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 someone to rob him. The robber
must have learned 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 anyone 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 laborer was old and feeble, and the criminal was no
doubt armed. A disturber would probably be shot, and though the shot
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 and 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 laborer, 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
windowsill, 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
windowsill. 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 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 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
tonight; 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 traveler, 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
laborer'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 learned, 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 tomorrow
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 shall 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."
"I--list!" 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.