CHAPTER THE THIRD
*In which Mr. Marmaduke Diggle talks of the Golden East; and our herointerrupts an interview, and dreams dreams.*
Sore from his flogging, Desmond, when he slept at last, slept heavily.Richard Burke was a stickler for early rising, and admitted no excuses.When his brother did not appear at the usual hour Richard went to hisroom, and, smiting with his rough hand the boy's bruised shoulders,startled him to wakefulness and pain.
"Now, slug-a-bed," he said, "you have ten minutes for your breakfast,then you will foot it to the Hall and see whether Sir Willoughby hasreturned or is expected."
Turning on his heel he went out to harry his labourers.
Desmond, when he came downstairs, felt too sick to eat. He gulped apitcher of milk, then set off for his two-mile walk to the Hall. He wasglad of the errand. Sir Willoughby Stokes, the lord of the manor, was anold gentleman of near seventy years, a good landlord, a persistentJacobite, and a confirmed bachelor. By nature genial, he was subject toperiodical attacks of the gout, which made him terrible. At these timeshe betook himself to Buxton, or Bath, or some other spa, and so timedhis return that he was always good-tempered on rent-day, much to therelief of his tenants. He disliked Richard Burke as a man as much as headmired him as a tenant; but he had taken a fancy to Desmond, lent himbooks from his library, took him out shooting when the weather andRichard permitted, and played chess with him sometimes of a rainyafternoon. His housekeeper said that Master Desmond was the only humanbeing whose presence the squire could endure when the gout was on him.In short, Sir Willoughby and Desmond were very good friends.
Desmond had almost reached the gate of the Hall when, at a sudden turnof the road, he came upon a man seated upon a low hillock by theroadside, idly swishing at the long ripe grass with a cane. At thefirst glance Desmond noticed the strangely-clad right hand of hisovernight acquaintance, the shabby clothes, the red feather, the flamingneckcloth. The man looked up at his approach; the winning smile settledupon his swarthy face, which daylight now revealed as seamed andscarred; and, without stirring from his seat or desisting from hisoccupation, he looked in the boy's face and said softly:
"You are early afoot, like the son of Anchises, my young friend. If Imistake not, when Aeneas met the son of Evander they joined their righthands. We have met--let us also join hands and bid each other a verygood morning."
Desmond shook hands; he did not know what to make of this remarkablefellow who must always be quoting from his school-books; but there wasno harm in shaking hands. He could not in politeness ask the questionthat rose to his lips--why the stranger wore a mitten on one hand; andif the man observed his curiosity he let it pass.
"You are on business bent, I wot," continued the stranger. "Not for theworld would I delay you. But since the hand-clasp is but a part of theceremony of introduction, might we not complete it by exchanging names?"
"My name is Desmond Burke," said the boy.
"A good name, a pleasant name, a name that I know." Desmond wasconscious that the man was looking keenly at him. "There is a gentlemanof the same name--I chanced to meet him in London--cultivatingliterature in the Temple; his praenomen, I bethink me, is Edmund. And Ibethink me, too, that in the course of my peregrinations on this planetI have more than once heard the name of one Captain Richard Burke, anotable seaman, in the service of our great Company. I repeat, my youngfriend, your name is a good one; may you live to add lustre to it!"
"Captain Burke was my father."
"My prophetic soul!" exclaimed the stranger. "But surely you aresomewhat late in following the craft paternal; you do not learnseamanship in this sylvan sphere?"
"True," responded Desmond with a smile. "My father turned farmer; hedied when I was a little fellow, and I live with my mother. But youwill excuse me, sir; I have an errand to the Hall beyond us there."
"I am rebuked. 'Nam garrulus idem est,' as our friend Horace would say.Yet one moment. Ere we part let us complete our interrupted ceremony.Marmaduke Diggle, sir--plain Marmaduke Diggle, at your service."
He swept off his hat with a smile. But as soon as Desmond had passed onthe smile faded. Marmaduke Diggle's mouth became hard, and he lookedafter the retreating form with a gaze in which curiosity, suspicion, anddislike were blended.
He was still seated by the roadside when Desmond returned some minuteslater.
"A pleasant surprise, Mr. Burke," he said. "Your business is mostbriefly, and let us hope happily, despatched."
"Briefly, at any rate. I only went up to the Hall to see if the Squirewas returned; it is near rent-day, and he is not usually so late inreturning."
"Ah, your squires!" said Diggle with a sigh. "A fine thing to havelands--oliveyards and vineyards, as the Scripture saith.--You arereturning? The Squire is not at home? Permit me to accompany you somesteps on your road.--Yes, it is a fine thing to be a landlord. It is astate of life much to be envied by poor landless men like me. I confessI am poor--none the pleasanter because 'tis my own fault. You behold inme, Mr. Burke, one of the luckless. I sought fame and fortune years agoin the fabulous East Indies----"
"The Indies, sir?"
"You are interested? In me also, when I was your age, the name stirredmy blood and haunted my imagination. Yes, 'tis nigh ten years since Ifirst sailed from these shores for the marvellous East. 'Multum etterris jactatus et alto.' Twice have I made my fortune--got me enoughof the wealth of Ormus and of Ind to buy up half your county. Twice,alas! has an unkind Fate robbed me of my all! But, as I said, 'tis myown fault. 'Nemo contentus,' sir--you know the passage? I was notsatisfied: I must have a little more; and yet a little more. I put mywealth forth in hazardous enterprises--presto! it is swept away. But Iwas born, sir, after all, under a merry star. Nothing discourages me.After a brief sojourn for recuperation in this salubrious spot I shallreturn; and this time, mark you, I shall run no risks. Five years tomake my fortune; then I shall come home, content with a round tenlakhs."
"What is a lakh?"
"Ah, I forgot, you are not acquainted with these phrases of the Orient.A lakh, my friend, is a hundred thousand rupees, say twelve thousandpounds. And I warrant you I will not squander it as a certain gentlemanwe know squandered his."
"You mean General Clive?"
"Colonel Clive, my friend. Yes, I say Colonel Clive has squandered hisfortune. Why, he came home with thirty lakhs at the least: and whatdoes he do? He must ruffle it in purple and fine linen, and feed thefat in royal entertainments; then, forsooth, he stands for a seat inParliament, pours out his gold like water--to what end? A petition ispresented against his return: the House holds an inquiry; and the end ofthe 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 nopolitician. Colonel Clive and I are two ruined men; 'tis a somewhatstrange coincidence that he and I are almost of an age, and that weboth, before many weeks are past, shall be crossing the ocean once moreto retrieve our fallen fortunes."
Walking side by side during this conversation they had now come into theroad leading past Desmond's home. In the distance, approaching them,appeared a post-chaise, drawn by four galloping horses. The sight brokethe thread of the conversation.
"'Tis the Squire at last!" cried Desmond. "Sure he must have put up atNewcastle overnight."
But that he was intently watching the rapid progress of the chaise, hemight have noticed a curious change of expression on his companion'sface. The smile faded, the lips became set with a kind of grimdetermination. But Diggle's pleasant tone had not altered when he said:
"Our ways part here, my friend--for the present. I doubt not we shallmeet again; and if you care to hear of my adventures by field andflood--why, 'I will a round unvarnished tale deliver,' as the Moor ofVenice says in the play. For the present, then, farewell!"
He turned down a leafy lane, and had disappeared from view before thechaise reached the spot. As it ran by, its only occupant
, a big,red-faced, white-wigged old gentleman, caught sight of the boy andhailed him in a rich, jolly voice.
"Ha, Desmond! Home again, you see! Scotched the enemy once more! Comeand see me!"
The chaise was past before Desmond could reply. He watched it until itvanished from sight; then, feeling somewhat cheered, went on to reportto his brother that the Squire had at last returned.
He felt no little curiosity about his new acquaintance. What had broughthim to so retired a spot as Market Drayton? He could have no friends inthe neighbourhood, or he would surely not have chosen for his lodging aplace of ill repute like the _Four Alls_. Yet he had seemed to havesome acquaintance with Grinsell the innkeeper. He did not answer toDesmond's idea of an adventurer. He was not rough of tongue orboisterous in manner; his accent, indeed, was refined; his speechsomewhat studied, and, to judge by his allusions and his Latin, he hadsome share of polite learning. Desmond was puzzled to fit theseapparent incongruities, and looked forward with interest to furthermeetings with Marmaduke Diggle.
During the next few days they met more than once. It was always late inthe evening, always in quiet places, and Diggle was always alone.Apparently he desired to make no acquaintances. The gossips of theneighbourhood seized upon the presence of a stranger at the _Four Alls_,but they caught the barest glimpses of him; Grinsell was as a stone wallin unresponsiveness to their inquiries; and the black boy, if perchancea countryman met him on the road and questioned him, shook his head andmade meaningless noises in his throat, and the countryman would assurehis cronies that the boy was as dumb as a platter.
But whenever Desmond encountered the stranger, strolling by himself inthe 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 tagfrom his school-books. Desmond did not like his Latin, but he foundcompensation in the traveller's tales of which Diggle had aninexhaustible store--tales of shipwreck and mutiny, of wild animals andwild men, of Dutch traders and Portuguese adventurers, of Indian nawabsand French buccaneers. Above all was Desmond interested in stories ofIndia: he heard of the immense wealth of the Indian princes; therivalries of the English, French, and Dutch trading companies; the keenstruggle between France and England for the preponderating influencewith the natives. Desmond was eager to hear of Clive's doings; but hefound Diggle, for an Englishman who had been in India, strangelyignorant of Clive's career; he seemed impatient of Clive's name, and wasalways more ready to talk of his French rivals, Dupleix and Bussy. Theboy 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, anddreamed of elephants and tigers, treasures of gold and diamonds, andfierce battles in which English, French, and Indians weltered in seas ofblood.
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 onceevery half year when he paid his rent. They would almost rather nothave had it, for he made himself particularly unpleasant both before andafter. On this morning he had got up in a bad temper, and managed tofind half a dozen occasions for grumbling at Desmond before breakfast,so that the boy was glad to get away and walk off his resentment andsoreness of heart.
As he passed the end of the lane leading towards the Hall, he saw twomen in conversation some distance down it. One was on horseback, theother on foot. At a second glance he saw with surprise that the mountedman was his brother, the other Diggle. A well-filled money-bag hung atRichard Burke's saddle-bow; he was on his way to the Hall to pay hisrent. His back was towards Desmond; but, as the latter paused, Richardthrew a rapid glance over his shoulder, and with a word to the man athis side cantered away.
Diggle gave Desmond a hail and came slowly up the lane, his face wearingits usual pleasant smile. His manner was always very friendly, and hadthe effect of making Desmond feel on good terms with himself.
"Well met, my friend," said Diggle cordially. "I was longing for achat. Beshrew me if I have spoken more than a dozen words to-day, andthat, to a man of my sociable temper, not to speak of my swift andpractised tongue--'lingua celer et exercitata': you remember the phraseof 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 aprosperous look--had mistaken me. 'Tis not the apparel makes the man; myattire 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 relentlessploughshare 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 yourbrother?"
"Certainly. He is Richard Burke, and leases the Wilcote Farm."
"Noble pair of brothers!" exclaimed Diggle, seizing Desmond's reluctanthand. "I congratulate you, my friend. What a brother! I stopped him toask the time of day. But permit me to say, friend Desmond, you appearsomewhat downcast; your countenance hath not that serenity one looks forin a lad of your years. What is the trouble?"
"Oh, nothing to speak of," said Desmond curtly; he was vexed that hisface still betrayed the irritation of the morning.
"Very well," said Diggle with a shrug. "Far be it from me to probe yoursorrows. They are nothing to me, but sure a simple question from afriend----"
"Pardon me, Mr. Diggle," said Desmond impulsively, "I did not mean tooffend you."
"My dear boy, a tough-hided traveller does not easily takeoffence.--Shall we walk?--D'you know, Master Desmond, I fancy I couldmake a shrewd guess at your trouble. Your brother--Richard, I think yousaid?--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 lovefor mother-earth, and you, meseems, have dreamed of a larger life thanlies within the pinfolds of a farm. To tell the truth, my lad, I havebeen studying you." They were walking now side by side along theNewport road. Desmond felt that the stranger was becoming personal; buthis manner was so suave and sympathetic that he could not take offence."Yes, I have been studying you," continued Diggle. "And what is the sumof my discovery? You are wasting your life here. A country village isno place for a boy of ideas and imagination, of warm blood and springingfancy. 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 youngmanhood, as the Romans held it! But what matters that? Was not ScipioAfricanus--namesake of the ingenuous youth that serves me--styled boy attwenty? Yet you are old enough to walk alone, and not in leadingstrings,--or waiting maybe for dead men's shoes."
"What do you mean, sir?" Desmond flashed out, reddening withindignation.
"Do I offend?" said Diggle innocently. "I make my apology. But I hadheard, I own, that Master Desmond Burke was in high favour with yoursquire; 'tis even whispered that Master Desmond cherishes, cultivates,cossets the old man--a bachelor, I understand, and wealthy, and lackingkith or kin. Sure I should never have believed 'twas with anydishonourable 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 youbroke these narrow bounds. India, now--what better sphere for a youngman bent on making his way? Look at Clive, whom you admire--as stupid aboy as you could meet in a day's march. Why, I can remember----" Hecaught himself up, but after the slightest pause resumed: "'Forsan ethaec olim meminisse juvabit.' Look at Clive, I was saying; a lout, abear, a booby--as a boy, mark you; yet now----! Is there a man whosename 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 aregoing farther? Ah, I have not your love of ambulation. I will bid youfarewe
ll 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 thesquire's shoes? He glowed with indignation at the idea of such aconstruction being placed upon his friendship for Sir Willoughby. "Ifthey 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 withwonderful rapidity. To emulate Clive!--what would he not give for thechance? But how was it possible? Clive had begun as a writer in theservice of the East India Company; but how could Desmond procure anomination? Perhaps Sir Willoughby could help him; he might haveinfluence with the Company's directors. But, supposing he obtained anomination, how could he purchase his outfit? He had but a few guineas,and after what Diggle had said he would starve rather than ask thesquire for a penny. True, under his father's will he was to receivefive thousand pounds at the age of twenty-one. Would Richard advancepart of the sum? Knowing Richard, he hardly dared to hope for such adeparture from the letter of the law. But it was at least worthattempting.