Chapter LVI.
Strategy.
Miss Tempest was the last of an old family, with scarce a relation,
and no near one, in the world. Hence the pieces of personal property
that had continued in the possession of various branches of the family
after land and money, through fault or misfortune, were gone, had
mostly drifted into the small pool of Miss Tempest's life now slowly
sinking in the sands of time, there to gleam and sparkle out their
tale of its old splendour. She did not think often of their
money-worth: had she done so, she would have kept them at her
banker's; but she valued them greatly both for their beauty and their
associations, constantly using as many of them as she could. More than
one of her friends had repeatedly tried to persuade her that it was
not prudent to have so much plate and so many jewels in the house, for
the fact was sure to be known where it was least desirable it should:
she always said she would think about it. At times she would for a
moment contemplate sending her valuables to the bank; but her next
thought--by no means an unwise one--would always be, "Of what use will
they be at the bank? I might as well not have them at all! Better sell
them and do some good with the money!--No; I must have them about me!"
There are predatory persons in every large town, who either know or
are learning to know the houses in it worth the risk of robbing. When
it falls to the lot of this or that house to be attempted, one of the
gang will make the acquaintance of some servant in it, with the object
of discovering beforehand where its treasure lies, and so reducing the
time to be spent in it, and the risk of frustration or capture. Often
they seduce one of the household to let them in, or hand out the
things they want. Any such gang, however, must soon have become
convinced that at Miss Tempest's corruption was impossible, and that
they could avail themselves solely of their own internal resources.
It was well now for Miss Tempest that she was so faithful herself as
to encourage faithfulness in others: gladly would she have had Abdiel
sleep in her room, but she would not take the pleasure of his company
from his old master and companion in suffering. The dog therefore
slept on Clare's bed, just as he did when the bed was as hard to
define as to lie upon, only now he had to take the part neither of
blanket nor hot bottle.
One night, about half-past twelve, watchful even in slumber, he sprang
up in his lair at his master's feet, listened a moment, gave a low
growl, again listened, and gave another growl. Clare woke, and found
his bed trembling with the tremor of his little four-footed
guardian. Telling him to keep quiet, he rose on his elbow, and in his
turn listened, but could hear nothing. He thought then he would light
his candle and go down, but concluded it wiser to descend without a
light, and listen under cloak of the darkness. If he could but save
Miss Tempest from a fright! He crept out of bed, and went first to the
window--a small one in the narrowing of the gable-wall of his attic
room: the night was warm, and, loving the night air, he had it
open. Hearkening there for a moment, he thought he heard a slight
movement below. Very softly he put out his head, and looked
down. There was no moon, but in the momentary flash of a lantern he
caught sight of a small pair of legs disappearing inside the scullery
window, which was almost under his own. Swift and noiseless he hurried
down, and reached the scullery door just in time for a little fellow
who came stealing out of it, to run against him.
Now Clare had heard the housemaid read enough from the newspapers to
guess, the moment he looked from the garret window, that the legs he
saw were those of a boy sent in to open a door or window, and when the
boy, feeling his way in the dark, came against him, he gripped him by
the throat with the squeeze that used to silence Tommy. The prowler
knew the squeeze. The moment Clare relaxed it, in a piping whisper
came the words,
"Clare! Clare! they said they'd kill me if I didn't!"
"Didn't what?"
"Open the door to them."
"If you utter one whimper, I'll throttle you," said Clare.
He tightened his grasp for an instant, and Tommy, who had not
forgotten that what Clare said, he did, immediately gave in, and was
led away. Clare took him in his arms and carried him to his room, tied
him hand and foot, and left him on the floor, fast to the bedstead.
Then he crept swiftly to the servants' room, and with some difficulty
waking them, told them what he had done, and asked them to help him.
Both women of sense and courage, they undertook at once to do their
part. But when he proposed that they should open a window, as if it
were done by Tommy, and so enticing the burglars to enter, secure the
first of them, they, naturally enough, and wisely too, declined to
encounter the risk.
The burglars, perplexed by the lack of any sign from Tommy yet the
utter quiet of the house, concluded probably that he had fallen
somewhere, and was lying either insensible, or unable to move and
afraid to cry out--in which case they would be at the mercy of what he
might say when he was found.
Those within could hear as little noise without. They went from door
to window, wherever an attempt might be made, but all was still. Then
it occurred to Clare that he had left the scullery window
unwatched. He hastened to it--and was but just in time: two long thin
legs were sticking through, and showed by their movements that
considerable effort was being made by the body that belonged to them,
to enter after them. Legs first was the wrong way, but the youth
feared the unknown fate of Tommy, and being pig-headed, would go that
way or not at all.
A boy in courage equal to Clare, but of less coolness, would at once
have made war on the intrusive legs; but Clare bethought him that, so
long as that body filled the window, no other body could pass that
way; so it would be well to keep it there, a cork to the house, making
it like the nest of a trap-door-spider. He begged the women,
therefore, who had followed him, to lay hold each of an ankle, and
stick to it like a clamp, while he ran to get some string.
The women, entering heartily into the business, held on bravely. The
owner of the legs made vigorous efforts to release them, more anxious
a good deal to get out than he had been to get in, but he was not very
strong, and had no scope. His accomplices laid hold of him and pulled;
then, with good mother-wit, the women pulled away from each other, and
so made of his legs a wedge.
Clare came back with a piece of clothes-line, one end of which he
slipped with a running knot round one ankle, and the other in like
fashion round the other. Then he cut the line in halves, and drawing
them over two hooks in the ceiling, some distance apart, so that the
legs continued widespread like a V upside down, hauled the feet up as
high as he could, and fastened the ends of the lines. Hold lines and
hooks, it was now impossible to draw the fellow out.
Leaving the women to watch, and telling them to keep a hand on each of
the lines because the scullery was pitch-dark, he went next to his
room and looked again from the window. He feared they might be trying
to get in at some other place, for they would not readily abandon
their accomplices, and doubtless knew what a small household it was!
He would see first, therefore, what was doing outside the scullery,
and then make a round of doors and windows!
Right under him when he looked out, stood a short, burly figure;
another man was taking intermittent hauls at the arms of their
leg-tied companion, regardless of his stifled cries of pain when he
did so. Clare went and fetched his water-jug, which was half full, and
leaning out once more, with the jug upright in his two hands, moved it
this way and that until he had it, as nearly as he could determine,
just over the man beneath him, and then dropped it. The jug fell
plumb, and might have killed the man but that he bent his head at the
moment, and received it between his shoulders. It knocked the breath
out of him, and he lay motionless. The other man fled. The
window-stopper, hearing the crash of the jug, wrenched and kicked and
struggled, but in vain. There he had to wait the sunrise, for not a
moment sooner would the cook open the door.
When they went out at last, the stout man too was gone. He had risen
and staggered into the shrubbery, and there fallen, but had risen once
more and got away.
Their captive pretended to be all but dead, thinking to move their
pity and be set free. But Clare went to the next house and got the
man-servant there to go for the police, begging him to make haste: he
knew that his tender-hearted mistress, if she came down before the
police arrived, would certainly let the fellow go, and Tommy with him;
and he was determined the law should have its way if he could compass
it What hope was there for the wretched Tommy if he was allowed to
escape! And what right had they to let such people loose on their
neighbours! It was selfishness to indulge one's own pity to the danger
of others! He would be his brother's keeper by holding on to his
brother's enemy!
Going at last to his room, he found Tommy asleep. The boy was better
dressed, but no cleaner than when first he knew him. Clare proceeded
to wash and dress. Tommy woke, and lay staring, but did not utter a
sound.
"Have your sleep out," said Clare. "The police won't be here, I
daresay, for an hour yet."
"I believe you!" returned Tommy, as impudent as ever. His
contemplation of Clare had revived his old contempt for him. 'I mean
to go. I 'ain't done nothing."
"Go, then," said Clare, and took no more heed of him.
"If it's manners you want, Clare," resumed Tommy, "_please_ let me
go!"
Clare turned and looked at him. The evil expression was hardened on
his countenance. He gave him no answer.
"You ain't never agoin' to turn agin an old pal, aire you?" said
Tommy.
"I ain't a pal of yours, Tommy, or of any other thief's!" answered
Clare.
"I'll take my oath on it to the beak!"
"You'll soon have the chance; I've sent for the police." Tommy changed
his tone.
"Please, Clare, let me go," he whined.
"I will not. I did what I could for you before, and I'll do what I can
for you now. You must go with the police."
Tommy began to blubber, or pretend--Clare could not tell which.
"This beastly string's a cuttin' into me!" he sobbed.
Clare examined it, and found it easy enough.
"I won't undo one knot," he answered, "until there's a policeman in
the room. If you make a noise, I will stuff your mouth."
His dread was that his mistress might hear, and spoil all. "It's her
house," he said to himself, "but they're my captives!"
Tommy lay still, and the police came.
When they untied and drew out the cork of the scullery window, Clare
thought he had seen him before, but could not remember where. One of
the policemen, however, the moment his eyes fell on his face, cried
out joyfully,
"Ah, ha, my beauty! I've been a lookin' for you!"
"Never set eyes on ye afore," growled the fellow.
"Don't ye say now ye ain't a dear friend o' mine," insisted the
policeman, "when I carry yer pictur' in my bosom!"
He drew out a pocket-book, and from it a photograph, at which he gazed
with satisfaction, comparing it with the face before him. In another
moment Clare recognized the lad sent by Maidstone to exchange
band-boxes with him.
"Her majesty the queen wants you for that robbery, you know!" said the
policeman.
A boy who loved romance and generosity more than truth and
righteousness, would now have regretted the chance he had lost of
doing a fine action, and sought yet to set the rascal free. There are
men who cheat and make presents; there are men who are saints abroad
and churls at home, as Bunyan says; there are men who screw down the
wages of their clerks and leave vast sums to the poor; men who build
churches with the proceeds of drunkenness; men who promote bubble
companies and have prayers in their families morning and evening; men,
in a word, who can be very generous with what is not their own; for
nothing ill-gotten is a man's own any more than the money in a thief's
pocket: Clare was not of the contemptible order of the falsely
generous.
Profiting, doubtless, by Maidstone's own example, the fellow had, as
Clare now learned, run away from his master, carrying with him the
contents of the till: whether he deserved punishment more than his
master, may be left undiscussed.
When first Miss Tempest's friends heard of the attempt to break into
her house, they said--what could she expect if she took tramps into
her service! They were consider-ably astonished, however, when they
read in the newspaper the terms in which the magistrate had spoken of
the admirable courage and contrivance of Miss Tempest's page, and the
resolution with which the women of her household had seconded him. If
every third house were as well defended, he said, the crime of
burglary would disappear.
After the trial, Clare begged and was granted an interview with the
magistrate. He told him what he knew about Tommy, and entreated he
might be sent to some reformatory, to be kept from bad company until
he was able to distinguish between right and wrong, which he thought
he hardly could at present The magistrate promised it should be done,
and with kind words dismissed him.
Things returned to their old way at Miss Tempest's. Her friends never
doubted she would now at last commit her plate to her banker's strong
room, but they found themselves mistaken: she was convinced that, with
such servants and Abdiel, it was safe where it was.
The leader of the gang, injured by Clare's water-jug, was soon after
captured, and the gang was broken up.
