Squire's own room. He cannot be in two places at once; 'tis odd at this
time of night. Come, stir your stumps, old man."
They hurried along, scrambling through the hedge that bounded the field,
Desmond leaping, Dickon wading, the brook that ran alongside the road.
Turning to the left, they came to the front entrance to the Hall, and
passed through the wicket-gate into the grounds. They could see the
Squire's shadow on the blind of the parlour; but the lighted window of
the strong-room was now hidden from them. Stepping in that direction,
to satisfy a strange curiosity he felt, Desmond halted in amazement as
he saw, faintly silhouetted against the sky, a ladder placed against the
wall, resting on the sill of the strong-room. His surprise at seeing
lights in two rooms, in different wings of the house, so late at night,
changed to misgiving and suspicion. He hastened back to Dickon.
"I fear some mischief is afoot," he said. Drawing the old man into the
shade of a shrubbery, he added: "Remain here; do not stir until I come
for you, or unless you hear me call."
Leaving Dickon in trembling perplexity and alarm, he stole forward on
tip-toe towards the house.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
*In which Job Grinsell explains; and three visitors come by night to the
"Four Alls."*
At the foot of the wall lay a flower-bed, now bare and black, separated
by a gravel path from a low shrubbery of laurel. Behind this latter
Desmond stole, screened from observation by the bushes. Coming to a
spot exactly opposite the ladder, he saw that it rested on the sill of
the library window, which was open. The library itself was dark, but
there was still a dull glow in the next room. At the foot of the ladder
stood a man. The meaning of it all was plain. The large sum of money
recently received by Sir Willoughby as rents had tempted some one to rob
him. The robber must have learnt that the money was kept in the
strong-room; and it argued either considerable daring or great ignorance
to have timed his visit for an hour when any one familiar with the
Squire's habits would have known that he would not yet have retired to
rest.
Desmond was about to run round to the other side of the house and rouse
the Squire when the dim light in the strong-room was suddenly
extinguished. Apparently the confederate of the man below had secured
his booty and was preparing to return. Desmond remained fixed to the
spot, in some doubt what to do. He might call to Dickon and make a rush
on the man before him; but the labourer was old and feeble, and the
criminal was no doubt armed. A disturber would probably be shot, and
though the report would alarm the household, the burglars would have
time to escape in the darkness. Save Sir Willoughby himself, doubtless
every person in the house was by this time abed asleep.
It seemed best to Desmond to send Dickon for help while he himself still
mounted guard. Creeping silently as a cat along the shrubbery, he
hastened back to the labourer, told him in a hurried whisper of his
discovery, and bade him steal round to the servants' quarters, rouse
them quietly, and bring one or two to trap the man at the foot of the
ladder while others made a dash through the library upon the marauder in
the strong-room. Dickon, whose wits were nimbler than his legs,
understood what he was to do and slipped away, Desmond returning to his
coign of vantage as noiselessly as he came.
He was just in time to see that a heavy object, apparently a box, was
being lowered from the library window on to the ladder. Sliding slowly
down, it came to the hands of the waiting man; immediately afterwards
the rope by which it had been suspended was dropped from above, and the
dark figure of a man mounted the sill.
He already had one leg over, preparing to descend, when Desmond, with a
sudden rush, dashed through the shrubs and sprang across the path. The
confederate was stooping over the booty; his back was towards the
shrubbery; at the snapping of twigs and the crunching of the gravel he
straightened himself and turned. Before he was aware of what was
happening, Desmond caught at the ladder by the lowest rung, and jerked
it violently outwards so that its top fell several feet below the
window-sill, resting on the wall out of reach of the man above. Desmond
heard a smothered exclamation break from the fellow, but he could pay no
further attention to him, for, as he rose from stooping over the ladder,
he was set upon by a burly form. He dodged behind the ladder. The man
sprang after him, blindly, clumsily, and tripped over the box. But he
was up in a moment, and, reckless of the consequences of raising an
alarm, was fumbling for a pistol, when there fell upon his ears a shout,
the tramp of hurrying feet, and the sound of another window being thrown
open.
With a muffled curse he swung on his heel, and made to cross the gravel
path and plunge into the shrubbery. But Desmond was too quick for him.
Springing upon his back, he caught his arms, thus preventing him from
using his pistol. He was a powerful man, and Desmond alone would have
been no match for him; but before he could wriggle himself entirely
free, three half-clad men-servants came up with a rush, and in a trice
he was secured.
In the excitement of these close-packed moments Desmond had forgotten
the other man, whom he had last seen with his leg dangling over the
window-sill. He looked up now; the window was still open; the ladder
lay exactly where he had jerked it; evidently the robber had not
descended.
"Quick!" cried Desmond. "Round to the door! The other fellow will
escape!"
He himself sprinted round the front of the house to the door by which
the servants had issued, and met the Squire hobbling along on his stick,
pistol in hand.
"We have got one, sir!" cried Desmond. "Have you seen the other?"
"What--why--how many villains are there?" replied the Squire, who
between amazement and wrath was scarcely able to appreciate the
situation.
"There was a man in the library; he did not come down the ladder; he may
be still in the house."
"The deuce he is! Desmond, take the pistol, and shoot the knave like a
dog if you meet him."
"I'll guard the door, Sir Willoughby. They are bringing the other man
round. Then we'll all go into the house and search. He can't get out
without being seen if the other doors are locked."
"Locked and barred. I did it myself an hour ago. I'll hang the
villain."
In a few moments the servants came up with their captive and the box,
old Dickon following. Only their figures could be seen: it was too dark
to distinguish features.
"You scoundrel!" cried the Squire, brandishing his stick. "You'll hang
for this. Take him into the house. In with you all. You scoundrel!"
"An you please, Sir Willoughby, 'tis----" began one of the servants.
"In with you, I say," roared the Squire. "I'll know how to deal with
the villain."
The culprit was hustled into the house, and the group followed, Sir
Willoughby bringing up the rear. Inside he barred and locked the door,
and bade the men carry their prisoner to the library. The corridors and
staircase were dark; but by the time the Squire had mounted on his gouty
legs candles had been lighted, and the face of the housebreaker was for
the first time visible. Two servants held the man; the others, with
Desmond and Dickon, looked on in amazement.
"Job Grinsell, on my soul and body!" cried the Squire. "You villain!
You ungrateful knave! Is this how you repay me? I might have hanged
you, you scoundrel, when you poached my game; a word from me and Sir
Philip would have seen you whipped before he let his inn to you; but I
was too kind; I am a fool; and you---- by gad, you shall hang this
time."
The Squire's face was purple with anger, and he shook his stick as
though then and there he would have wrought chastisement on the
offender. Grinsell's flabby face, however, expressed amusement rather
than fear.
"Bless my soul!" cried the Squire, suddenly turning to his men, "I'd
forgotten the other villain. Off with you; search for him; bring him
here."
Desmond had already set off to look for Grinsell's accomplice. Taper in
hand he went quickly from room to room; joined by the Squire's servants,
he searched every nook and cranny of the house, examining doors and
windows, opening cupboards, poking at curtains--all in vain. At last,
at the end of a dark corridor, he came upon an open window some ten feet
above the ground. It was so narrow that a man of ordinary size must
have had some difficulty in squeezing his shoulders through; but Desmond
was forced to the conclusion that the housebreaker had sprung out here,
and by this time had made good his escape. Disappointed at his failure,
he returned with the servants to the library.
"We can't find him, Sir Willoughby," said Desmond, as he opened the
door. To his surprise, Grinsell and Dickon were gone; no one but the
Squire was in the room, and he was sitting in a big chair, limp and
listless, his eyes fixed upon the floor.
"We can't find him," repeated Desmond.
The Squire looked up.
"What did you say?" he asked, as though the events of the past half-hour
were a blank. "Oh, 'tis you, Desmond, yes; what can I do for you?"
Desmond was embarrassed.
"I--we have--we have looked for the other villain, Sir Willoughby," he
stammered. "We can't find him."
"Ah! 'Twas you gave the alarm. Good boy; zeal; excellent; but a little
mistake; yes, Grinsell explained; a mistake, Desmond."
The Squire spoke hurriedly, disconnectedly, with an embarrassment even
greater than Desmond's.
"But, sir," the boy began, "I saw----"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the old man. "I know all about it. But
Grinsell's explanation--yes, I know all about it. I am obliged to you,
Desmond; but I am satisfied with Grinsell's explanation; I shall go no
further in the matter."
He groaned and put his hand to his head.
"Are you ill, Sir Willoughby?" asked Desmond anxiously.
The Squire looked up; his face was an image of distress. He was silent
for a moment; then said slowly:
"Sick at heart, Desmond, sick at heart. I am an old man--an old man."
Desmond was uncomfortable. He had never seen the Squire in such a mood,
and had a healthy boy's natural uneasiness at any display of feeling.
"You see that portrait?" the Squire went on, pointing wearily with his
stick at the head of a young man done in oils. "The son of my oldest
friend--my dear old friend Merriman. I never told you of him. Nine
years ago, Desmond--nine years ago, my old friend was as hale and hearty
a man as I myself, and George was the apple of his eye. They were for
the King--God save him!--and when word came that Prince Charles was
marching south from Scotland they arranged secretly with a party of
loyal gentlemen to join him. But I hung back, I had not their courage:
I am alive, and I lost my friend."
His voice sank, and, leaning heavily upon his stick, he gazed vacantly
into space. Desmond was perplexed, and still more ill at ease. What
had this to do with the incidents of the night? He shrank from asking
the question.
"Yes, I lost my friend," the Squire continued. "We had news of the
Prince; he had left Carlisle; he was moving southwards, about to strike
a blow for his father's throne. He was approaching Derby. George
Merriman sent a message to his friends, appointing a rendezvous: gallant
gentlemen, they would join the Stuart flag! The day came, they met, and
the minions of the Hanoverian surrounded them. Betrayed!--poor loyal
gentlemen!--betrayed by one who had their confidence and abused it--one
of my own blood, Desmond--the shame of it! They were tried,
hanged--hanged! It broke my old friend's heart; he died; 'twas one of
my blood that killed him."
Again speech failed him. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he said:
"But 'tis late, boy; your brother keeps early hours. I am not myself
to-night, the memory of the past unnerves me. Bid me good-night, boy."
Desmond hesitated, biting his lips. What of the motive of his visit?
He had come to ask advice: could he go without having mentioned the
subject that troubled him? The old man had sunk into a reverie, his lips
moved as though he communed with himself. Desmond had not the heart to
intrude his concerns on one so bowed with grief.
"Good-night, Sir Willoughby!" he said.
The Squire paid no heed, and Desmond, vexed, bewildered, went slowly
from the room.
At the outer door he found Dickon awaiting him.
"The Squire has let Grinsell go, Dickon," he said; "he says 'twas all a
mistake."
"If Squire says it, then 't must be," said Dickon slowly, nodding his
head. "We'n better be goin' home, sir."
"But you had something to tell Sir Willoughby?"
"Ay sure, but he knows it--knows it better'n me."
"Come, Dickon, what is this mystery? I am in a maze: what is it, man?"
"Binna fur a' aged poor feller like me to say. We'n better go home,
sir."
Nothing that Desmond said prevailed upon Dickon to tell more, and the
two started homewards across the fields. Some minutes afterwards they
heard the sound of a horse's hoofs clattering on the road to their left,
and going in the same direction. It was an unusual sound at that late
hour, and both stopped instinctively and looked at each other.
"A late traveller, Dickon," said Desmond.
"Ay, maybe a king's post, Measter Desmond," replied the old man.
Without more words they went on till they came to a lane leading to the
labourer's cottage.
"We part here," said Desmond. "Dickon, good-night!"
"Good-night to you, sir!" said the old man. He paused: then in a grave,
earnest, quavering voice, he added: "The Lord Almighty have you in His
keeping, Measter Desmond, watch over you night and day, now and
evermore."
And with that he hobbled down the lane.
At nine o'clock that night Richard Burke left the Grange--an unusual
thing for him--and walked quickly to the _Four Alls_. The inn was
closed, and shutters darkened the windows; but, seeing a chink of light
between the folds, the farmer knocked at the door. There was no answer.
He knocked again and again, grumbling under his breath; at length, when
his patience was almost exhausted, a window above opened, and, looking
up, Mr. Burke dimly saw a head.
"Is that you, Grinsell?" he asked.
"No, massa."
"Oh, you're the black boy, Mr. Diggle's servant. Is your master in?"
"No, massa."
"Well, come down and open the door. I'll wait for him."
"Massa said no open door for nuffin."
"Confound you, open at once! He knows me, I'm a friend of his; open the
door!"
"Massa said no open door for nobody."
The farmer pleaded, stormed, cursed, but Scipio Africanus was
inflexible. His master had given him orders, and the boy had learnt, at
no little cost, that it was the wisest and safest policy to obey.
Finding that neither threats nor persuasion availed, Burke took a stride
or two in the direction of home; then he halted, pondered for a moment,
changed his mind, and began to pace up and down the road.
His restless movements were by and by checked by the sound of footsteps
approaching. He crossed the road, stood in the shadow of an elm, and
waited. The footsteps drew nearer; he heard low voices, and now
discerned two dark figures against the lighter road. They came to the
inn and stopped. One of them took a key from his pocket and inserted it
in the lock.
"'Tis you at last," said Burke, stepping out from his place of
concealment. "That boy of yours would not let me in, hang him!"
At the first words Diggle started and swung round, his right hand flying
to his pocket; but recognizing the voice almost immediately, he laughed.
"'Tis you, my friend," he said. "'Multa de nocte profectus es.' But
you've forgot all your Latin, Dick. What is the news, man? Come in."
"The bird is flitting, Sim, that's all. He has not been home. His
mother was in a rare to-do. I pacified her, told her I'd sent him to
Chester to sell oats--haw, haw! He has taken some clothes and gone. But
he won't go far, I trow, without seeing you, and I look to you to carry
out the bargain."
"Egad, Dick, I need no persuasion. He won't go without me, I promise
you that. I've a bone to pick with him myself--eh, friend Job?"
Grinsell swore a hearty oath. At this moment the silence without was
broken by the sound of a trotting horse.
"Is the door bolted?" whispered Burke. "I mustn't be seen here."
"Trust me fur that," said Grinsell. "But no one will stop here at this
time o' night."
But the three men stood silent, listening. The sound steadily grew
louder; the horse was almost abreast of the inn; it was passing--but no,
it came to a halt; they heard a man's footsteps, and the sound of the
bridle being hitched to a hook in the wall. Then there was a sharp rap
at the door.
"Who's there?" cried Grinsell gruffly.
"Open the door instantly," said a loud, masterful voice.
Burke looked aghast.
"You can't let him in," he whispered.
The others exchanged glances.
"Open the door," cried the voice again. "D'you hear, Grinsell? At
once!--or I ride to Drayton for the constables!"
Grinsell gave Diggle a meaning look.
"Slip out by the back door, Mr. Burke," said the innkeeper. "I'll make
a noise with the bolts so that he cannot hear you."
Burke hastily departed, and Grinsell, after long, loud fumbling with the
bolts, threw open the door and gave admittance to the Squire.
"Ah, you are here both," said Sir Willoughby, standing in the middle of
the floor, his riding-whip in his hand. "Now, Mr.--Diggle, I think you
call yourself. I'm a man of few words, as you know. I have to say
this. I give you till eight o'clock to-morrow morning; if you are not
gone, bag and baggage, by that time, I will issue a warrant. Is that
clear?"
"Perfectly," said Diggle with his enigmatical smile.
"And one word more. Show your face again in these parts and I will have
you arrested. I have spared you twice for your mother's sake. This is
my last warning. Grinsell, you hear that too?"
"I hear 't," growled the man.
"Remember it, for, mark my words, you'll share his fate."
The Squire was gone.
Grinsell scowled with malignant spite; Diggle laughed softly.
"'Quanta de spe decidi!'" he said, "which in plain English, friend Job,
means that we are dished--utterly, absolutely. I must go on my travels
again; well, such was my intention; the only difference is, that I go
with an empty purse instead of a full one. Who'd have thought the old
dog would ha' been such an unconscionable time dying!"
"Gout or no gout, he's good for another ten year," growled the
innkeeper.
"Well, I'll give him five. And with the boy out of the way, maybe I'll
come to my own even yet. The young puppy!" At this moment Diggle's
face was by no means pleasant to look upon. "Fate has always had a
grudge against me, Job. In the old days, I bethink me, 'twas I that was
always found out. You had many an escape."
"Till the last. But I've come out of this well." He chuckled. "To
think what a fool blood makes of a man! Squire winna touch me, 'cause of
you. But it must gall him; ay, it must gall him."
"Hist!" said Diggle suddenly. "There are footsteps again. Is it Burke
coming back? The door's open, Job."
The innkeeper went to the door and peered into the dark. A slight
figure came up at that moment--a boy, with a bundle in his hand.
"Is that you, Grinsell? Is Mr. Diggle in?"
"Come in, my friend," said Diggle, hastening to the door. "We were just
talking of you. Come in; 'tis a late hour; 'si vespertinus subito'--you
remember old Horace? True, we haven't a hen to baste with Falernian for
you, but sure friend Job can find a wedge of Cheshire and a mug of ale.
Come in."
And Desmond went into the inn.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
*In which the reader becomes acquainted with William Bulger and other
sailor men; and our hero as a squire of dames acquits himself with
credit.*
One warm October afternoon, some ten days after the night of his visit
to the _Four Alls_, Desmond was walking along the tow-path of the
Thames, somewhat north of Kingston. As he came to the spot where the
river bends round towards Teddington, he met a man plodding along with a
rope over his shoulder, hauling a laden hoy.
"Can you tell me the way to the _Waterman's Rest_?" asked Desmond.
"Ay, that can I," replied the man without stopping. "'Tis about a
quarter-mile behind me, right on waterside. And the best beer this side
o' Greenwich."
Thanking him, Desmond walked on. He had not gone many yards further
before there fell upon his ear, from some point ahead, the sound of
several rough voices raised in chorus, trolling a tune that seemed
familiar to him. As he came nearer to the singers, he distinguished the
words of the song, and remembered the occasion on which he had heard
them before: the evening of Clive's banquet at Market Drayton--the open
window of the _Four Alls_, the voice of Marmaduke Diggle.
Sir William Norris, Masulipatam--
these were the first words he caught; and immediately afterwards the
voices broke into the second verse:
Says Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras,
"I know what you are: an ass, an ass,
An ass, an ass, an ASS, an ASS,"
Signed "Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras."
And at the conclusion there was a clatter of metal upon wood, and then
one voice, loud and rotund, struck up the first verse once more--
Says Billy Norris, Masulipatam--
The singer was in the middle of the stave when Desmond, rounding a
privet hedge, came upon the scene. A patch of greensward, sloping up
from a slipway on the riverside; a low, cosy-looking inn of red brick
covered with a crimson creeper; in front of it a long deal table, and
seated at the table a group of some eight or ten seamen, each with a
pewter tankard before him. To the left, and somewhat in the rear of the
long table, was a smaller one, at which two seamen, by their garb a cut
above the others, sat opposite each other, intent on some game.
Desmond's attention was drawn towards the larger table. Rough as was the
common seaman of George the Second's time, the group here collected
would have been hard to match for villainous looks. One had half his
teeth knocked out, another a broken nose; all bore scars and other marks
of battery.
Among them, however, there was one man marked out by his general
appearance and facial expression as superior to the rest. In dress he
was no different from his mates; he wore the loose blouse, the
pantaloons, the turned-up cloth hat of the period. But he towered above
them in height; he had a very large head, with a very small squab nose,
merry eyes, and a fringe of jet-black hair round cheeks and chin. When
he removed his hat presently he revealed a shiny pink skull, rising from
short wiry hair as black as his whiskers. Alone of the group, he wore
no love-locks or greased pigtail. In his right hand, when Desmond first
caught sight of him, he held a tankard, waving it to and fro in time
with his song. He had lost his left hand and forearm, which were
replaced by an iron hook projecting from a wooden socket, just visible
in his loose sleeve.
He was half-way through the second stanza when he noticed Desmond
standing at the angle of the hedge a few yards away. He fixed his merry
eyes on the boy, and, beating time with his hook, went on with the song
in stentorian tones--
An ass, an ass, an ASS, an ASS,
Signed "Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras."
The others took up the chorus, and finally brought their tankards down
upon the deal with a resounding whack.
"Ahoy, Mother Wiggs, more beer!" shouted the big man.
Desmond went forward.
"Is this the _Waterman's Rest_?"
"Ay, ay, young gen'leman, and a blamed restful place it is, too, fit for
watermen what en't naught but landlubbers, speaking by the book, but not
for the likes of us jack tars. Eh, mateys?"
His companions grunted acquiescence.
"I have a message for Mr. Toley; is he here?"
"Ay, that he is. That's him at the table yonder. Mr. Toley, sir, a
young gen'leman to see you."
Desmond advanced to the smaller table. The two men looked up from their
game of dominoes. One was a tall, lean fellow, with lined and sunken
cheeks covered with iron-gray stubble, a very sharp nose, and colourless
eyes; the expression of his features was melancholy in the extreme. The
other was a shorter man, snub-nosed, big-mouthed; one eye was blue, the
other green, and they looked in contrary directions. His hat was tilted
forward, resting on two bony prominences above his eyebrows.
"Well?" said Mr. Toley, the man of melancholy countenance.