A Country mansion in the south of England. The sun rising over a
laurel-hedge, flooding the ivy-covered walls with light, and blazing in
at the large bay-window of the dining-room.
"Take my word for it, Robin, if ever this 'ouse is broke into, it will
be by the dinin'-room winder."
So spake the gardener of the mansion--which was also the parsonage--to
his young assistant as they passed one morning in front of the window in
question. "For why?" he continued; "the winder is low, an' the catches
ain't overstrong, an there's no bells on the shutters, an' it lies handy
to the wall o' the back lane."
To this Robin made no response, for Robin was young and phlegmatic. He
was also strong.
The gardener, Simon by name, was not one of the prophets--though in
regard to the weather and morals he considered himself one--but if any
person had chanced to overhear the conversation of two men seated in a
neighbouring public-house that morning, that person would have inclined
to give the gardener credit for some sort of second sight.
"Bill," growled one of the said men, over his beer, in a low, almost
inaudible tone, "I've bin up to look at the 'ouse, an' the dinin'-room
winder'll be as easy to open as a door on the latch. I had a good look
at it."
"You are the man for cheek an' pluck," growled the other man, over his
beer, with a glance of admiration at his comrade. "How ever did you
manage it, Dick?"
"The usual way, in course. Comed it soft over the 'ousemaid; said I was
a gardener in search of a job, an' would she mind tellin' me where the
head-gardener was? You see, Bill, I had twigged him in front o' the
'ouse five minutes before. `I don't know as he's got any odd jobs to
give 'ee,' says she; `but he's in the front garden at this minute. If
you goes round, you'll find him.' `Hall right, my dear,' says I; an'
away I goes right round past the dinin'-room winder, where I stops an'
looks about, like as if I was awful anxious to find somebody. In coorse
I glanced in, an' saw the fastenin's.
"They couldn't keep out a babby! Sideboard all right at the t'other
end, with a lookin'-glass over it--to help folk, I fancy, to see what
they look like w'en they're a-eatin' their wittles. Anyhow, it helped
me to see the gardener comin' up one o' the side walks; so I wheels
about double quick, an' looked pleased to see him.
"`Hallo!' cries he.
"`I was lookin' for you,' says I, quite easy like.
"`Did you expect to find me in the dinin'-room?' says he.
"`Not just that,' says I, `but it's nat'ral for a feller to look at a
'andsome room w'en he chances to pass it.'
"`Ah,' says he, in a sort o' way as I didn't quite like. `What d'ee
want wi' me?'
"`I wants a job,' says I.
"`Are you a gardener?' he axed.
"`Yes--leastwise,' says I, `I've worked a goodish bit in gardings in my
time, an' can turn my 'and to a'most anythink.'
"`Oh,' says he. `Look 'ere, my man, what d'ee call that there tree?'
He p'inted to one close alongside.
"`That?' says I. `Well, it--it looks uncommon like a happle.'
"`Do it?' says he. `Now look 'ere, you be off as fast as your legs can
take you, or I'll set the 'ousedog at 'ee.'
"W'en he said that, Bill, I do assure you, lad, that my experience in
the ring seemed to fly into my knuckles, an' it was as much as ever I
could do to keep my left off his nob and my right out of his
breadbasket. But I restrained myself. If there's one thing I'm proud
of, Bill, it's the wirtue o' self-restraint in the way o' business. I
wheeled about, held up my nose, an' walked off wi' the air of a dook.
You see, I didn't want for to have no more words wi' the gardener,--for
why? because I'd seen all I wanted to see--d'ee see? But there was
one--no, two--things I saw which it was as well I did see."
"An' what was they?" asked Bill.
"Two statters."
"An' what are statters?"
"Man alive I don't ye know? It's them things that they make out o'
stone, an' marable, an' chalk--sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes
babbies, an' mostly with no clo'es on to speak of--"
"Oh! I know; but _I_ call 'em statoos. Fire away, Dick; what see'd you
about the statoos?"
"Why, I see'd that they wasn't made in the usual way of stone or chalk,
but of iron. I have heerd say that sodgers long ago used to fight in
them sort o' dresses, though I don't believe it myself. Anyhow, there
they was, the two of 'em, one on each side of the winder, that stiff
that they could stand without nobody inside of 'em, an' one of 'em with
a big thing on his shoulder, as if he wor ready to smash somebody over
the head. I thought to myself if you an' me, Bill, had come on 'em
unbeknown like, we'd ha' got such a start as might have caused us to
make a noise. But I hadn't time to think much, for it was just then I
got sight o' the gardener."
"Now my plan is," continued Dick, swigging off his beer, and lowering
his voice to a still more confidential tone, as he looked cautiously
round, "my plan is to hang about here till dark, then take to the
nearest plantation, an' wait till the moon goes down, which will be
about two o'clock i' the mornin'--when it will be about time for us to
go in and win."
"All right," said Bill, who was not loquacious.
But Bill was mistaken, for it was all wrong.
There was indeed no one in the public at that early hour of the day to
overhear the muttered conversation of the plotters, and the box in which
they sat was too remote from the bar to permit of their words being
overheard, but there was a broken pane of glass in a window at their
elbow, with a seat outside immediately below it. Just before the
burglars entered the house they had observed this seat, and noticed that
no one was on it; but they failed to note that a small, sleepy-headed
pot-boy lay at full length underneath it, basking in the sunshine and
meditating on nothing--that is, nothing in particular.
At first little Pat paid no attention to the monotonous voices that
growled softly over his head, but one or two words that he caught
induced him to open his eyes very wide, rise softly from his lair and
sit down on the seat, cock one ear intelligently upward, and remain so
absolutely motionless that Dick, had he seen him, might have mistaken
him for a very perfect human "statter."
When little Pat thought that he had heard enough, he slid off the seat,
crawled close along the side of the house, doubled round the corner,
rose up, and ran off towards the parsonage as fast as his little legs
could go.
The Reverend Theophilus Stronghand was a younger son of a family so old
that those families which "came over with the Conqueror" were mere
moderns in comparison. Its origin, indeed, is lost in those mists of
antiquity which have already swallowed up so many millions of the human
race, and seem destined to go on swallowing, with ever-increasing
appetite, to the end of time. The Stronghands were great warriors--of
course. They could hardly have developed into a family otherwise. The
Reverend Theophilus, however, was a man of peace. We do not say this to
his disparagement. He was by no means a degenerate son of the family.
Physically he was powerful, broad and tall, and his courage was high;
but spiritually he was gentle, and in manner urbane. He drew to the
church as naturally as a duck draws to the water, and did not by any
means grudge to his elder brothers the army, the navy, and the Bar.
One of his pet theories was, to overcome by love, and he carried this
theory into practice with considerable success.
Perhaps no one put this theory to the test more severely or frequently
than his only son Harry. War had been that young gentleman's chief joy
in life from the cradle. He began by shaking his fat fists at the
Universe in general. War-to-the-knife with nurse was the chronic
condition of a stormy childhood. Intermittent warfare with his only
sister Emmie chequered the sky of his early boyhood, and a decided
tendency to disobey wrung the soul of his poor mother, and was the cause
of no little anxiety to his father; while mischief, pure and simple for
its own sake, was the cherished object of his life. Nevertheless, Harry
Stronghand was a lovable boy, and love was the only power that could
sway him.
The lad grew better as he grew older. Love began to gain the day, and
peace began--slowly at first--to descend on the parsonage; but the
desire for mischief--which the boy named "fun"--had not been quite
dislodged at the time we write of. As Harry had reached the age of
fifteen, feared nothing, and was quick-witted and ingenious, his
occasional devices not only got him into frequent hot water, but were
the source of some amusement to his people--and he still pretty well
ruled his easy-going father and the house generally with a rod of iron.
It was to Harry Stronghand that little Pat directed his steps, after
overhearing the conversation which we have related. Pat knew that the
son of the parsonage was a hero, and, in his opinion, the most
intelligent member of the family, and the best fitted to cope with the
facts which he had to reveal. He met the object of his search on the
road.
"Plaze yer honour," said Pat--who was an Irishman, and therefore
"honoured" everybody--"there's two tramps at the public as is plottin'
to break into your house i' the mornin'."
"You don't mean it, do you?" returned Harry, with a smile and raised
eyebrows.
"That's just what I do, yer honour. I heard 'em reel off the whole
plan."
Hereupon the boy related all that he knew to the youth, who leaned
against a gate and nodded his curly head approvingly until the story was
finished.
"You've not mentioned this to any one, have you, Pat?"
"Niver a sowl but yersilf, sir."
"You're a sensible boy, Pat. Here's a shilling for you--and, look here,
Pat, if you keep dark upon the matter till after breakfast to-morrow and
don't open your lips to a living soul about it, I'll give you half a
crown."
"Thank yer honour."
"Now mind--no hints to the police; no remarks to your master. Be dumb,
in fact, from this moment, else I won't give you a penny."
"Sure I've forgot all about it already, sir," said the boy, with a wink
so expressive that Harry felt his word to be as good as his bond, and
went back to the parsonage laughing.
Arrived there, he went in search of his sister, but found that she was
out.
"Just as well," he muttered, descending to the dining-room with his
hands deep in his pockets, a pleased expression on his handsome mouth,
and a stern frown on his brows. "It would not be safe to make a
confidant of her in so delicate a matter. No, I'll do it all alone.
But how to do it? That is the question. Shall I invite the aid of the
police? Perish the thought! Shall I consult the Pater? Better not.
The dear, self-devoted man might take it out of my hands altogether."
Harry paused in profound meditation. He was standing near the window at
the time, with the "statters" on either hand of him.
They were complete suits of armour--one representing a knight in plate
armour, the other a Crusader in chain-mail. Both had been in the family
since two of the Stronghand warriors had followed Richard of the Lion
Heart to the East. As the eldest brother of the Reverend Theophilus was
in India, the second was on the deep, and the lawyer was dead, the iron
shells of the ancient warriors had naturally found a resting-place in
the parsonage, along with several family portraits, which seemed to show
that the males of the race were prone to look very stern, and to stand
in the neighbourhood of pillars and red curtains in very dark weather,
while the females were addicted to old lace, scant clothing, and benign
smiles. One of the warriors stood contemplatively leaning on his sword.
The other rested a heavy mace on his shoulder, as if he still retained
a faint hope that something might turn up to justify his striking yet
one more blow.
"What would you advise, old man?" said Harry, glancing up at the
Crusader with the mace.
The question was put gravely, for, ever since he could walk or do
anything, the boy had amused himself by putting free-and-easy questions
to the suits of armour, or defying them to mortal combat. As he was
true to ancient friendships, he had acquired the habit of giving the
warriors an occasional nod or word of recognition long after he had
ceased to play with them.
"Shades of my ancestors!" exclaimed Harry with sudden animation, gazing
earnestly at the Crusader on his right, "the very thing! I'll do it."
That evening, after tea, he went to his father's study.
"May I sit up in the dining-room to-night, father, till two in the
morning?"
"Well, it will puzzle you to do that to-night, my son; but you may if
you have a good reason."
"My reason is that I have a problem--a very curious problem--to work
out, and as I positively shan't be able to sleep until I've done it, I
may just as well sit up as not."
"Do as you please, Harry; I shall probably be up till that hour myself--
if not later--for unexpected calls on my time have prevented the
preparation of a sermon about which I have had much anxious thought of
late."
"Indeed, father!" remarked the son, in a sympathetic tone, on observing
that the Reverend Theophilus passed his hand somewhat wearily over his
brow. "What may be your text?"
"`Be gentle, showing meekness to all men,'" answered the worthy man,
with an abstracted faraway look, as if he were wrestling in anticipation
with the seventh head.
"Well, good-night, father, and please don't think it necessary to come
in upon me to see how I am getting on. I never can work out a difficult
problem if there is a chance of interruption."
"All right, my son--good-night."
"H'm," thought Harry, as he returned to the dining-room in a meditative
mood; "I am afraid, daddy, that you'll find it hard to be gentle to
_some_ men to-night! However, we shall see."
Ringing the bell, he stood with his back to the fire, gazing at the
ceiling. The summons was answered by the gardener, who also performed
the functions of footman and man-of-all-work at the parsonage.
"Simon, I am going out, and may not be home till late. I want either
you or Robin to sit up for me."
"Very well, sir."
"And," continued the youth, with an air of offhand gravity, "I shall be
obliged to sit up working well into the morning, so you may have a cup
of strong coffee ready for me. Wait until I ring for it--perhaps about
two in the morning. I shall sit in the dining-room, but don't bring it
until I ring. Mind that, for I can't stand interruption--as you know."
"Yes, sir."
Simon knew his imperious young master too well to make any comment on
his commands. He returned, therefore, to the kitchen, told the cook of
the order he had received to sit up and take Master Harry's coffee to
him when he should ring, and made arrangements with Robin to sit up and
help him to enliven his vigil with a game of draughts.
Having thus made his arrangements, Harry Stronghand went out to enjoy a
walk. He was a tremendous walker--thought nothing of twenty or thirty
miles, and rather preferred to walk at night than during the day,
especially when moon and stars were shining. Perhaps it was a dash of
poetry in his nature that induced this preference.
About midnight he returned, went straight to the dining-room, and,
entering, shut the door, while Simon retired to his own regions and
resumed his game with Robin.
A small fire was burning in the dining-room grate, the flickering flames
of which leaped up occasionally, illuminated the frowning ancestors on
the walls, and gleamed on the armour of the ancient knight and the
Crusader.
Walking up to the latter, Harry looked at him sternly; but as he looked,
his mouth relaxed into a peculiar smile, and displayed his magnificent
teeth as far back as the molars. Then he went to the window, saw that
the fastenings were right, and drew down the blinds. He did not think
it needful to close the shutters, but he drew a thick heavy curtain
across the opening of the bay-window, so as to shut it off effectually
from the rest of the room. This curtain was so arranged that the iron
sentinels were not covered by it, but were left in the room, as it were,
to mount guard over the curtain.
This done, the youth turned again to the Crusader and mounted behind him
on the low pedestal on which he stood. Unfastening his chain-mail
armour at the back, he opened him up, so to speak, and went in. The
suit fitted him fairly well, for Harry was a tall, strapping youth for
his years, and when he looked out at the aperture of the headpiece and
smiled grimly, he seemed by no means a degenerate warrior.
Returning to the fireplace, he sat down in an easy chair and buried
himself in a favourite author.
One o'clock struck. Harry glanced up, nodded pleasantly, as if on
familiar terms with Time, and resumed his author. The timepiece chimed
the quarters. This was convenient. It prevented anxious watchfulness.
The half-hour chimed. Harry did not move. Then the three-quarters rang
out in silvery tones. Thereupon Harry arose, shut up his author, blew
out his light, drew back the heavy curtains, and, returning to the
arm-chair sat down to listen in comparative darkness.
The moon by that time had set and darkness profound had settled down
upon that part of the universe. The embers in the grate were just
sufficient to render objects in the room barely visible and ghost-like.
Presently there was the slightest imaginable sound near the bay-window.
It might have been the Crusader's ghost, but that was not likely, for at
the moment something very like Harry's ghost flitted across the room and
entered into the warrior.
Again the sound was heard, more decidedly than before. It was followed
by a sharp click as the inefficient catch was forced back. Then the
sash began to rise, softly, slowly--an eighth of an inch at a time.
During this process Harry remained invisible and inactive; Paterfamilias
in the study addressed himself to the sixth head of his discourse, and
the gardener with his satellite hung in silent meditation over the
draught-board in the kitchen.
After the sash stopped rising, the centre blind was moved gently to one
side, and the head of Dick appeared with a furtive expression on the
countenance. For a few seconds his eyes roved around without much
apparent purpose; then, as they became accustomed to the dim light, a
gleam of intelligence shot from them; the rugged head turned to one
side; the coarse mouth turned still more to one side in its effort to
address some one behind, and, in a whisper that would have been hoarse
had it been loud enough, Dick said--
"Hall right, Bill. We won't need matches. Keep clear o' the statters
in passin'."
As he spoke, Dick's hobnailed boot appeared, his corduroy leg followed,
and next moment he stood in the room with a menacing look and attitude
and a short thick bludgeon in his knuckly hand. Bill quickly stood
beside him. After another cautious look round, the two advanced with
extreme care--each step so carefully taken that the hobnails fell like
rose-leaves on the carpet. Feeling that the "coast was clear," Dick
advanced with more confidence, until he stood between the ancient
warriors, whose pedestals raised them considerably above his head.
At that moment there was a sharp click, as of an iron hinge. Dick's
heart seemed to leap into his throat. Before he could swallow it, the
iron mace of the Crusader descended with stunning violence on his crown.
Well was it for the misguided man that morning that he happened to have
purchased a new and strong billycock the day before, else would that
mace have sent him--as it had sent many a Saracen of old--to his long
home. The blow effectually spoilt the billycock, however, and stretched
its owner insensible on the floor.
The other burglar was too close behind his comrade to permit of a second
blow being struck. The lively Crusader, however, sprang upon him, threw
his mailed arms round his neck, and held him fast.
And now began a combat of wondrous ferocity and rare conditions. The
combatants were unequally matched, for the man was huge and muscular,
while the youth was undeveloped and slender, but what the latter lacked
in brute force was counterbalanced by the weight of his armour, his
youthful agility, and his indomitable pluck. By a deft movement of his
legs he caused Bill to come down on his back, and fell upon him with all
his weight plus that of the Crusader. Annoyed at this, and desperately
anxious to escape before the house should be alarmed, Bill delivered a
roundabout blow with his practised fist that ought to have driven in the
skull of his opponent, but it only scarified the man's knuckles on the
Crusader's helmet. He tried another on the ribs, but the folds of
chain-mail rendered that abortive. Then the burglar essayed
strangulation, but there again the folds of mail foiled him. During
these unavailing efforts the unconscious Dick came in for a few
accidental raps and squeezes as he lay prone beside them.
Meanwhile, the Crusader adopted the plan of masterly inactivity, by
simply holding on tight and doing nothing. He did not shout for help,
because, being bull-doggish in his nature, he preferred to fight in
silent ferocity. Exasperated as well as worn by this method, Bill
became reckless, and made several wild plunges to regain his feet. He
did not succeed, but he managed to come against the pedestal of the
knight in mail with great violence. The iron warrior lost his balance,
toppled over, and came down on the combatants with a hideous crash,
suggestive of coal-scuttles and fire-irons.
Sleep, sermons, and draughts could no longer enchain! Mrs Stronghand
awoke, buried her startled head in the bed-clothes, and quaked. Emmie
sprang out of bed and huddled on her clothes, under the impression that
fire-engines were at work. The Reverend Theophilus leaped up, seized
the study poker and a lamp, and rushed towards the dining-room.
Overturning the draught-board, Simon grasped a rolling-pin, Robin the
tongs, and both made for the same place. They all collided at the door,
burst it open, and advanced to the scene of war.
It was a strange scene! Bill and the Crusader, still struggling, were
giving the remains of the other knight a lively time of it, and Dick,
just beginning to recover, was sitting with a dazed look in a sea of
iron debris.
"That's right; hit him hard, father!" cried Harry, trying to look round.
"No, don't, sir," cried the burglar; "I gives in."
"Let my son--let the Crusa--let _him_ go, then," said the Reverend
gentleman, raising his poker.
"I can't, sir, 'cause he won't let _me_ go."
"All right, I'll let you go now," said Harry, unclasping his arms and
rising with a long-drawn sigh. "Now you. Come to the light and let's
have a look at you."
So saying, the lad thrust his mailed hand into the burglar's
neckerchief, and assisted by the Reverend Theophilus, led his captive to
the light which had been put on the table. The gardener and Robin did
the same with Dick. For one moment it seemed as if the two men
meditated a rush for freedom, for they both glanced at the still open
window, but the stalwart Simon with the rolling-pin and the sturdy Robin
with the tongs stood between them and that mode of exit, while the
Crusader with his mace and huge Mr Stronghand with the study poker
stood on either side of them. They thought better of it. "Bring two
chairs here," said the clergyman, in a gentle yet decided tone.
Robin and Harry obeyed--the latter wondering what "the governor was
going to be up to."
"Sit down," said the clergyman, quietly and with much solemnity.
The burglars humbly obeyed.
"Now, my men, I am going to preach you a sermon."
"That's right, father," interrupted Harry, in gleeful surprise. "Give
it 'em hot. Don't spare them. Put plenty of brimstone into it."
But, to Harry's intense disgust, his father put no brimstone into it at
all. On the contrary, without availing himself of heads or
subdivisions, he pointed out in a few plain words the evil of their
course, and the only method of escaping from that evil. Then he told
them that penal servitude for many years was their due according to the
law of the land.
"Now," said he, in conclusion, "you are both of you young and strong men
who may yet do good service and honest work in the land. I have no
desire to ruin your lives. Penal servitude might do so. Forgiveness
may save you--therefore I forgive you! There is the open window. You
are at liberty to go."
The burglars had been gazing at their reprover with wide-open eyes.
They now turned and gazed at each other with half-open mouths; then they
again turned to the clergyman as if in doubt, but with a benignant smile
he again pointed to the open window.
They rose like men in a dream, went softly across the room, stepped
humbly out, and melted into darkness.
The parson's conduct may not have been in accordance with law, but it
was eminently successful, for it is recorded that those burglars laid
that sermon seriously to heart--at all events, they never again broke
into that parsonage, and never again was there occasion for Harry to
call in the services of the ancient knight or the Crusader.