Chapter 5: In which Job Grinsell explains; and three visitors come by nightto 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 a spotexactly opposite the ladder, he saw that it rested on the sill of thelibrary window, which was open. The library itself was dark, but therewas still a dull glow in the next room. At the foot of the ladder stood aman.
The meaning of it all was plain. The large sum of money recently receivedby Sir Willoughby as rents had tempted someone to rob him. The robbermust have learned that the money was kept in the strong room; and itargued either considerable daring or great ignorance to have timed hisvisit for an hour when anyone familiar with the squire's habits wouldhave known that he would not yet have retired to rest.
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 secured hisbooty and was preparing to return. Desmond remained fixed to the spot, insome doubt what to do. He might call to Dickon and make a rush on the manbefore him, but the laborer was old and feeble, and the criminal was nodoubt armed. A disturber would probably be shot, and though the shotwould alarm the household, the burglars would have time to escape in thedarkness. Save Sir Willoughby himself, doubtless every person in thehouse was by this time abed and 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 laborer, told him in a hurried whisper of hisdiscovery, and bade him steal round to the servants' quarters, rouse themquietly, and bring one or two to trap the man at the foot of the ladderwhile others made a dash through the library upon the marauder in thestrong room. Dickon, whose wits were nimbler than his legs, understoodwhat he was to do and slipped away, Desmond returning to his coign ofvantage 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 afterwards therope by which it had been suspended was dropped from above, and the darkfigure 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 jerked itviolently outwards so that its top fell several feet below thewindowsill, resting on the wall out of reach of the man above.
Desmond heard a smothered exclamation break from the fellow, but he couldpay no further attention to him, for, as he rose from stooping over theladder, he was set upon by a burly form. He dodged behind the ladder. Theman sprang 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 entirely free,three half-clad men servants came up with a rush, and in a trice he wassecured.
In the excitement of these close-packed moments Desmond had forgotten theother man, whom he had last seen with his leg dangling over thewindowsill. He looked up now; the window was still open; the ladder layexactly where he had jerked it; evidently the robber had not descended.
"Quick!" cried Desmond. "Round to the door! The other fellow willescape!"
He himself sprinted round the front of the house to the door by which theservants 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, who,between 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 go into the house and search. He can't get out withoutbeing seen if the other doors are locked."
"Locked and barred. I did it myself an hour ago. I'll hang the villain."
In a few moments the servants came up with their captive and the box, oldDickon following. Only their figures could be seen: it was too dark todistinguish 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 with thevillain."
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! Youungrateful knave! Is this how you repay me? I might have hanged you, youscoundrel, when you poached my game; a word from me and Sir Philip wouldhave seen you whipped before he let his inn to you; but I was too kind; Iam a fool; and you--by, gad, you shall hang this time."
The squire's face was purple with anger, and he shook his stick as thoughthen and there he would have wrought chastisement on the offender.Grinsell's flabby face, however, expressed amusement rather than 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, atthe 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 must havehad some difficulty in squeezing his shoulders through; but Desmond wasforced to the conclusion that the housebreaker had sprung out here, andby this time had made good his escape. Disappointed at his failure, hereturned with the servants to the library.
"We can't find him, Sir Willoughby," said Desmond, as he opened the door.
To his surprise, Grinsell and Dickon were gone; no one but the squire wasin the room, and he was sitting in a big chair, limp and listless, hiseyes 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.
"Bu
t, sir," the boy began, "I saw--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the old man. "I know all about it. But Grinsell'sexplanation--yes, I know all about it. I am obliged to you, Desmond; butI am satisfied with Grinsell's explanation; I shall go no further in thematter."
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. Nine yearsago, Desmond--nine years ago, my old friend was as hale and hearty a manas myself, and George was the apple of his eye. They were for theking--God save him!-and when word came that Prince Charles was marchingsouth from Scotland, they arranged secretly with a party of loyalgentlemen to join him. But I hung back; I had not their courage; I amalive, 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. What hadthis to do with the incidents of the night? He shrank from asking thequestion.
"Yes, I lost my friend," the squire continued. "We had news of theprince; he had left Carlisle; he was moving southwards, about to strike ablow for his father's throne. He was approaching Derby. George Merrimansent 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--one ofmy own blood, Desmond--the shame of it! They were tried, hanged--hanged!It broke my old friend's heart; he died; 'twas one of my blood thatkilled 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 myselftonight; the memory of the past unnerves me. Bid me good night, boy."
Desmond hesitated, biting his lips. What of the motive of his visit? Hehad come to ask advice; could he go without having mentioned the subjectthat troubled him? The old man had sunk into a reverie; his lips moved asthough he communed with himself. Desmond had not the heart to intrude hisconcerns on one so bowed with grief.
"Good night, Sir Willoughby!" he said.
The squire paid no heed, and Desmond, vexed, bewildered, went slowly fromthe 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 the twostarted homewards across the fields.
Some minutes afterwards they heard the sound of a horse's hoofsclattering on the road to their left, and going in the same direction. Itwas an unusual sound at that late hour, and both stopped instinctivelyand looked at each other.
"A late traveler, 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 thelaborer'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 was closed,and shutters darkened the windows; but, seeing a chink of light betweenthe folds, the farmer knocked at the door. There was no answer. Heknocked again and again, grumbling under his breath. At length, when hispatience was almost exhausted, a window above opened, and, looking up,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 was inflexible.His master had given him orders, and the boy had learned, at no littlecost, that it was the wisest and safest policy to obey. Finding thatneither threats nor persuasion availed, Burke took a stride or two in thedirection of home; then he halted, pondered for a moment, changed hismind, 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 now discernedtwo dark figures against the lighter road. They came to the inn andstopped. One of them took a key from his pocket and inserted it in thelock.
"'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. But you'veforgot all your Latin, Dick. What is the news, man? Come in."
"The bird is flitting, Sim, that's all. He has not been home. His motherwas in a rare to-do. I pacified her; told her I'd sent him to Chester tosell oats--haw, haw! He has taken some clothes and gone. But he won't gofar, I trow, without seeing you, and I look to you to carry out thebargain."
"Egad, Dick, I need no persuasion. He won't go without me, I promise youthat. 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 rap atthe 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 make anoise 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 you call yourself, I'm a man of few words, asyou know. I have to say t
his, I give you till eight o'clock tomorrowmorning; if you are not gone, bag and baggage, by that time, I will issuea warrant. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," said Diggle with his enigmatical smile.
"And one word more. Show your face again in these parts and I shall haveyou arrested. I have spared you twice for your mother's sake. This is mylast 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 old dogwould ha' been such an unconscionable time dying!"
"Gout or no gout, he's good for another ten year," growled the innkeeper.
"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's face was by no means pleasant to look upon.
"Fate has always had a grudge against me, Job. In the old days, I bethinkme, 'twas I that was always found out. You had many an escape."
"Till the last. But I've come out of this well." He chuckled. "To thinkwhat a fool blood makes of a man! Squire winna touch me, 'cause of you.But it must gall him; ay, it must gall him."
"I--list!" 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 slight figurecame 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.
In Clive's Command: A Story of the Fight for India Page 7