“this, gentlemen,” said mr. tuke, “is a quite overpowering welcome.”
he saw surrounding him a very choice variety of villainous faces—perhaps a dozen types in all; but, if his blood ran cold, he had a lofty fancy to attribute it to the weather.
“and why am i detained in this forcible manner,” he said, “when i come to visit my own lodge?”
a second little griding of laughter was his response.
“here be a mouching toff,” croaked one of the rascals that held him.
“give us the griffin, l’utenant,” quoth another hoarsely.
“stow your cursed babble!” yawped a voice that the captive recognized; “and tie his hands behind him.”
he had not been able to suppress a start at the tones, though he cursed himself for his weakness; but now he looked forward cool and steady as the speaker faced him.
“oh, mr. brander!” he said—“so you captain this amiable company? i see, i see.”
“why, sir,” said the pedagogue sourly, “you may have stumbled through the fifth proposition and yet lack penetration. i have not the honour to lead in this business.”
“will you answer me a question?”
“not one. are his hands tied, you?”
“as fast as your tongue, sir, i can assure you. mr. corby here, whom i recognize by his bashfulness, has spliced me as conscientiously as he would bud a rose. how is gardening doing, joe?”
“get along!” said that person. “you want bedding out, you do.”
“why, joe, i’m with you. i never felt myself in closer quarters.”
another squiggle of laughter greeted the sally.
“you might graft a new pair of ears to this gentleman,” said tuke. “he’s been lopped, it seems, for canker; and that’s a disease peculiar to roses and curs, joe.”
brander’s face went furious.
“you stinking aristocrat!” he screamed. “i’ll pipe a tune for you by and by, and you shall dance, by god!”
he stamped his foot and waved with his gaunt arms.
“kick him into the parlour!” he shouted—“and let his wits fatten on the frog-skins. he’ll want them in good condition presently.”
the prisoner made no resistance, and was haled rather than driven through the doorway of the room to his right—thrust and locked in.
the shutters, it seemed, were closed, and the place—except for the little glow diffused by a fire smouldering on the hearth—was in darkness. not knowing if a trap of some sort was set for him, and being indeed considerably amazed and dumbfounded for all his fine show of sang-froid, he would not venture to do more than cross cautiously to the neighbourhood of the chimney corner, where he set his back against the wall and awaited events with what philosophy he could muster.
little sound of voice or movement came to him from without. the rogues, their ruse accomplished, assumed all the secrecy of their profession, and to the noise of boisterous mirth succeeded some fitful suggestions of stealthy toing and froing that it was far more difficult to hear with equanimity.
fortunately his trial of suspense was a short one. he had not been in the room many minutes, when he became conscious that he was not alone. somebody had come in, but so softly and with so sidling an action that he was hardly aware of the fact until he heard gentle fingers manipulating the bolts of the shutters. the next moment the flaps were pushed quietly open and white daylight broke into the room.
he was in darda’s museum—that he had guessed—and advancing towards him was a figure, very placid, very venerable—mr. fern, whom it seemed a profanation to dub jack.
the new-comer stooped a little courteous bow as he came forward.
“we are badly accommodated for seats,” he said in his mild, high voice; “but here is a chair—or the remains of one, and a little steadiness of posture may make it even comfortable to you. pray avail yourself of it.”
the gentleman laughed.
“if you will untie my hands,” he said.
“i see no difficulty, mr. tuke. you will of course give me your parole not to attempt to escape.”
“am i to be a prisoner in my own lodge?”
“i greatly fear so, sir. this quite unexpected development largely facilitates what might have been otherwise a prolonged and tiresome business, and we can’t afford to let you go. i will be frankness itself, mr. tuke; and we really can’t afford it, sir.”
“and i will imitate your candour, and ask what the devil you, a common thief, mean by asking a gentleman for his parole?”
“rash blood, sir—hot, rash blood. i was older than you before i learnt to pick my words. but, without that little one of yours, i much fear that i shall be unable to relieve you of this temporary inconvenience.”
“why, zounds, mr. fern! you are here in force, it seems—a dozen or more blazing cut-throats to keep the cage.”
“honest fellows and well to be trusted, sir. at the same time you are noted for being a gentleman of daring and resource (i must really make you that acknowledgment), and far be it from me to risk the least of those scenes of violence that my soul abhors.”
“botany bay has made you squeamish, it appears. have you buried the hatchet with which you killed cutwater?”
mr. fern shrugged up his hands deprecatingly.
“it pains me,” he said gently, “to hear a repetition of that old slander at this date.”
“what! you didn’t murder the miserable rogue, and help to string him up afterwards?”
“such an old slander, sir; and is the age of reason never to be forgiven its youthful peccadilloes?”
“oh! i cry you mercy, mr. fern. if this was a peccadillo, i can understand your abhorring violence.”
“harkee! mr. tuke. i don’t say i would have withheld my men from their just resentment; but that i took no active part in it is the truth.”
“what sucking infants, to be sure, are you and your schoolmaster! i shall believe just this—that cutwater stabbed himself in twenty places and then jumped his neck into the chains. but—to be candid again, mr. fern—what an unperspicacious rascal you must have been to kill your goose with the golden eggs.”
“sir, there is one crime that, to my mind, cries to heaven above all others for vengeance, and that is treachery on the part of a confederate. what was i to hesitate, if i was chosen the minister of a divine retribution? and now, by your leave, we will come to business.”
“what can there possibly be of that between us?”
“a little, sir—a little. the question of ransom, for instance.”
“ransom—ransom? in the matter of a few hundreds of yards of drive?”
“what is that to the point? one may lie in newgate and only three feet of wall separate him from free pavement.”
“very pertinently put; and you have all the advantage of knowing. but, do you seriously propose, as a sane man, mr. fern, to place, at this end of the eighteenth century, a gentleman’s private house under siege?”
“i am bound to confess i do.”
“well, you have your plans, i presume, that you are not likely to acquaint me of.”
“indeed, sir, you are free to know all. it is my simple intention to force entrance, and deal summarily with any that shall oppose me in my perfectly legitimate search.”
for a placable man, mr. fern’s eyes assumed a rather lurid complexion.
“i may tell you,” he said, a little loudly for him, “that i have here a disciplined and rather unscrupulous force under my command, and that this show of resistance on your part is neither convincing nor judicious. indeed, your somewhat fatuous self-confidence in thus venturing beyond your own lines, proves you quite ill-fitted to cope with so pregnant a situation.”
“at least you will acknowledge the house is well-defended?”
“pooh! a mere question of gunpowder. you have cutwater’s iron shutters—which you have closed, of course—and a quite inadequate company to hold them; and of this, one already, as you know, is but now placed hors de combat by a shot from an over-eager young member of my band.”
“true, true,” murmured tuke—“the man.”
“a man, sir, undoubtedly; and a fool to thus expose himself. what could you do with such material, mr. tuke, even had you remained there to captain it?”
“oh! thank you, mr. fern. you have comforted my heart amazingly. that whimple is a sterling soul, and his precautions that i have laughed at justify themselves. but who thought to put them into practice?”
the other, that was so like a quaker in his appearance, gasped and stared.
“truly, sir,” he said. “i fail to comprehend you.”
“it is simple, my fatuous and over self-confident friend. you have greatly enlightened me. i do not come from the house. i was benighted yester-eve in the snow, and this morning, seeking to escape from my predicament, stumbled hap-hazard upon your camp.”
“you do not come from the house!”
“on the contrary. from quite another direction.”
“and you are alone?”
“surely that is a superfluous question?”
for the moment mr. fern seemed to blaze up into a rather fearful travesty of himself. the contrast between his white hair and brick-red face became an exceedingly baneful one. in the flashing of the fire, however, he was his placid self again.
“this,” he said (his precise lips seemed educated, like stops, to the exact harmonies of speech), “all redounds to our advantage. wherever you come from, you have fallen a very opportune hostage.”
“ah! my friend. but it shows others than the master of the house to be on the alert. i am not informed of the details of your attack; but no doubt you thought to rush the place at your first assault.”
“you are absolutely right. we failed in that; but i may tell you, sir, that any prolonged resistance there, besides necessarily proving futile, will greatly incense my men.”
“but why necessarily futile?”
“pooh! mr. tuke. we have gone over our ground long and carefully. (again i will be entirely open with you. why should i not? if ever right justified might, it does in this business.) do you fancy i am ignorant of the nature and capacity of your household?”
“true, true. now, i am curious to know, mr. fern, how long you have been gathered here in this force?”
“shall we put it at seventeen hours? when the snow increased we saw that providence was set to favour the cause of justice, and we moved up here by twos and threes, and were all—thirteen of us, sir—assembled in the lodge by four o’clock of yesterday afternoon.”
“so ’twas the snow decided you?”
“sir, i will own to you that we had thought originally to make a simpler finish of the matter; but your unexpected return from london disturbed our plans. however, all has worked for the best; for here we stand in our relations of besieged and besieging, as isolated as though we were vulture and deserted camel in the midst of sahara. you see your position, mr. tuke. there is no hope of succour from any quarter. we have food and ammunition in abundance, and if we choose, we can batter your house about the ears of its two or three defenders. already my strong fellows have been at work, cutting a path up the drive and beyond it, and they have accounted for one of your trumpery force. if you are wise, you will consent to treat. if you are humane, you will forbear to sacrifice to your vanity the lives of the unthinking few who serve you. and you have women there, mr. tuke—women, sir, women! they have a fashion of thinking death not the worst evil they can suffer.”
the captive, his heart blazing, saw the soul of this unspeakable ruffian revealed. he would have risked all and choked him with his hands, had these been free. as it was, he sought to play a sounder part by hiding his repulsion.
“now, sir,” said the white-haired man very softly, “i put my proposal quite definitely—quite plainly, that there may be no mistaking it and no temporizing with it. i will exchange the person of mr. tuke for the stone that goes by the name of the ‘lake of wine,’ and, upon receipt of the latter, will withdraw my men and leave this neighbourhood for ever at peace.”
the other did not answer.
“you need not say,” went on mr. fern in the same quiet tone, “that you have not the jewel or any knowledge of its whereabouts. that were superfluous. i possess convincing evidence of its being concealed somewhere in your house. pray do not trouble yourself or me with a denial.”
he paused for an answer. an acute observer might have noticed that his fingers twitched a little, as though they longed to tear out by the roots the confession he so suavely invited.
“and if i refuse your terms?” said tuke, looking steadily at his man.
“then i much regret it will be necessary to adopt coercive measures.”
the baronet drew himself up, the fury he had so long suppressed glinting in his eyes.
“you brazen scoundrel!” he cried, “to dare to assume that any threat could bring me to condone your villainy! do your worst, you dog, and clinch your account with the devil!”
he was starting forward, when the other went swiftly to the door, opened it, looked back with a horrible smile, and vanished.
“and here endeth the first lesson,” said mr. tuke.
