CHAPTER THE FOURTH
*In which blows are exchanged; and our hero, setting forth upon histravels, scents an adventure*
That same day, at supper, seeing that Richard was apparently in a goodtemper, Desmond ventured to make a suggestion.
"Dick," he said frankly, "don't you think it would be better for all ofus if I went away? You and I don't get along very well, and perhaps Iwas not cut out for a farmer."
Richard grunted, and Mrs. Burke looked apprehensively from one to theother.
"What's your idea?" asked Richard.
"Well, I had thought of a writership in the East India Company'sservice, or better still, a cadetship in the Company's forces."
"Hark to him!" exclaimed Richard, with a scornful laugh. "A secondClive, sink me! And where do you suppose the money is to come from?"
"Couldn't you advance a part of what is to come to me when I amtwenty-one?"
"Not a penny, I tell you at once, not a penny. 'Tis enough to besaddled with you all these years. You may think yourself lucky if I canscrape together a tenth of the money that'll be due to you when you'retwenty-one. That's the dead hand, if you like; why father put thatprovision in his will it passes common sense to understand. No, you'llhave to stay and earn part of it, though in truth you'll never be worthyour keep."
"That depends on the keeper," retorted Desmond, rather warmly.
"No insolence, now. I repeat, I will not advance one penny. Go and getsome money out of the Squire, that is so precious fond of you."
"Richard, Richard!" said his mother anxiously.
"Mother, I'm the boy's guardian. I know what it is. He has been crammedwith nonsense by that idle knave at the _Four Alls_. Look 'ee, my man,if I catch you speaking to him again, I'll flay your skin for you."
"Why shouldn't I? I saw you speaking to him."
"Hold your tongue, sir. The dog accosted me. I answered his questionand passed on. Heed what I say: I'm a man of my word."
Desmond said no more. But before he fell asleep that night he hadadvanced one step further towards freedom. His request had met with therefusal he had anticipated. He could hope for no pecuniary assistance;it remained to see what could be done without money; and he resolved totake the first opportunity of consulting Diggle. It was Diggle who hadsuggested India as the field for his ambition; and the suggestion wouldhardly have been made if there were great obstacles in the way of itsbeing acted on. Desmond made light of his brother's command that heshould cut Diggle's acquaintance; it seemed to him only another act oftyranny, and his relations with Richard were such that to forbid a thingwas to provoke him to do it.
His opportunity came next day. Late in the afternoon he met Diggle, ashe had done many times before, walking in the fields, remote fromhouses. When Desmond caught sight of him, he was sauntering along, hiseyes bent upon the ground, his face troubled. But he smiled on seeingDesmond.
"Well met, friend," he said; "'leni perfruor otio'--which is as much asto say--I bask in idleness. Well now, I perceive in your eye that youhave been meditating my counsel. 'Tis well, friend Desmond. Andwhereto has your meditation arrived?"
"I have thought over what you said. I do wish to get away from here; Ishould like to go to India; indeed, I asked my brother to advance a partof some money that is to come to me, so that I might obtain service withthe Company; but he refused."
"And you come to me for counsel. 'Tis well done, though I trow yourbrother would scarce be pleased to hear of it."
"He forbade me to speak to you."
"Egad he did! 'Haec summa est!' What has he against me?--a question tobe asked. I am a stranger in these parts: that is ill; and buffeted byfortune: that is worse; and somewhat versed in humane letters: that, tothe rustic intelligence, is a crime. Well, my lad, you have come to theright man at the right time. You are acquainted with my design shortlyto return to the Indies--a rare field for a lad of mettle. You shallcome with me."
"But are you connected with the Company? None other, I believed, have aright to trade."
"The Company! Sure, my lad, I am no friend to the Company, a set ofstiff-necked, ignorant, grasping, paunchy peddlers who fatten at home onthe toil of better men. No, I am an adventurer, I own it; I am aninterloper; and we interlopers, despite the Company's monopoly, yetcontrive to keep body and soul together."
"Then I should not sail to India on a Company's ship?"
"Far from it, indeed. But let not that disturb you, there are othervessels. And for the passage--why, sure I could find you a place assupercargo or some such thing; you would thus keep the little money youhave and add to it, forming a nest-egg which, I say it without boasting,I could help you to hatch into a fine brood. I am not without friendsin the Indies, my dear boy; there are princes in that land whom I haveassisted to their thrones; and if, on behalf of a friend, I ask of themsome slight thing, provided it be honest--'tis the first law offriendship, says Tully, as you will remember, to seek honest things forour friends--if, I say, on your behalf, I proffer some slight request,sure the nawabs will vie to pleasure me, and the foundation of yourfortune will be laid."
Desmond had not observed that, during this eloquent passage, Diggle hadmore than once glanced beyond him, as though his mind were not whollyoccupied with his oratorical efforts. It was therefore with somethingof a shock that he heard him say in the same level tone:
"But I perceive your brother approaching. I am not the man to causedifferences between persons near akin; I will therefore leave you; wewill have further speech on the subject of our discourse."
He moved away. A moment after, Richard Burke came up in a toweringpassion.
"You brave me, do you?" he cried. "Did I not forbid you to conversewith that vagabond?"
"You have no right to dictate to me on such matters," said Desmondhotly, facing his brother.
"I've no right, haven't I?" shouted Richard. "I've a guardian's rightto thrash you if you disobey me, and by George! I'll keep my promise."
He lifted the riding whip, without which he seldom went abroad, andstruck at Desmond. But the boy's blood was up. He sprang aside as thethong fell; it missed him, and before the whip could be raised again hehad leapt towards his brother. Wrenching the stock from his grasp,Desmond flung the whip over the hedge into a green-mantled pool, andstood, his cheeks pale, his fists clenched, his eyes flaming, before theastonished man.
"Coward!" he cried, "'tis the last time you lay hands on me."
Recovered from his amazement at Desmond's resistance, Richard, purplewith wrath, advanced to seize the boy. But Desmond, nimbly evading hisclutch, slipped his foot within his brother's, and with a dexterousmovement tripped him up, so that he fell sprawling, with many an oath,on the miry road. Before he could regain his feet, Desmond had vaultedthe hedge and set off at a run towards home. Diggle was nowhere insight.
The die was now cast. Never before had Desmond actively retaliated uponhis brother, and he knew him well enough to be sure that such an affrontwas unforgivable. The farm would no longer be safe for him. Withstartling suddenness his vague notions of leaving home were crystallizedinto a resolve. No definite plan formed itself in his mind as he racedover the fields. He only knew that the moment for departure had come,and he was hastening now to secure the little money he possessed and tomake a bundle of his clothes and the few things he valued before Richardcould return. Reaching the Grange, he slipped quietly upstairs, notdaring to face his mother lest her grief should weaken his resolution,and in five minutes he returned with his bundle. He stole out throughthe garden, skirted the copse that bounded the farm enclosure, and ranfor half a mile up the lane until he felt that he was out of reach.Then, breathless with haste, quivering with the shock of this suddenplunge into independence, he sat down on the grassy bank to reflect.
What had he done? It was no light thing for a boy of his years,ignorant of life and the world, to cut himself adrift from old ties andvoyage into the unknown. Had he been wise
? He had no trade as astand-by; his whole endowment was his youth and his wits. Would theysuffice? Diggle's talk had opened up an immense prospect, full ofcolour and mystery and romance, chiming well with his day-dreams. Wasit possible that, sailing to India, he might find some of his dreamscome true? Could he trust Diggle, a stranger, by his own admission anadventurer, a man who had run through two fortunes already? He had noreason for distrust; Diggle was well educated, a gentleman, frank,amiable. What motive could he have for leading a boy astray?
Mingled with Desmond's Irish impulsiveness there was a strain of cautionderived from the stolid English yeomen his forebears on the maternalside. He felt the need, before crossing his Rubicon, of taking counselwith some one older and wiser--with a tried friend. Sir WilloughbyStokes, the squire, had always been kind to him. Would it not be wellto put his case to the Squire and follow his advice? But he durst notventure to the Hall yet. His brother might suspect his errand and seizehim there, or intercept him on the way. He would wait. It was theSquire's custom to spend a quiet hour in his own room long after thetime when other folk in that rural neighbourhood were abed. Desmondsometimes sat with him there, reading or playing chess. If he went upto the Hall at nine o'clock he would be sure of a welcome.
The evening passed slowly for Desmond in his enforced idleness. At nineo'clock, leaving his bundle in a hollow tree, he set off toward theHall, taking a short cut across the fields. It was a dark night, and hestopped with a start as, on descending a stile overhung by a spreadingsycamore, he almost struck against a person who had just preceded him.
"Who's that?" he asked quickly, stepping back a little: it was unusualto meet any one in the fields at so late an hour.
"Be that you, Measter Desmond?"
"Oh, 'tis you, Dickon. What are you doing this way at such an hour?You ought to have been abed long ago."
"Ay, sure, Measter Desmond; but I be goin' to see Squire," said the oldman, apparently with some hesitation.
"That's odd. So am I. We may as well walk together, then--for fear ofthe ghosts, eh, Dickon?"
"I binna afeard o' ghosts, not I. True, 'tis odd I be goin' to seeSquire. I feel it so. Squire be a high man, and I ha' never dared liftup my voice to him oothout axen. But 'tis to be. I ha' summat to tellhim, low-born as I be; ay, I mun tell him, cost what it may."
"Well, he's not a dragon. I have something to tell him too--cost whatit may."
There was silence for a space. Then Dickon said, tremulously:
"Bin it a great matter, yourn, sir, I make bold to ax?"
"That's as it turns out, Dickon. But what is it with you, old man? Isaught amiss?"
"Not wi' me, sir, not wi' me, thank the Lord above. But I seed ya,Measter Desmond, t'other day, in speech win that--that Diggle as he docall hisself, and--and, I tell ya true, sir, I dunna like the looks onhim; no, he binna a right man; an' I were afeard as he med ha' binfillin' yer head wi' fine tales about the wonders o' the world an' all."
"Is that all, Dickon? You fear my head may be turned, eh? Don't worryabout me."
"Why, sir, ya may think me bold, but I do say this: If so be ya getsnotions in yer head--notions o' goin' out alone an' seein' the world an'all, go up an' ax Squire about it. Squire he done have a wise head;he'll advise ya fur the best; an' sure I bin he'd warn ya not to have nodealin's win that Diggle, as he do call hisself."
"Why, does the Squire know him, then?"
"'Tis my belief Squire do know everything an' every body. Diggle he mednot know, to be sure, but if so be ya say 'tis a lean man, wi' sharpnose, an' black eyes like live coals, an' a smilin' mouth--why, Squireknows them sort, he done, and wouldna trust him not a' ell. But maybeya'd better go on, sir: my old shanks be slow fur one so young an'nimble."
"No hurry, Dickon. Lucky the Squire was used to London hours in hisyouth, or we'd find him abed. See, there's a light in the Hall; 'tis inthe strong-room next to the library; Sir Willoughby is reckoning up hisrents maybe, though 'tis late for that."
"Ay, ya knows the Hall, true. Theer be a terrible deal o' gowd an'silver up in that room, fur sure, more'n a aged man like me could tellin a week."
"The light is moving; it seems Sir Willoughby is finishing up for thenight. I hope we shall not be too late."
But at this moment a winding of the path brought another face of theHall into view.
"Why, Dickon," exclaimed Desmond, "there's another light; 'tis theSquire's own room. He cannot be in two places at once; 'tis odd at thistime 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, andpassed through the wicket-gate into the grounds. They could see theSquire's shadow on the blind of the parlour; but the lighted window ofthe strong-room was now hidden from them. Stepping in that direction,to satisfy a strange curiosity he felt, Desmond halted in amazement ashe saw, faintly silhouetted against the sky, a ladder placed against thewall, resting on the sill of the strong-room. His surprise at seeinglights 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 theshade of a shrubbery, he added: "Remain here; do not stir until I comefor you, or unless you hear me call."
Leaving Dickon in trembling perplexity and alarm, he stole forward ontip-toe towards the house.