Horace somewhere puts it?
Would you, now?"
"Decidedly not. But did my brother so mistake you?"
"Your brother! Was that prosperous and well-mounted gentleman your
brother?"
"Certainly. He is Richard Burke, and leases the Wilcote Farm."
"Noble pair of brothers!" exclaimed Diggle, seizing Desmond's reluctant
hand. "I congratulate you, my friend. What a brother! I stopped him to
ask the time of day. But permit me to say, friend Desmond, you appear
somewhat downcast; your countenance hath not that serenity one looks for
in a lad of your years. What is the trouble?"
"Oh, nothing to speak of," said Desmond curtly; he was vexed that his
face still betrayed the irritation of the morning.
"Very well," said Diggle with a shrug. "Far be it from me to probe your
sorrows. They are nothing to me, but sure a simple question from a
friend----"
"Pardon me, Mr. Diggle," said Desmond impulsively, "I did not mean to
offend you."
"My dear boy, a tough-hided traveller does not easily take
offence.--Shall we walk?--D'you know, Master Desmond, I fancy I could
make a shrewd guess at your trouble. Your brother--Richard, I think you
said?--is a farmer, he was born a farmer, he has the air of a farmer,
and a well-doing farmer to boot. But we are not all born with a love
for mother-earth, and you, meseems, have dreamed of a larger life than
lies within the pinfolds of a farm. To tell the truth, my lad, I have
been studying you." They were walking now side by side along the
Newport road. Desmond felt that the stranger was becoming personal; but
his manner was so suave and sympathetic that he could not take offence.
"Yes, I have been studying you," continued Diggle. "And what is the sum
of my discovery? You are wasting your life here. A country village is
no place for a boy of ideas and imagination, of warm blood and springing
fancy. The world is wide, my friend: why not adventure forth?"
"I have indeed thought of it, Mr. Diggle, but----"
"But me no buts," interrupted Diggle with a smile. "Your age is----"
"Near sixteen."
"Ah, still a boy; you have a year ere you reach the bourn of young
manhood, as the Romans held it! But what matters that? Was not Scipio
Africanus--namesake of the ingenuous youth that serves me--styled boy at
twenty? Yet you are old enough to walk alone, and not in leading
strings,--or waiting maybe for dead men's shoes."
"What do you mean, sir?" Desmond flashed out, reddening with
indignation.
"Do I offend?" said Diggle innocently. "I make my apology. But I had
heard, I own, that Master Desmond Burke was in high favour with your
squire; 'tis even whispered that Master Desmond cherishes, cultivates,
cossets the old man--a bachelor, I understand, and wealthy, and lacking
kith or kin. Sure I should never have believed 'twas with any
dishonourable motive."
"'Tis not, sir. I never thought of such a thing."
"I was sure of it. But to come back to my starting-point. 'Tis time you
broke these narrow bounds. India, now--what better sphere for a young
man bent on making his way? Look at Clive, whom you admire--as stupid a
boy as you could meet in a day's march. Why, I can remember----" He
caught himself up, but after the slightest pause resumed: "'Forsan et
haec olim meminisse juvabit.' Look at Clive, I was saying; a lout, a
bear, a booby--as a boy, mark you; yet now----! Is there a man whose
name rings more loudly in the world's ear? And what Robert Clive is,
that Desmond Burke might be if he had the mind and the will.--You are
going farther? Ah, I have not your love of ambulation. I will bid you
farewell for this time; sure it will profit you to ponder my words."
Desmond did ponder his words. He walked for three or four hours,
thinking all the time. Who had said that he was waiting for the
squire's shoes? He glowed with indignation at the idea of such a
construction being placed upon his friendship for Sir Willoughby. "If
they think that," he said to himself, "the sooner I go away the better."
And the seed planted by Diggle took root and began to germinate with
wonderful rapidity. To emulate Clive!--what would he not give for the
chance? But how was it possible? Clive had begun as a writer in the
service of the East India Company; but how could Desmond procure a
nomination? Perhaps Sir Willoughby could help him; he might have
influence with the Company's directors. But, supposing he obtained a
nomination, how could he purchase his outfit? He had but a few guineas,
and after what Diggle had said he would starve rather than ask the
squire for a penny. True, under his father's will he was to receive
five thousand pounds at the age of twenty-one. Would Richard advance
part of the sum? Knowing Richard, he hardly dared to hope for such a
departure from the letter of the law. But it was at least worth
attempting.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
*In which blows are exchanged; and our hero, setting forth upon his
travels, scents an adventure*
That same day, at supper, seeing that Richard was apparently in a good
temper, Desmond ventured to make a suggestion.
"Dick," he said frankly, "don't you think it would be better for all of
us if I went away? You and I don't get along very well, and perhaps I
was not cut out for a farmer."
Richard grunted, and Mrs. Burke looked apprehensively from one to the
other.
"What's your idea?" asked Richard.
"Well, I had thought of a writership in the East India Company's
service, or better still, a cadetship in the Company's forces."
"Hark to him!" exclaimed Richard, with a scornful laugh. "A second
Clive, sink me! And where do you suppose the money is to come from?"
"Couldn't you advance a part of what is to come to me when I am
twenty-one?"
"Not a penny, I tell you at once, not a penny. 'Tis enough to be
saddled with you all these years. You may think yourself lucky if I can
scrape together a tenth of the money that'll be due to you when you're
twenty-one. That's the dead hand, if you like; why father put that
provision in his will it passes common sense to understand. No, you'll
have to stay and earn part of it, though in truth you'll never be worth
your keep."
"That depends on the keeper," retorted Desmond, rather warmly.
"No insolence, now. I repeat, I will not advance one penny. Go and get
some money out of the Squire, that is so precious fond of you."
"Richard, Richard!" said his mother anxiously.
"Mother, I'm the boy's guardian. I know what it is. He has been crammed
with nonsense by that idle knave at the _Four Alls_. Look 'ee, my man,
if I catch you speaking to him again, I'll flay your skin for you."
"Why shouldn't I? I saw you speaking to him."
"Hold your tongue, sir. The dog accosted me. I answered his question
and passed on. Heed what I say: I'm a man of my word."
Desmond said no more. But before he fell asleep that night he had
advanced one step further towards freedom. His request had met with the
refusal he had anticipated. He could hope for no pecuniary assistance;
it remained to see what could be done without money; and he resolved to
take the first opportunity of consulting Diggle. It was Diggle who had
suggested India as the field for his ambition; and the suggestion would
hardly have been made if there were great obstacles in the way of its
being acted on. Desmond made light of his brother's command that he
should cut Diggle's acquaintance; it seemed to him only another act of
tyranny, and his relations with Richard were such that to forbid a thing
was to provoke him to do it.
His opportunity came next day. Late in the afternoon he met Diggle, as
he had done many times before, walking in the fields, remote from
houses. When Desmond caught sight of him, he was sauntering along, his
eyes bent upon the ground, his face troubled. But he smiled on seeing
Desmond.
"Well met, friend," he said; "'leni perfruor otio'--which is as much as
to say--I bask in idleness. Well now, I perceive in your eye that you
have been meditating my counsel. 'Tis well, friend Desmond. And
whereto has your meditation arrived?"
"I have thought over what you said. I do wish to get away from here; I
should like to go to India; indeed, I asked my brother to advance a part
of some money that is to come to me, so that I might obtain service with
the Company; but he refused."
"And you come to me for counsel. 'Tis well done, though I trow your
brother would scarce be pleased to hear of it."
"He forbade me to speak to you."
"Egad he did! 'Haec summa est!' What has he against me?--a question to
be asked. I am a stranger in these parts: that is ill; and buffeted by
fortune: that is worse; and somewhat versed in humane letters: that, to
the rustic intelligence, is a crime. Well, my lad, you have come to the
right man at the right time. You are acquainted with my design shortly
to return to the Indies--a rare field for a lad of mettle. You shall
come with me."
"But are you connected with the Company? None other, I believed, have a
right to trade."
"The Company! Sure, my lad, I am no friend to the Company, a set of
stiff-necked, ignorant, grasping, paunchy peddlers who fatten at home on
the toil of better men. No, I am an adventurer, I own it; I am an
interloper; and we interlopers, despite the Company's monopoly, yet
contrive to keep body and soul together."
"Then I should not sail to India on a Company's ship?"
"Far from it, indeed. But let not that disturb you, there are other
vessels. And for the passage--why, sure I could find you a place as
supercargo or some such thing; you would thus keep the little money you
have and add to it, forming a nest-egg which, I say it without boasting,
I could help you to hatch into a fine brood. I am not without friends
in the Indies, my dear boy; there are princes in that land whom I have
assisted to their thrones; and if, on behalf of a friend, I ask of them
some slight thing, provided it be honest--'tis the first law of
friendship, says Tully, as you will remember, to seek honest things for
our friends--if, I say, on your behalf, I proffer some slight request,
sure the nawabs will vie to pleasure me, and the foundation of your
fortune will be laid."
Desmond had not observed that, during this eloquent passage, Diggle had
more than once glanced beyond him, as though his mind were not wholly
occupied with his oratorical efforts. It was therefore with something
of a shock that he heard him say in the same level tone:
"But I perceive your brother approaching. I am not the man to cause
differences between persons near akin; I will therefore leave you; we
will have further speech on the subject of our discourse."
He moved away. A moment after, Richard Burke came up in a towering
passion.
"You brave me, do you?" he cried. "Did I not forbid you to converse
with that vagabond?"
"You have no right to dictate to me on such matters," said Desmond
hotly, facing his brother.
"I've no right, haven't I?" shouted Richard. "I've a guardian's right
to thrash you if you disobey me, and by George! I'll keep my promise."
He lifted the riding whip, without which he seldom went abroad, and
struck at Desmond. But the boy's blood was up. He sprang aside as the
thong fell; it missed him, and before the whip could be raised again he
had leapt towards his brother. Wrenching the stock from his grasp,
Desmond flung the whip over the hedge into a green-mantled pool, and
stood, his cheeks pale, his fists clenched, his eyes flaming, before the
astonished man.
"Coward!" he cried, "'tis the last time you lay hands on me."
Recovered from his amazement at Desmond's resistance, Richard, purple
with wrath, advanced to seize the boy. But Desmond, nimbly evading his
clutch, slipped his foot within his brother's, and with a dexterous
movement tripped him up, so that he fell sprawling, with many an oath,
on the miry road. Before he could regain his feet, Desmond had vaulted
the hedge and set off at a run towards home. Diggle was nowhere in
sight.
The die was now cast. Never before had Desmond actively retaliated upon
his brother, and he knew him well enough to be sure that such an affront
was unforgivable. The farm would no longer be safe for him. With
startling suddenness his vague notions of leaving home were crystallized
into a resolve. No definite plan formed itself in his mind as he raced
over the fields. He only knew that the moment for departure had come,
and he was hastening now to secure the little money he possessed and to
make a bundle of his clothes and the few things he valued before Richard
could return. Reaching the Grange, he slipped quietly upstairs, not
daring to face his mother lest her grief should weaken his resolution,
and in five minutes he returned with his bundle. He stole out through
the garden, skirted the copse that bounded the farm enclosure, and ran
for half a mile up the lane until he felt that he was out of reach.
Then, breathless with haste, quivering with the shock of this sudden
plunge into independence, he sat down on the grassy bank to reflect.
What had he done? It was no light thing for a boy of his years,
ignorant of life and the world, to cut himself adrift from old ties and
voyage into the unknown. Had he been wise? He had no trade as a
stand-by; his whole endowment was his youth and his wits. Would they
suffice? Diggle's talk had opened up an immense prospect, full of
colour and mystery and romance, chiming well with his day-dreams. Was
it possible that, sailing to India, he might find some of his dreams
come true? Could he trust Diggle, a stranger, by his own admission an
adventurer, a man who had run through two fortunes already? He had no
reason for distrust; Diggle was well educated, a gentleman, frank,
amiable. What motive could he have for leading a boy astray?
Mingled with Desmond's Irish impulsiveness there was a strain of caution
derived from the stolid English yeomen his forebears on the maternal
side. He felt the need, before crossing his Rubicon, of taking counsel
with some one older and wiser--with a tried friend. Sir Willoughby
Stokes, the squire, had always been kind to him. Would it not be well
to put his case to the Squire and follow his advice? But he durst not
venture to the Hall yet. His brother might suspect his errand and seize
him there, or intercept him on the way. He would wait. It was the
Squire's custom to spend a quiet hour in his own room long after the
time when other folk in that rural neighbourhood were abed. Desmond
sometimes sat with him there, reading or playing chess. If he went up
to the Hall at nine o'clock he would be sure of a welcome.
The evening passed slowly for Desmond in his enforced idleness. At nine
o'clock, leaving his bundle in a hollow tree, he set off toward the
Hall, taking a short cut across the fields. It was a dark night, and he
stopped with a start as, on descending a stile overhung by a spreading
sycamore, he almost struck against a person who had just preceded him.
"Who's that?" he asked quickly, stepping back a little: it was unusual
to meet any one in the fields at so late an hour.
"Be that you, Measter Desmond?"
"Oh, 'tis you, Dickon. What are you doing this way at such an hour?
You ought to have been abed long ago."
"Ay, sure, Measter Desmond; but I be goin' to see Squire," said the old
man, apparently with some hesitation.
"That's odd. So am I. We may as well walk together, then--for fear of
the ghosts, eh, Dickon?"
"I binna afeard o' ghosts, not I. True, 'tis odd I be goin' to see
Squire. I feel it so. Squire be a high man, and I ha' never dared lift
up my voice to him oothout axen. But 'tis to be. I ha' summat to tell
him, low-born as I be; ay, I mun tell him, cost what it may."
"Well, he's not a dragon. I have something to tell him too--cost what
it may."
There was silence for a space. Then Dickon said, tremulously:
"Bin it a great matter, yourn, sir, I make bold to ax?"
"That's as it turns out, Dickon. But what is it with you, old man? Is
aught amiss?"
"Not wi' me, sir, not wi' me, thank the Lord above. But I seed ya,
Measter Desmond, t'other day, in speech win that--that Diggle as he do
call hisself, and--and, I tell ya true, sir, I dunna like the looks on
him; no, he binna a right man; an' I were afeard as he med ha' bin
fillin' yer head wi' fine tales about the wonders o' the world an' all."
"Is that all, Dickon? You fear my head may be turned, eh? Don't worry
about me."
"Why, sir, ya may think me bold, but I do say this: If so be ya gets
notions in yer head--notions o' goin' out alone an' seein' the world an'
all, go up an' ax Squire about it. Squire he done have a wise head;
he'll advise ya fur the best; an' sure I bin he'd warn ya not to have no
dealin's win that Diggle, as he do call hisself."
"Why, does the Squire know him, then?"
"'Tis my belief Squire do know everything an' every body. Diggle he med
not know, to be sure, but if so be ya say 'tis a lean man, wi' sharp
nose, an' black eyes like live coals, an' a smilin' mouth--why, Squire
knows them sort, he done, and wouldna trust him not a' ell. But maybe
ya'd better go on, sir: my old shanks be slow fur one so young an'
nimble."
"No hurry, Dickon. Lucky the Squire was used to London hours in his
youth, or we'd find him abed. See, there's a light in the Hall; 'tis in
the strong-room next to the library; Sir Willoughby is reckoning up his
rents maybe, though 'tis late for that."
"Ay, ya knows the Hall, true. Theer be a terrible deal o' gowd an'
silver up in that room, fur sure, more'n a aged man like me could tell
in a week."
"The light is moving; it seems Sir Willoughby is finishing up for the
night. I hope we shall not be too late."
But at this moment a winding of the path brought another face of the
Hall into view.