CHAPTER THE FIFTH
*In which Job Grinsell explains; and three visitors come by night to the"Four Alls."*
At the foot of the wall lay a flower-bed, now bare and black, separatedby a gravel path from a low shrubbery of laurel. Behind this latterDesmond stole, screened from observation by the bushes. Coming to aspot exactly opposite the ladder, he saw that it rested on the sill ofthe library window, which was open. The library itself was dark, butthere was still a dull glow in the next room. At the foot of the ladderstood a man. The meaning of it all was plain. The large sum of moneyrecently received by Sir Willoughby as rents had tempted some one to robhim. The robber must have learnt that the money was kept in thestrong-room; and it argued either considerable daring or great ignoranceto have timed his visit for an hour when any one familiar with theSquire's habits would have known that he would not yet have retired torest.
Desmond was about to run round to the other side of the house and rousethe Squire when the dim light in the strong-room was suddenlyextinguished. Apparently the confederate of the man below had securedhis booty and was preparing to return. Desmond remained fixed to thespot, in some doubt what to do. He might call to Dickon and make a rushon the man before him; but the labourer was old and feeble, and thecriminal was no doubt armed. A disturber would probably be shot, andthough the report would alarm the household, the burglars would havetime to escape in the darkness. Save Sir Willoughby himself, doubtlessevery person in the house was by this time abed asleep.
It seemed best to Desmond to send Dickon for help while he himself stillmounted guard. Creeping silently as a cat along the shrubbery, hehastened back to the labourer, told him in a hurried whisper of hisdiscovery, and bade him steal round to the servants' quarters, rousethem quietly, and bring one or two to trap the man at the foot of theladder while others made a dash through the library upon the marauder inthe strong-room. Dickon, whose wits were nimbler than his legs,understood what he was to do and slipped away, Desmond returning to hiscoign of vantage as noiselessly as he came.
He was just in time to see that a heavy object, apparently a box, wasbeing lowered from the library window on to the ladder. Sliding slowlydown, it came to the hands of the waiting man; immediately afterwardsthe rope by which it had been suspended was dropped from above, and thedark figure of a man mounted the sill.
He already had one leg over, preparing to descend, when Desmond, with asudden rush, dashed through the shrubs and sprang across the path. Theconfederate was stooping over the booty; his back was towards theshrubbery; at the snapping of twigs and the crunching of the gravel hestraightened himself and turned. Before he was aware of what washappening, Desmond caught at the ladder by the lowest rung, and jerkedit violently outwards so that its top fell several feet below thewindow-sill, resting on the wall out of reach of the man above. Desmondheard a smothered exclamation break from the fellow, but he could pay nofurther 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 mansprang after him, blindly, clumsily, and tripped over the box. But hewas up in a moment, and, reckless of the consequences of raising analarm, 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 thrownopen.
With a muffled curse he swung on his heel, and made to cross the gravelpath and plunge into the shrubbery. But Desmond was too quick for him.Springing upon his back, he caught his arms, thus preventing him fromusing his pistol. He was a powerful man, and Desmond alone would havebeen no match for him; but before he could wriggle himself entirelyfree, three half-clad men-servants came up with a rush, and in a tricehe was secured.
In the excitement of these close-packed moments Desmond had forgottenthe other man, whom he had last seen with his leg dangling over thewindow-sill. He looked up now; the window was still open; the ladderlay exactly where he had jerked it; evidently the robber had notdescended.
"Quick!" cried Desmond. "Round to the door! The other fellow willescape!"
He himself sprinted round the front of the house to the door by whichthe 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, whobetween amazement and wrath was scarcely able to appreciate thesituation.
"There was a man in the library; he did not come down the ladder; he maybe still in the house."
"The deuce he is! Desmond, take the pistol, and shoot the knave like adog if you meet him."
"I'll guard the door, Sir Willoughby. They are bringing the other manround. Then we'll all go into the house and search. He can't get outwithout being seen if the other doors are locked."
"Locked and barred. I did it myself an hour ago. I'll hang thevillain."
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 darkto distinguish features.
"You scoundrel!" cried the Squire, brandishing his stick. "You'll hangfor 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 withthe villain."
The culprit was hustled into the house, and the group followed, SirWilloughby bringing up the rear. Inside he barred and locked the door,and bade the men carry their prisoner to the library. The corridors andstaircase were dark; but by the time the Squire had mounted on his goutylegs candles had been lighted, and the face of the housebreaker was forthe first time visible. Two servants held the man; the others, withDesmond 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 hangedyou, you scoundrel, when you poached my game; a word from me and SirPhilip would have seen you whipped before he let his inn to you; but Iwas too kind; I am a fool; and you---- by gad, you shall hang thistime."
The Squire's face was purple with anger, and he shook his stick asthough then and there he would have wrought chastisement on theoffender. Grinsell's flabby face, however, expressed amusement ratherthan fear.
"Bless my soul!" cried the Squire, suddenly turning to his men, "I'dforgotten the other villain. Off with you; search for him; bring himhere."
Desmond had already set off to look for Grinsell's accomplice. Taper inhand he went quickly from room to room; joined by the Squire's servants,he searched every nook and cranny of the house, examining doors andwindows, 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 feetabove the ground. It was so narrow that a man of ordinary size musthave had some difficulty in squeezing his shoulders through; but Desmondwas 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 thedoor. To his surprise, Grinsell and Dickon were gone; no one but theSquire was in the room, and he was sitting in a big chair, limp andlistless, 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-hourwere 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," hestammered. "We can't find him."
"Ah! 'Twas you gave the alarm. Good boy; zeal; excellent; but a littlemistake; yes, Grinsell explained; a mistake, Desmond."
The Squire spoke hurriedly, disconnectedly, with an embarrassment evengreater than Desmond's.
"But, sir," the boy be
gan, "I saw----"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the old man. "I know all about it. ButGrinsell'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 nofurther 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 silentfor 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 hisstick at the head of a young man done in oils. "The son of my oldestfriend--my dear old friend Merriman. I never told you of him. Nineyears ago, Desmond--nine years ago, my old friend was as hale and heartya man as I myself, and George was the apple of his eye. They were forthe King--God save him!--and when word came that Prince Charles wasmarching south from Scotland they arranged secretly with a party ofloyal 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 vacantlyinto space. Desmond was perplexed, and still more ill at ease. Whathad this to do with the incidents of the night? He shrank from askingthe question.
"Yes, I lost my friend," the Squire continued. "We had news of thePrince; he had left Carlisle; he was moving southwards, about to strikea blow for his father's throne. He was approaching Derby. GeorgeMerriman sent a message to his friends, appointing a rendezvous: gallantgentlemen, they would join the Stuart flag! The day came, they met, andthe minions of the Hanoverian surrounded them. Betrayed!--poor loyalgentlemen!--betrayed by one who had their confidence and abused it--oneof my own blood, Desmond--the shame of it! They were tried,hanged--hanged! It broke my old friend's heart; he died; 'twas one ofmy 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 myselfto-night, 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 thesubject that troubled him? The old man had sunk into a reverie, his lipsmoved as though he communed with himself. Desmond had not the heart tointrude his concerns on one so bowed with grief.
"Good-night, Sir Willoughby!" he said.
The Squire paid no heed, and Desmond, vexed, bewildered, went slowlyfrom the room.
At the outer door he found Dickon awaiting him.
"The Squire has let Grinsell go, Dickon," he said; "he says 'twas all amistake."
"If Squire says it, then 't must be," said Dickon slowly, nodding hishead. "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 thetwo started homewards across the fields. Some minutes afterwards theyheard 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 latehour, and both stopped instinctively and looked at each other.
"A late traveller, 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 thelabourer'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 Hiskeeping, Measter Desmond, watch over you night and day, now andevermore."
And with that he hobbled down the lane.
At nine o'clock that night Richard Burke left the Grange--an unusualthing for him--and walked quickly to the _Four Alls_. The inn wasclosed, and shutters darkened the windows; but, seeing a chink of lightbetween the folds, the farmer knocked at the door. There was no answer.He knocked again and again, grumbling under his breath; at length, whenhis patience was almost exhausted, a window above opened, and, lookingup, 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 thedoor!"
"Massa said no open door for nobody."
The farmer pleaded, stormed, cursed, but Scipio Africanus wasinflexible. His master had given him orders, and the boy had learnt, atno little cost, that it was the wisest and safest policy to obey.Finding that neither threats nor persuasion availed, Burke took a strideor 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 footstepsapproaching. He crossed the road, stood in the shadow of an elm, andwaited. The footsteps drew nearer; he heard low voices, and nowdiscerned two dark figures against the lighter road. They came to theinn and stopped. One of them took a key from his pocket and inserted itin the lock.
"'Tis you at last," said Burke, stepping out from his place ofconcealment. "That boy of yours would not let me in, hang him!"
At the first words Diggle started and swung round, his right hand flyingto his pocket; but recognizing the voice almost immediately, he laughed.
"'Tis you, my friend," he said. "'Multa de nocte profectus es.' Butyou'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. Hismother was in a rare to-do. I pacified her, told her I'd sent him toChester to sell oats--haw, haw! He has taken some clothes and gone. Buthe won't go far, I trow, without seeing you, and I look to you to carryout the bargain."
"Egad, Dick, I need no persuasion. He won't go without me, I promiseyou that. I've a bone to pick with him myself--eh, friend Job?"
Grinsell swore a hearty oath. At this moment the silence without wasbroken 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 thistime o' night."
But the three men stood silent, listening. The sound steadily grewlouder; 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 thebridle being hitched to a hook in the wall. Then there was a sharp rapat 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? Atonce!--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 makea noise with the bolts so that he cannot hear you."
Burke hastily departed, and Grinsell, after long, loud fumbling with thebolts, threw open the door and gave admittance to the Squire.
"Ah, you are here both," said Sir Willoughby, standing in the middle ofthe floor, his riding-whip in his hand. "Now, Mr.--Diggle, I think youcall yourself. I'm a man of few words, as you know. I have to saythis. I give you till eight o'clock to-morrow morning;
if you are notgone, bag and baggage, by that time, I will issue a warrant. Is thatclear?"
"Perfectly," said Diggle with his enigmatical smile.
"And one word more. Show your face again in these parts and I will haveyou arrested. I have spared you twice for your mother's sake. This ismy 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 travelsagain; well, such was my intention; the only difference is, that I gowith an empty purse instead of a full one. Who'd have thought the olddog would ha' been such an unconscionable time dying!"
"Gout or no gout, he's good for another ten year," growled theinnkeeper.
"Well, I'll give him five. And with the boy out of the way, maybe I'llcome to my own even yet. The young puppy!" At this moment Diggle'sface was by no means pleasant to look upon. "Fate has always had agrudge against me, Job. In the old days, I bethink me, 'twas I that wasalways found out. You had many an escape."
"Till the last. But I've come out of this well." He chuckled. "Tothink what a fool blood makes of a man! Squire winna touch me, 'cause ofyou. But it must gall him; ay, it must gall him."
"Hist!" said Diggle suddenly. "There are footsteps again. Is it Burkecoming back? The door's open, Job."
The innkeeper went to the door and peered into the dark. A slightfigure 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 justtalking of you. Come in; 'tis a late hour; 'si vespertinus subito'--youremember old Horace? True, we haven't a hen to baste with Falernian foryou, but sure friend Job can find a wedge of Cheshire and a mug of ale.Come in."
And Desmond went into the inn.