One of Clive's Heroes Part 6

The Squire looked up.

"What did you say?" he asked, as though the events of the past half-hour were a blank. "Oh, 'tis you, Desmond, yes; what can I do for you?"

Desmond was embarra.s.sed.

"I--we have--we have looked for the other villain, Sir Willoughby," he stammered. "We can't find him."

"Ah! 'Twas you gave the alarm. Good boy; zeal; excellent; but a little mistake; yes, Grinsell explained; a mistake, Desmond."

The Squire spoke hurriedly, disconnectedly, with an embarra.s.sment even greater than Desmond's.

"But, sir," the boy began, "I saw----"

"Yes, yes," interrupted the old man. "I know all about it. But Grinsell'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 no further 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 silent for 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 his stick at the head of a young man done in oils. "The son of my oldest friend--my dear old friend Merriman. I never told you of him. Nine years ago, Desmond--nine years ago, my old friend was as hale and hearty a man as I myself, and George was the apple of his eye. They were for the King--G.o.d save him!--and when word came that Prince Charles was marching south from Scotland they arranged secretly with a party of loyal 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 vacantly into s.p.a.ce. Desmond was perplexed, and still more ill at ease. What had this to do with the incidents of the night? He shrank from asking the question.

"Yes, I lost my friend," the Squire continued. "We had news of the Prince; he had left Carlisle; he was moving southwards, about to strike a blow for his father's throne. He was approaching Derby. George Merriman sent a message to his friends, appointing a rendezvous: gallant gentlemen, they would join the Stuart flag! The day came, they met, and the minions of the Hanoverian surrounded them. Betrayed!--poor loyal gentlemen!--betrayed by one who had their confidence and abused it--one of my 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 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 myself to-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 the subject that troubled him? The old man had sunk into a reverie, his lips moved as though he communed with himself. Desmond had not the heart to intrude his concerns on one so bowed with grief.

"Good-night, Sir Willoughby!" he said.

The Squire paid no heed, and Desmond, vexed, bewildered, went slowly from the room.

At the outer door he found d.i.c.kon awaiting him.

"The Squire has let Grinsell go, d.i.c.kon," he said; "he says 'twas all a mistake."

"If Squire says it, then 't must be," said d.i.c.kon slowly, nodding his head. "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, d.i.c.kon, 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 d.i.c.kon to tell more, and the two started homewards across the fields. Some minutes afterwards they heard 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 late hour, and both stopped instinctively and looked at each other.

"A late traveller, d.i.c.kon," 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 the labourer's cottage.

"We part here," said Desmond. "d.i.c.kon, 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 His keeping, Measter Desmond, watch over you night and day, now and evermore."

And with that he hobbled down the lane.

At nine o'clock that night Richard Burke left the Grange--an unusual thing for him--and walked quickly to the _Four Alls_. The inn was closed, and shutters darkened the windows; but, seeing a c.h.i.n.k of light between the folds, the farmer knocked at the door. There was no answer.

He knocked again and again, grumbling under his breath; at length, when his patience was almost exhausted, a window above opened, and, looking up, Mr. Burke dimly saw a head.

"Is that you, Grinsell?" he asked.

"No, ma.s.sa."

"Oh, you're the black boy, Mr. Diggle's servant. Is your master in?"

"No, ma.s.sa."

"Well, come down and open the door. I'll wait for him."

"Ma.s.sa said no open door for nuffin."

"Confound you, open at once! He knows me, I'm a friend of his; open the door!"

"Ma.s.sa said no open door for n.o.body."

The farmer pleaded, stormed, cursed, but Scipio Africa.n.u.s was inflexible. His master had given him orders, and the boy had learnt, at no little cost, that it was the wisest and safest policy to obey.

Finding that neither threats nor persuasion availed, Burke took a stride or 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 footsteps approaching. He crossed the road, stood in the shadow of an elm, and waited. The footsteps drew nearer; he heard low voices, and now discerned two dark figures against the lighter road. They came to the inn and stopped. One of them took a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock.

"'Tis you at last," said Burke, stepping out from his place of concealment. "That boy of yours would not let me in, hang him!"

At the first words Diggle started and swung round, his right hand flying to his pocket; but recognizing the voice almost immediately, he laughed.

"'Tis you, my friend," he said. "'Multa de nocte profectus es.' But you've forgot all your Latin, d.i.c.k. What is the news, man? Come in."