CHAPTER THE SECOND
*In which our hero overhears a conversation; and, meeting with theexpected, is none the less surprised and offended.*
Desmond's pace became slower when, having crossed the valley, he beganthe long ascent that led past the site of Tyrley Castle. But when heagain reached a stretch of level road he stepped out more briskly, forthe darkness of the autumn night was moment by moment contracting thehorizon, and he had still several miles to go on the unlighted road.Even as the thought of his dark walk crossed his mind he caught sight ofthe one light that served as a never-failing beacon to night travellersalong that highway. It came from the windows of a wayside inn, a commonplace of call for farmers wending to or from Drayton market, and onewhose curious sign Desmond had many times studied with a small boy'sinterest. The inn was named the _Four Alls_: its sign a crude paintingof a table and four seated figures--a king, a parson, a soldier, and afarmer. Beneath the group, in a rough scrawl, were the words--
Rule all: Pray all: Fight all: Pay all.
As Desmond drew nearer to the inn, there came to him along the silentroad the sound of singing. This was somewhat unusual at such an hour,for folk went early to bed, and the inn was too far from the town tohave attracted waifs and strays from the crowd. What was still moreunusual, the tones were not the rough, forced, vagrant tones of tipsyfarmers; it was a single voice, light, musical, and true. Desmond'scuriosity was nicked, and he hastened his step, guessing from theclearness of the sound that the windows were open and the singer in fullview.
The singing ceased abruptly just as he reached the inn. But the windowsstood indeed wide open, and from the safe darkness of the road he couldsee clearly, by the light of four candles on the high mantelshelf, thewhole interior of the inn parlour. It held four persons. One lay backin a chair near the fire, his legs outstretched, his chin on his breast,his open lips shaking as he snored. It was Tummas Biles the tranter,who had driven a tall stranger from Chester to the present spot, andwhose indignation at being miscalled Jehu had only been appeased by aquart of strong ale. On the other side of the fireplace, curled up on asettle, and also asleep, lay the black boy Scipio Africanus. Desmondnoted these two figures in passing; his gaze fastened upon the remainingtwo, who sat at a corner of the table, a tankard in front of each.
One of the two was Job Grinsell, landlord of the inn, a man with a rednose, loose mouth, and shifty eyes--not a pleasant fellow to look at,and regarded vaguely as a bad character. He had once been headgamekeeper to Sir Willoughby Stokes, the squire, whose service he hadleft suddenly and in manifest disgrace. His companion was the stranger,the negro boy's master, the man whose odd appearance and manner of talkhad already set Desmond's curiosity abuzzing. It was clear that he mustbe the singer, for Job Grinsell had a voice like a saw, and Tummas Bilesknew no music save the squeak of his cart-wheels. It surprised Desmondto find the stranger already on the most friendly, to all appearanceindeed confidential, terms with the landlord.
"Hale, did you say?" he heard Grinsell ask. "Ay, hale as you an' me,an' like to last another twenty year, rot him."
"But the gout takes him, you said--nodosa podagra, as my friend Ovidwould say?"
"Ay, but I've knowed a man live forty year win the gout. And he dunnabelieve in doctor's dosin'; he goes to Buxton to drink the weeters whenhe bin madded wi' the pain, an' comes back sound fur six month."
"Restored to his dear neighbours and friends--caris propinquis----"
"Hang me, but I wish you'd speak plain English an' not pepper yer talkwin outlandish jabber."
"Patience, Job; why, man, you belie your name. Come, you must humour anold friend; that's what comes of education, you see; my head is stuffedwith odds and ends that annoy my friends, while you can't read, norwrite, nor cipher beyond keeping your score. Lucky Job!"
Desmond turned away. The two men's conversation was none of hisbusiness; and he suspected from the stranger's manner that he had beendrinking freely. He had stepped barely a dozen paces when he heard thevoice again break into song. He halted and wheeled about; the tune wascatching, and now he distinguished some of the words--
Says Billy Morris, Masulipatam, To Governor Pitt: "D'ye know who I am. D'ye know who I am, I AM, I AM? Sir William Norris, Masulipatam."
Says Governor Pitt, Fort George Madras; "I know what you are----"
Again the song broke off; the singer addressed a question to Grinsell.Desmond waited a moment; he felt an odd eagerness to know what GovernorPitt was; but hearing now only the drone of talking, he once more turnedhis face homewards. His curiosity was livelier than ever as to theidentity of this newcomer, who addressed the landlord as he might hisown familiar friend. And what had the stranger to do with SirWilloughby Stokes? For it was Sir Willoughby that suffered from thegout; he it was that went every autumn and spring to Buxton; he was awayat this present time, but would shortly return to receive his Michaelmasrents. The stranger had not the air of a husbandman; but there was avacant farm on the estate; perhaps he had come to offer himself as atenant. And why did he wear that half-glove upon his right hand?Finger-stalls, wrist-straps, even mittens were common enough, useful,and necessary at times; but the stranger's glove was not a mitten, andit had no fellow for the left hand. Perhaps, thought Desmond, it was afreak of the wearer's, like his red feather and his vivid neckcloth.Desmond, as he walked on, found himself hoping that the visitor at the_Four Alls_ would remain for a day or two.
After passing through the sleeping hamlet of Woods-eaves, he struck intoa road on his left hand. Twenty minutes' steady plodding uphill broughthim in sight of his home, a large, ancient, rambling grange house lyingback from the road. It was now nearly ten o'clock, an hour when thehousehold was usually abed; but the door of Wilcote Grange stood open,and a guarded candle in the hall threw a faint yellow light upon thepath. The gravel crunched under Desmond's boots, and, as if summoned bythe sound, a tall figure crossed the hall and stood in the entrance. Atthe sight Desmond's mouth set hard; his hands clenched, his breath camemore quickly as he went forward.
"Where have you been, sirrah?" were the angry words that greeted him.
"Into the town, sir."
He had perforce to halt, the doorway being barred by the man's broadform.
"Into the town! You defy me, do you? Did I not bid you remain at homeand make up the stock-book?"
"I did that before I left."
"You did, did you? I lay my life 'tis ill done. What did you in thetown at this time o' night?"
"I went to see General Clive."
"Indeed! You! Hang me, what's Clive to you? Was you invited to theregale? You was one of that stinking crowd, I suppose, that bawled inthe street. You go and herd with knaves and yokels, do you? and bringshame upon me, and set the countryside a-chattering of Richard Burke andhis idle young oaf of a brother! By gad, sir, I'll whip you for this;I'll give you something to remember General Clive by!"
He caught up a riding-whip that stood in the angle of the doorway, andtook Desmond by the shoulder. The boy did not flinch.
"Whip me if you must," he said quietly, "but don't you think we'd bettergo outside?"
The elder, with an imprecation, thrust Desmond into the open, hauled himsome distance down the path, and then beat him heavily about theshoulders. He stood a foot higher, his arm was strong, his grip firm asa vice; resistance would have been vain; but Desmond knew better than toresist. He bent to the cruel blows without a wince or a murmur. Only,his face was very pale when, the bully's arm being tired and his breathspent, he was flung away and permitted to stagger to the house. Hecrawled painfully up the wainscoted staircase and into the dark corridorleading to his bedroom. Halfway down this he paused, felt with his handalong the wall, and discovering by this means that a door was ajar,stood listening.
"Is that you, Desmond?" said a low voice within.
"Yes, mother," he replied, commanding his voice, and quietly entering."I hoped yo
u were asleep."
"I could not sleep until you came in, dear. I heard Dick's voice. Whatis the matter? Your hand is trembling, Desmond."
"Nothing, mother, as usual."
A mother's ears are quick; and Mrs. Burke detected the quiver thatDesmond tried to still. She tightened her clasp on his hot hand.
"Did he strike you, dear?"
"It was nothing, mother. I am used to that."
"My poor boy! But what angered him? Why do you offend your brother?"
"Offend him!" exclaimed the boy passionately, but still in a low tone."Everything I do offends him. I went to see General Clive; I wished to;that is enough for Dick. Mother, I am sick of it all."
"Never mind, dear. A little patience. Dick doesn't understand you.You should humour him, Desmond."
"Haven't I tried, mother? Haven't I? But what is the use? He treatsme worse than any carter on the farm. I drudge for him, and he bulliesme, miscalls me before the men, thrashes me--oh, mother! I can't endureit any longer. Let me go away, anywhere; anything would be better thanthis!"
Desmond was quivering with pain and indignation; only with difficultydid he keep back the tears.
"Hush, Desmond!" said his mother. "Dick will hear you. You are tiredout, dear boy; go to bed; things will look brighter in the morning.Only have patience. Good-night, my son."
Desmond kissed his mother and went to his room. But it was long beforehe slept. His bruised body found no comfort; his head throbbed; hissoul was filled with resentment and the passionate longing for release.His life had not been very happy. He barely remembered his father--abig, keen-eyed, loud-voiced old man--who died when his younger son wasfour years old. Richard Burke had run away from his Irish home to sea.He served on Admiral Rooke's flagship at the battle of La Hogue, and,rising in the navy to the rank of warrant-officer, bought a ship withthe savings of twenty years and fitted it out for unauthorized tradewith the East Indies. His daring, skill, and success attracted theattention of the officers of the Company. He was invited to enter theCompany's service. As captain of an Indiaman he sailed backwards andforwards for ten years; then at the age of fifty retired with aconsiderable fortune and married the daughter of a Shropshire farmer.The death of his wife's relatives led him to settle on the farm theirfamily had tenanted for generations, and it was at Wilcote Grange thathis three children were born.
Fifteen years separated the elder son from the younger; between themcame a daughter, who married early and left the neighbourhood. Fouryears after Desmond's birth the old man died, leaving the boy to theguardianship of his brother.
There lay the seed of trouble. No brothers could have been more unlikethan the two sons of Captain Burke. Richard was made on a large andpowerful scale; he was hard-working, methodical, grasping, whollyunimaginative, and in temper violent and domineering. Slighter and lessrobust, though not less healthy, Desmond was a boy of vivid imagination,high-strung, high-spirited, his feelings easily moved, his pride easilywounded. His brother was too dull and stolid to understand him, takingfor deliberate malice what was but boyish mischief, and regarding him assullen when he was only dreamily thoughtful.
As a young boy Desmond kept as much as possible out of his brother'sway. But as he grew older he came more directly under Richard'scontrol, with the result that they were now in a constant state of feud.Their mother, a woman of sweet temper but weak will, favoured heryounger son in secret; she learnt by experience that open interventionon his behalf did more harm than good.
Desmond had two habits which especially moved his brother to anger. Hewas fond of roaming the country alone for hours together; he was fond ofreading. To Richard each was a waste of time. He never opened a book,save a manual of husbandry, or a ready reckoner; he could conceive of noreason for walking, unless it were the business of the farm. Nothingirritated him more than to see Desmond stretched at length with his nosein Mr. Defoe's _Robinson Crusoe_, or a volume of Hakluyt's _Voyages_, orperhaps Mr. Oldys's _Life of Sir Walter Raleigh_. And as he himselfnever dreamed by day or by night, there was no chance of his diviningthe fact that Desmond, on those long solitary walks of his, was engagedchiefly in dreaming, not idly, for in his dreams he was always thecentre of activity, greedy for doing.
These day-dreams constituted almost the sole joy of Desmond's life.When he was quite a little fellow he would sprawl on the bank nearTyrley Castle and weave romances about the Norman barons whose home ithad been--romances in which he bore a strenuous part. He knew everyinteresting spot in the neighbourhood: Salisbury Hill, where the Yorkistleader pitched his camp before the battle of Blore Heath; Audley Brow,where Audley the Lancastrian lay watching his foe; above all StycheHall, whence a former Clive had ridden forth to battle against the king,and where his namesake, the present Robert Clive, had been born. Heimagined himself each of those bold warriors in turn, and saw himself,now a knight in mail, now a gay cavalier of Rupert's, now a bewiggedGeorgian gentleman in frock and pantaloons, but always with sword inhand.
No name sang a merrier tune in Desmond's imagination than the name ofRobert Clive. Three years before, when he was imbibing Latin, Greek,and Hebrew under Mr. Burslem at the grammar school on the hill, theamazing news came one day that Bob Clive, the wild boy who hadterrorized the tradespeople, plagued his master, led the school intremendous fights with the town boys, and suffered more birchings thanany scholar of his time--Bob Clive, the scapegrace who had been packedoff to India as a last resource, had turned out, as his father said,"not such a booby after all,"--had indeed proved himself to be amilitary genius. How Desmond thrilled when the old schoolmaster readout the glorious news of Clive's defence of Arcot with a handful of menagainst an overwhelming host! How he glowed when the schoolroom rangwith the cheers of the boys, and when, a half-holiday being granted, herushed forth with the rest to do battle in the churchyard with the townboys, and helped to lick them thoroughly in honour of Clive!
From that moment there was for Desmond but one man in the world, andthat man was Robert Clive. In the twinkling of an eye he became thedevoutest of hero-worshippers. He coaxed Mr. Burslem to let him occupyClive's old desk, and with his fists maintained the privilege againstall comers. The initials "R.C." roughly cut in the oak never lost theirfascination for him. He walked out day after day to Styche Hall, twomiles away, and pleased himself with the thought that his feet trod thevery spots once trodden by Bob Clive. Not an inch of the route from Hallto school--the meadow-path into Longslow, the lane from Longslow toShropshire Street, Little Street, Church Street, the churchyard--wasunknown to him: Bob Clive had known them all. He feasted on theoft-told stories of Clive's boyish escapades: how he had bundled awatchman into the bulks and made him prisoner there by closing down andfastening the shutters; how he had thrown himself across the current ofa torrential gutter to divert the stream into the cellar shop of atradesman who had offended him; above all, that feat of his when,ascending the spiral turret-stair of the church, he had lowered himselfdown from the parapet, and, astride upon a gargoyle, had worked his wayalong it until he could secure a stone that lay in its mouth, theperilous and dizzy adventure watched by a breathless throng in thechurchyard below. The Bob Clive who had done these things was now doinggreater deeds in India; and Desmond Burke sat day after day at his desk,gazing at the entrancing "R.C." and doing over again in his own personthe exploits of which all Market Drayton was proud, and he the proudest.
But at the age of fourteen his brother took him from school, though Mr.Burslem had pleaded that he might remain longer and afterwards proceedto the university. He was set to do odd jobs about the farm. To farmingitself he had no objection; he was fond of animals and would willinglyhave spent his life with them. But he did object to drudging for a hardand inconsiderate taskmaster such as his brother was, and the work hewas compelled to do became loathsome to him, and bred a spirit ofdiscontent and rebellion. The further news of Clive's exploits inIndia, coming at long intervals, set wild notions beating in Desmond'shead, and made him long
passionately for a change. At times he thoughtof running away: his father had run away and carved out a successfulcareer, why should not he do the same? But he had never quite made uphis mind to cut the knot.
Meanwhile it became known in Market Drayton that Clive had returned toEngland. Rumour credited him with fabulous wealth. It was said that hedrove through London in a gold coach, and outshone the King himself inthe splendour of his attire. No report was too highly coloured to findeasy credence among the simple country folk. Clive was indeed rich: hehad a taste for ornate dress, and though neither so wealthy nor so gailyapparelled as rumour said, he was for a season the lion of Londonsociety. The directors of the East India Company toasted him as"General" Clive, and presented him with a jewelled sword as a token oftheir sense of his services on the Coromandel coast. No one suspectedat the time that his work was of more than local importance and wouldhave more far-reaching consequences than the success of a tradingcompany. Clive had, in fact, without knowing it, laid the foundationsof a vast empire.
At intervals during two years scraps of news about Clive filteredthrough to his birthplace. His father had left the neighbourhood, andStyche Hall was now in the hands of a stranger, so that Desmond hardlydared to hope that he would have an opportunity of seeing his idol.But, information having reached the court of directors that all was notgoing well in India, their eyes turned at once to Clive as the man toset things right. They requested him to return to India as Governor ofFort St. David, and, since a good deal of the trouble was caused byquarrels as to precedence between the King's and the Company's officers,they strengthened his hands by obtaining for him a lieutenant-colonel'scommission from King George. Clive was nothing loth to take up his workagain. He had been somewhat extravagant since his arrival in England;great holes had been made in the fortune he had brought back; and he wasstill a young man, full of energy and ambition. What was Desmond'secstasy, then, to learn that his hero, on the eve of his departure, hadaccepted an invitation to the town of his birth, there to be entertainedby the court leet. From the bailiff and the steward of the manor downto the javelin men and the ale-taster, official Market Drayton was allagog to do him honour. Desmond looked forward eagerly to this red-letterday. His brother, as a yeoman of standing, was invited to the banquet,and it seemed to Desmond that Richard took a delight in taunting him,throwing cold water on his young enthusiasm, ironically commenting onthe mistake some one had made in not including him among the guests.His crowning stroke of cruelty was to forbid the boy to leave the houseon the great evening, so that he might not even obtain a glimpse ofClive. But this was too much: Desmond for the first time deliberatelydefied his guardian, and though he suffered the inevitable penalty, hehad seen and heard his hero, and was content.