Читать книгу One of Clive's Heroes - George Herbert Ely - Страница 7

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In which blows are exchanged; and our hero, setting forth upon his travels, scents an adventure

That same day, at supper, seeing that Richard was apparently in a good temper, Desmond ventured to make a suggestion.

"Dick," he said frankly, "don't you think it would be better for all of us if I went away? You and I don't get along very well, and perhaps I was not cut out for a farmer."

Richard grunted, and Mrs. Burke looked apprehensively from one to the other.

"What's your idea?" asked Richard.

"Well, I had thought of a writership in the East India Company's service, or better still, a cadetship in the Company's forces."

"Hark to him!" exclaimed Richard, with a scornful laugh. "A second Clive, 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 am twenty-one?"

"Not a penny, I tell you at once, not a penny. 'Tis enough to be saddled with you all these years. You may think yourself lucky if I can scrape together a tenth of the money that'll be due to you when you're twenty-one. That's the dead hand, if you like; why father put that provision in his will it passes common sense to understand. No, you'll have to stay and earn part of it, though in truth you'll never be worth your keep."

"That depends on the keeper," retorted Desmond, rather warmly.

"No insolence, now. I repeat, I will not advance one penny. Go and get some 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 crammed with 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 question and 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 had advanced one step further towards freedom. His request had met with the refusal he had anticipated. He could hope for no pecuniary assistance; it remained to see what could be done without money; and he resolved to take the first opportunity of consulting Diggle. It was Diggle who had suggested India as the field for his ambition; and the suggestion would hardly have been made if there were great obstacles in the way of its being acted on. Desmond made light of his brother's command that he should cut Diggle's acquaintance; it seemed to him only another act of tyranny, and his relations with Richard were such that to forbid a thing was to provoke him to do it.

His opportunity came next day. Late in the afternoon he met Diggle, as he had done many times before, walking in the fields, remote from houses. When Desmond caught sight of him, he was sauntering along, his eyes bent upon the ground, his face troubled. But he smiled on seeing Desmond.

"Well met, friend," he said; "'leni perfruor otio'--which is as much as to say--I bask in idleness. Well now, I perceive in your eye that you have been meditating my counsel. 'Tis well, friend Desmond. And whereto has your meditation arrived?"

"I have thought over what you said. I do wish to get away from here; I should like to go to India; indeed, I asked my brother to advance a part of some money that is to come to me, so that I might obtain service with the Company; but he refused."

"And you come to me for counsel. 'Tis well done, though I trow your brother 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 to be asked. I am a stranger in these parts: that is ill; and buffeted by fortune: that is worse; and somewhat versed in humane letters: that, to the rustic intelligence, is a crime. Well, my lad, you have come to the right man at the right time. You are acquainted with my design shortly to return to the Indies--a rare field for a lad of mettle. You shall come with me."

"But are you connected with the Company? None other, I believed, have a right to trade."

"The Company! Sure, my lad, I am no friend to the Company, a set of stiff-necked, ignorant, grasping, paunchy peddlers who fatten at home on the toil of better men. No, I am an adventurer, I own it; I am an interloper; and we interlopers, despite the Company's monopoly, yet contrive 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 other vessels. And for the passage--why, sure I could find you a place as supercargo or some such thing; you would thus keep the little money you have 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 friends in the Indies, my dear boy; there are princes in that land whom I have assisted to their thrones; and if, on behalf of a friend, I ask of them some slight thing, provided it be honest--'tis the first law of friendship, says Tully, as you will remember, to seek honest things for our friends--if, I say, on your behalf, I proffer some slight request, sure the nawabs will vie to pleasure me, and the foundation of your fortune will be laid."

Desmond had not observed that, during this eloquent passage, Diggle had more than once glanced beyond him, as though his mind were not wholly occupied with his oratorical efforts. It was therefore with something of a shock that he heard him say in the same level tone:

"But I perceive your brother approaching. I am not the man to cause differences between persons near akin; I will therefore leave you; we will have further speech on the subject of our discourse."

He moved away. A moment after, Richard Burke came up in a towering passion.

"You brave me, do you?" he cried. "Did I not forbid you to converse with that vagabond?"

"You have no right to dictate to me on such matters," said Desmond hotly, facing his brother.

"I've no right, haven't I?" shouted Richard. "I've a guardian's right to 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, and struck at Desmond. But the boy's blood was up. He sprang aside as the thong fell; it missed him, and before the whip could be raised again he had leapt towards his brother. Wrenching the stock from his grasp, Desmond flung the whip over the hedge into a green-mantled pool, and stood, his cheeks pale, his fists clenched, his eyes flaming, before the astonished man.

"Coward!" he cried, "'tis the last time you lay hands on me."

Recovered from his amazement at Desmond's resistance, Richard, purple with wrath, advanced to seize the boy. But Desmond, nimbly evading his clutch, slipped his foot within his brother's, and with a dexterous movement tripped him up, so that he fell sprawling, with many an oath, on the miry road. Before he could regain his feet, Desmond had vaulted the hedge and set off at a run towards home. Diggle was nowhere in sight.

The die was now cast. Never before had Desmond actively retaliated upon his brother, and he knew him well enough to be sure that such an affront was unforgivable. The farm would no longer be safe for him. With startling suddenness his vague notions of leaving home were crystallized into a resolve. No definite plan formed itself in his mind as he raced over 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 to make a bundle of his clothes and the few things he valued before Richard could return. Reaching the Grange, he slipped quietly upstairs, not daring to face his mother lest her grief should weaken his resolution, and in five minutes he returned with his bundle. He stole out through the garden, skirted the copse that bounded the farm enclosure, and ran for 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 sudden plunge 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 and voyage into the unknown. Had he been wise? He had no trade as a stand-by; his whole endowment was his youth and his wits. Would they suffice? Diggle's talk had opened up an immense prospect, full of colour and mystery and romance, chiming well with his day-dreams. Was it possible that, sailing to India, he might find some of his dreams come true? Could he trust Diggle, a stranger, by his own admission an adventurer, a man who had run through two fortunes already? He had no reason 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 caution derived from the stolid English yeomen his forebears on the maternal side. He felt the need, before crossing his Rubicon, of taking counsel with some one older and wiser--with a tried friend. Sir Willoughby Stokes, the squire, had always been kind to him. Would it not be well to put his case to the Squire and follow his advice? But he durst not venture to the Hall yet. His brother might suspect his errand and seize him there, or intercept him on the way. He would wait. It was the Squire's custom to spend a quiet hour in his own room long after the time when other folk in that rural neighbourhood were abed. Desmond sometimes sat with him there, reading or playing chess. If he went up to the Hall at nine o'clock he would be sure of a welcome.

The evening passed slowly for Desmond in his enforced idleness. At nine o'clock, leaving his bundle in a hollow tree, he set off toward the Hall, taking a short cut across the fields. It was a dark night, and he stopped with a start as, on descending a stile overhung by a spreading sycamore, he almost struck against a person who had just preceded him.

"Who's that?" he asked quickly, stepping back a little: it was unusual to 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 old man, apparently with some hesitation.

"That's odd. So am I. We may as well walk together, then--for fear of the ghosts, eh, Dickon?"

"I binna afeard o' ghosts, not I. True, 'tis odd I be goin' to see Squire. I feel it so. Squire be a high man, and I ha' never dared lift up my voice to him oothout axen. But 'tis to be. I ha' summat to tell him, 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 what it 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? Is aught 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 do call hisself, and--and, I tell ya true, sir, I dunna like the looks on him; no, he binna a right man; an' I were afeard as he med ha' bin fillin' 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 worry about me."

"Why, sir, ya may think me bold, but I do say this: If so be ya gets notions 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 no dealin'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 med not know, to be sure, but if so be ya say 'tis a lean man, wi' sharp nose, an' black eyes like live coals, an' a smilin' mouth--why, Squire knows them sort, he done, and wouldna trust him not a' ell. But maybe ya'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 his youth, or we'd find him abed. See, there's a light in the Hall; 'tis in the strong-room next to the library; Sir Willoughby is reckoning up his rents 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 tell in a week."

"The light is moving; it seems Sir Willoughby is finishing up for the night. I hope we shall not be too late."

But at this moment a winding of the path brought another face of the Hall into view.

"Why, Dickon," exclaimed Desmond, "there's another light; 'tis the Squire's own room. He cannot be in two places at once; 'tis odd at this time 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, and passed through the wicket-gate into the grounds. They could see the Squire's shadow on the blind of the parlour; but the lighted window of the strong-room was now hidden from them. Stepping in that direction, to satisfy a strange curiosity he felt, Desmond halted in amazement as he saw, faintly silhouetted against the sky, a ladder placed against the wall, resting on the sill of the strong-room. His surprise at seeing lights 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 the shade of a shrubbery, he added: "Remain here; do not stir until I come for you, or unless you hear me call."

Leaving Dickon in trembling perplexity and alarm, he stole forward on tip-toe towards the house.