Chapter IV Congleton’s Hollow
Jack was beginning to enjoy himself. There is something bracing in antagonism: the knowledge that he was regarded as an enemy by the people of Luscombe, so far from daunting him, whetted his appetite for duty. He made up his mind to say nothing to Mr. Bastable of what had occurred.
When he got back to the Grange he found the household bubbling with an excitement of its own. Mr. Bastable had brought back with him two new suits of yeomanry uniform, and Tony, the coachman, and Andrew, the groom, had just fitted them on and were displaying their finery to the admiring eyes of Molly, the cook, and Betty, the housemaid. The men grinned sheepishly as Jack passed them.
“Bean’t they fine, Measter Jack?” said Molly, giggling.
“Splendid! You won’t be afraid of Boney now.”
“Sakes alive, no, sir! But I be mortal afeard o’ William’s blunderbuss. It do look a terrible deathly instrument, to be sure; and what would happen to us if it went off by accident goodness only knows.”
William was the gardener, who, though too old and bent to make an efficient yeoman, had been armed, like Overcombe, the butler, with a blunderbuss, Mr. Bastable having thought it worth while to give the men of his household weapons of defense.
“You never know,” he said to Jack; “Boney may land or he may not; if he lands, the more men we have to fight him, the better; and a blunderbuss behind a wall may do some damage. I’m going to exercise ’em every day.”
“And what about Monsieur de Fronsac, cousin? Will you arm him, too?”
“Well, I didn’t intend to. I thought I could hardly expect him to fight against his own countrymen. But he is so bitter against the Monster that he declares he won’t remain neutral. While his countrymen lick the feet of the Monster, he says, he disowns ’em. He’s got a pistol, and uncommon handy he is with it, too. There he is,” he added, as a loud report was heard; “he’s practising behind the coach-house. Let us go and see what he can do.”
De Fronsac smiled when he saw them.
“You see, Messieurs, I exercise myself,” he said. As he spoke he stooped and lifted a horn button from the ground. Walking up to the wall he placed the button edgewise against a brick; turned, stepped a dozen paces, swung round, and almost without seeming to take aim, fired. The button was shattered into small fragments.
Jack could not but envy the Frenchman’s skill.
“You must have had plenty of practice, Monsieur,” he said.
“Yes, truly. Ve of the noblesse know to use de pistol, assuredly.”
Next day there was to be a yeomanry parade at Wickham Ferrers. Arthur begged off his lessons for the day, wishing to go with Jack to see the training. There were no horses for them to ride or drive, Mr. Bastable’s three being required to mount himself and his men, so they had to walk. It was only six miles; they started early, and were on the field before the troops arrived. They got a good deal of amusement out of the scene. Many of the yeomen were raw recruits who found the management of horses and arms at the same time somewhat beyond them. Falls were frequent, and the officers got very red in the face with the exertion of commanding and countermanding. When the parade was over, the two boys had early dinner with Mr. Bastable and the other officers at the Wickham Arms, and started to walk back in the cool of the evening.
They came by a path that led past the tower once inhabited by the melancholy Congleton. Jack looked up at it, wondering what sort of place that lonely room at the top was. But Arthur said that the only doorway was strongly barricaded, and Jack was not inclined to waste time in breaking in. Another half-mile brought them to the middle of the Hollow. Jack had not mentioned the incident of two nights before; it would seem too much like prying into De Fronsac’s affairs; but he was thinking of it when a shot rang out from the depths of the copse, followed by a cry. Arthur paused in the act of capturing a belated butterfly.
“What’s that, Jack?”
“A cry for help! Come on!”
He vaulted the wall; after a moment’s hesitation Arthur scrambled over; and they dashed toward the thickest part of the wood, Jack a few yards ahead. Heedless of scratches and tears they pushed through the tangle in the direction of the sounds, and, Jack suddenly finding himself blocked by a thick clump of brambles, Arthur came panting up to him.
“Over there, Jack, I think!” he said. “I heard some one moving.”
He pointed to the left. They listened; there was no sound but the ripple of a tiny stream.
“Let’s go on!” said Jack in a whisper, pointing ahead. “’Twas there the sound first came from.”
He disentangled himself from the bush, not without damage to hands and clothes, and skirting the obstacle, the two pushed still deeper into the wood, dim in spite of the glow of the westering sun. In a few moments they saw through the trees a more brightly-lit patch of ground, and came to an open glade, covered with fern and tall grass run to seed. At the far side stood the ruins of a large timber summer-house, built of logs something like those of the pioneers in America of which Jack had read. It was somewhat dilapidated. But what took his attention immediately was the figure of a man sitting on one of the fallen logs, apparently stanching with a red handkerchief a wound in the head.
As the two boys made their appearance at the edge of the glade the man started and tried to rise; but he staggered back with a groan, and continuing clumsily to stanch his wound, eyed them sullenly with uneasy suspicion as they approached.
Jack went up to him impulsively.
“We heard a shot and a cry. Did you call out?” he asked. “You are hurt. Can we do anything?”
The man was an undersized, mean-featured, ill-conditioned looking fellow. He had a low beetling brow, and his cheeks were black with the unshorn growth of several weeks. He was evidently badly hurt, and, villainous though he looked, Jack was eager to aid him.
“It is nothing,” said the man, in a low and surly tone, with a slight foreign accent. “I am getting better, if only the bleeding would stop!”
Jack could see the handkerchief was drenched with blood.
“You were shot! Who fired?” he asked.
“Ah, who? I want to know. It was all at once. I did not see.”
“And how did it happen, then?”
“Why, I walk along, looking straight in front, when behind me a shot is fired. I feel the pain. I call out; the pain indeed is no little; see, the bullet cut my scalp three inches long, at least. A little lower, and without doubt I am a dead man.”
“And you did not see who fired?”
“No, how can I? I turn round; but the villain hears you as you come, and he escapes. That way I hear him go.”
He pointed in the direction suggested by Arthur.
“It was some robber, without doubt,” he added.
Jack looked uneasily around. Where was the man? Perhaps still in the copse ready to repeat his shot. But with another glance at the victim Jack felt that there was something strange in his story. Who would rob an ill-clad, dirty-looking fellow like this? He did not appear worth the pains. And what had brought him to the Hollow? He was certainly a foreigner; the copse was off the highway; what was he doing there?
From beneath his black shaggy brows the man was keenly watching. Apparently he saw by Jack’s expression that doubts were crossing his mind. Still dabbing his head he began to speak again.
“I am unlucky. I am of Spitalfields, a silk weaver. At Wickham Ferrers I have at the inn fine silks. I visit the nobility and gentry; they give me orders. I am on my way to the house of Mr. Bastable—the squire, people call him. He is rich; his lady will buy my silks.”
“But this is not the way to Mr. Bastable’s.”
“Is it not? They told me there was a short cut through the wood. Ah! the villains! It is a trap. They had me here to shoot me. Yes, that is it.”
“And your samples?”
The man started.
“Yes, my samples,” he said hurriedly, looking round. “They steal them. But I have others at Wickham Ferrers, at the inn. I go for them at once.”
He rose as he spoke. Erect, he stood a head shorter than Jack.
“I beg you keep close to me till we are out of the wood. Ah! I feel sick, I am not able to walk so far. I am shaken; I can not wait on a lady this evening. Can you tell me a lodging in the village?”
“Do you know of one, Arthur?”
“There’s old Mother Philpot; she could put him up.”
“I thank you. Philpot: I will remember the name.”
The boys walked with him until they reached the edge of the plantation. Then Arthur pointed out the path that led down to the village; the man refused their offer of further assistance, and when he had gone from sight they struck off at an angle toward the Grange.
Arthur was greatly excited at the incident, and talked about it all the way home. Jack was puzzled. It seemed so unlikely that a peddler carrying silks should go so far out of his way, and that he should be set upon and robbed of a bundle of samples when the more valuable bulk of his wares lay at Wickham Ferrers.
At dinner he mentioned the occurrence. Mr. Bastable was as much annoyed as concerned.
“This won’t do,” he said. “We’re a peaceable and law-abiding folk here.”
“The smugglers, cousin?”
“Oh! the smugglers!” Mr. Bastable’s face again wore that strange quizzical smile that Jack had noticed whenever smuggling was mentioned. “That’s another matter. I say we’re a law-abiding folk. There hasn’t been a robbery, an assault, or anything of that kind, for years. So near the Grange, too. As a justice of the peace, I must see that fellow and get a description of the assailant; we’ll raise the hue and cry and have him fast by the heels, I warrant him. I’ll send Tony to Mother Philpot at once.”
“He said he didn’t see the man who fired the shot.”
“Nonsense. How could any one take his samples without being seen?”
“Permit me,” said De Fronsac, smiling. “From vat Monsieur Jack says, de poor man is a compatriot. He is a weaver of Spitalfields, but he talk viz a foreign accent. De French families in Spitalfields have been dere so many generations dat dey are now English; dey vould have no accent, and dis poor man must be, as I myself, a victim of de troubles in France of dis day—perhaps he is a victim of dat Monstair. Vill it not be convenient dat I go to see him at his lodgment, and speak to him in his own language, and learn all dat he has to tell?”
“’Tis very good of you, Monsieur; but I don’t want to spoil your dinner, and this must be done at once, or the villain will get away.”
“De dinner, it is noding!” said De Fronsac with a smile, not perceiving the little grimace that for an instant showed itself on Kate’s lips, or the glance exchanged between her and her mother. “I vill go at once. I do anyzing to serve a friend like you, Monsieur,” he said, with a low bow as he rose.
After De Fronsac’s departure the family discussed the incident at length, Mr. Bastable becoming more and more indignant as he thought of the outrage committed in that quiet spot and so near his own doors. But Jack felt very uneasy. He could not help connecting the event with the voices he had heard in the copse two nights before. The speakers had seemed to be in altercation; one of them had been De Fronsac. And De Fronsac had offered to go and question the injured man. Jack wondered whether he had better tell his cousin what was passing through his mind, but he did not like to make him uneasy or suspicious if, after all, there was no cause for it. So he decided to say nothing—at least, until De Fronsac had reported the result of his interview.
The family were in the drawing-room when the tutor returned.
“I have accomplish’ my mission,” he said. “I am hot; I valk fast. De man is indeed, I regret to say, a compatriot. He is in England from a young man; vid his parents he arrive fourteen years ago, ven de troubles began. I dink he is honest man. He see only very little bit of de man vat shoot him, but it seem he vas short, and zick, and vid red hair. Dat is vun zing he know: de man had de hair red.”
“Red-haired men are as common as blackberries in these parts,” said Mr. Bastable. “That won’t help us much. Why didn’t the fellow use his eyes to better purpose? I warrant, if a man shot me I’d know a little more about him. However, I’ll send Tony to Wickham Ferrers, and we’ll have some men out scouring the country. Unluckily ’tis getting dark.”
Mr. Bastable went to bed later than usual that night, in case the man should be caught and brought before him as a justice of the peace for committal. But the searchers had made no discovery, and the squire at last retired, going round the house with more than usual care to see that doors and windows were carefully bolted.
Next morning they were seated at breakfast when Tony knocked at the door and came in with a face full of news.
“Please, sir, there’s bin housebreaking now. Mother Philpot’s house were broke into last night, and the Mounseer carried off.”
“What! what!” shouted Mr. Bastable with a very red face, holding upright the knife and fork with which he was carving a fine piece of pickled pork.
“’Tis true, sir. Mother Philpot were just gwine up along to roost, when there come a knock at the door. She opened, poor soul, and three men with faces black as sut pushed past. One caught her by the arm and told her to be mum and no harm would come o’t; t’others went into Mounseer’s chimmer and pulled un out as soon as they’d got his coat and things on, and took un away. He was all a-shaking, sir. Mother Philpot says, says she: ‘A were a-trembling like an apsen, and so were I!’”
“This is monstrous!” cried Mr. Bastable, pushing back his chair.
“Alas! my compatriot is in danger yet still,” said De Fronsac, carefully folding his napkin.
“And the silks! I had set my heart on a plum-colored dress, Humfrey,” said Mrs. Bastable.
“Silks! Fiddlesticks! ’tis an outrage; ’tis contempt of court! ’tis—’tis—hang it! I don’t know what it isn’t. Tony, get my horse saddled. I’ll ride over to Wickham myself, and get the colonel to scour the country with dragoons, or we’ll send to Budmouth for those fellows of the German Legion, and see what they’re good for. We can’t allow this sort of thing in Luscombe, and by George! we won’t.”
The angry squire strode away, leaving his breakfast unfinished.
“Your poor father will be so hungry, and so bad-tempered all day,” said Mrs. Bastable, whom nothing seemed to ruffle. “Jack, will you carve the pork? You have not finished, Monsieur de Fronsac?”
“Absolutely, Madame,” said the Frenchman with a bow and a smile. “Dere is yet an hour before ve study; I vill valk to de village and back. De fresh air it is salubrious; and de fishermen interess me. My estates vere in Brittany; and in my days of youth I pass much time among fishermen. Ven I come back, ve vill study de properties of angles, Monsieur Arthur.”
And with a smile Monsieur de Fronsac left the room.