The Burglars And The Parson

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Title:     The Burglars And The Parson
Author: R. M. Ballantyne [More Titles by Ballantyne]

A Country mansion in the south of England. The sun rising over a laurel-hedge, flooding the ivy-covered walls with light, and blazing in at the large bay-window of the dining-room.

"Take my word for it, Robin, if ever this 'ouse is broke into, it will be by the dinin'-room winder."

So spake the gardener of the mansion--which was also the parsonage--to his young assistant as they passed one morning in front of the window in question. "For why?" he continued; "the winder is low, an' the catches ain't overstrong, an there's no bells on the shutters, an' it lies handy to the wall o' the back lane."

To this Robin made no response, for Robin was young and phlegmatic. He was also strong.

The gardener, Simon by name, was not one of the prophets--though in regard to the weather and morals he considered himself one--but if any person had chanced to overhear the conversation of two men seated in a neighbouring public-house that morning, that person would have inclined to give the gardener credit for some sort of second sight.

"Bill," growled one of the said men, over his beer, in a low, almost inaudible tone, "I've bin up to look at the 'ouse, an' the dinin'-room winder'll be as easy to open as a door on the latch. I had a good look at it."

"You are the man for cheek an' pluck," growled the other man, over his beer, with a glance of admiration at his comrade. "How ever did you manage it, Dick?"

"The usual way, in course. Comed it soft over the 'ousemaid; said I was a gardener in search of a job, an' would she mind tellin' me where the head-gardener was? You see, Bill, I had twigged him in front o' the 'ouse five minutes before. `I don't know as he's got any odd jobs to give 'ee,' says she; `but he's in the front garden at this minute. If you goes round, you'll find him.' `Hall right, my dear,' says I; an' away I goes right round past the dinin'-room winder, where I stops an' looks about, like as if I was awful anxious to find somebody. In coorse I glanced in, an' saw the fastenin's.

"They couldn't keep out a babby! Sideboard all right at the t'other end, with a lookin'-glass over it--to help folk, I fancy, to see what they look like w'en they're a-eatin' their wittles. Anyhow, it helped me to see the gardener comin' up one o' the side walks; so I wheels about double quick, an' looked pleased to see him.

"`Hallo!' cries he.

"`I was lookin' for you,' says I, quite easy like.

"`Did you expect to find me in the dinin'-room?' says he.

"`Not just that,' says I, `but it's nat'ral for a feller to look at a 'andsome room w'en he chances to pass it.'

"`Ah,' says he, in a sort o' way as I didn't quite like. `What d'ee want wi' me?'

"`I wants a job,' says I.

"`Are you a gardener?' he axed.

"`Yes--leastwise,' says I, `I've worked a goodish bit in gardings in my time, an' can turn my 'and to a'most anythink.'

"`Oh,' says he. `Look 'ere, my man, what d'ee call that there tree?' He p'inted to one close alongside.

"`That?' says I. `Well, it--it looks uncommon like a happle.'

"`Do it?' says he. `Now look 'ere, you be off as fast as your legs can take you, or I'll set the 'ousedog at 'ee.'

"W'en he said that, Bill, I do assure you, lad, that my experience in the ring seemed to fly into my knuckles, an' it was as much as ever I could do to keep my left off his nob and my right out of his breadbasket. But I restrained myself. If there's one thing I'm proud of, Bill, it's the wirtue o' self-restraint in the way o' business. I wheeled about, held up my nose, an' walked off wi' the air of a dook. You see, I didn't want for to have no more words wi' the gardener,--for why? because I'd seen all I wanted to see--d'ee see? But there was one--no, two--things I saw which it was as well I did see."

"An' what was they?" asked Bill.

"Two statters."

"An' what are statters?"

"Man alive I don't ye know? It's them things that they make out o' stone, an' marable, an' chalk--sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes babbies, an' mostly with no clo'es on to speak of--"

"Oh! I know; but _I_ call 'em statoos. Fire away, Dick; what see'd you about the statoos?"

"Why, I see'd that they wasn't made in the usual way of stone or chalk, but of iron. I have heerd say that sodgers long ago used to fight in them sort o' dresses, though I don't believe it myself. Anyhow, there they was, the two of 'em, one on each side of the winder, that stiff that they could stand without nobody inside of 'em, an' one of 'em with a big thing on his shoulder, as if he wor ready to smash somebody over the head. I thought to myself if you an' me, Bill, had come on 'em unbeknown like, we'd ha' got such a start as might have caused us to make a noise. But I hadn't time to think much, for it was just then I got sight o' the gardener."

"Now my plan is," continued Dick, swigging off his beer, and lowering his voice to a still more confidential tone, as he looked cautiously round, "my plan is to hang about here till dark, then take to the nearest plantation, an' wait till the moon goes down, which will be about two o'clock i' the mornin'--when it will be about time for us to go in and win."

"All right," said Bill, who was not loquacious.

But Bill was mistaken, for it was all wrong.

There was indeed no one in the public at that early hour of the day to overhear the muttered conversation of the plotters, and the box in which they sat was too remote from the bar to permit of their words being overheard, but there was a broken pane of glass in a window at their elbow, with a seat outside immediately below it. Just before the burglars entered the house they had observed this seat, and noticed that no one was on it; but they failed to note that a small, sleepy-headed pot-boy lay at full length underneath it, basking in the sunshine and meditating on nothing--that is, nothing in particular.

At first little Pat paid no attention to the monotonous voices that growled softly over his head, but one or two words that he caught induced him to open his eyes very wide, rise softly from his lair and sit down on the seat, cock one ear intelligently upward, and remain so absolutely motionless that Dick, had he seen him, might have mistaken him for a very perfect human "statter."

When little Pat thought that he had heard enough, he slid off the seat, crawled close along the side of the house, doubled round the corner, rose up, and ran off towards the parsonage as fast as his little legs could go.

The Reverend Theophilus Stronghand was a younger son of a family so old that those families which "came over with the Conqueror" were mere moderns in comparison. Its origin, indeed, is lost in those mists of antiquity which have already swallowed up so many millions of the human race, and seem destined to go on swallowing, with ever-increasing appetite, to the end of time. The Stronghands were great warriors--of course. They could hardly have developed into a family otherwise. The Reverend Theophilus, however, was a man of peace. We do not say this to his disparagement. He was by no means a degenerate son of the family. Physically he was powerful, broad and tall, and his courage was high; but spiritually he was gentle, and in manner urbane. He drew to the church as naturally as a duck draws to the water, and did not by any means grudge to his elder brothers the army, the navy, and the Bar.

One of his pet theories was, to overcome by love, and he carried this theory into practice with considerable success.

Perhaps no one put this theory to the test more severely or frequently than his only son Harry. War had been that young gentleman's chief joy in life from the cradle. He began by shaking his fat fists at the Universe in general. War-to-the-knife with nurse was the chronic condition of a stormy childhood. Intermittent warfare with his only sister Emmie chequered the sky of his early boyhood, and a decided tendency to disobey wrung the soul of his poor mother, and was the cause of no little anxiety to his father; while mischief, pure and simple for its own sake, was the cherished object of his life. Nevertheless, Harry Stronghand was a lovable boy, and love was the only power that could sway him.

The lad grew better as he grew older. Love began to gain the day, and peace began--slowly at first--to descend on the parsonage; but the desire for mischief--which the boy named "fun"--had not been quite dislodged at the time we write of. As Harry had reached the age of fifteen, feared nothing, and was quick-witted and ingenious, his occasional devices not only got him into frequent hot water, but were the source of some amusement to his people--and he still pretty well ruled his easy-going father and the house generally with a rod of iron.

It was to Harry Stronghand that little Pat directed his steps, after overhearing the conversation which we have related. Pat knew that the son of the parsonage was a hero, and, in his opinion, the most intelligent member of the family, and the best fitted to cope with the facts which he had to reveal. He met the object of his search on the road.

"Plaze yer honour," said Pat--who was an Irishman, and therefore "honoured" everybody--"there's two tramps at the public as is plottin' to break into your house i' the mornin'."

"You don't mean it, do you?" returned Harry, with a smile and raised eyebrows.

"That's just what I do, yer honour. I heard 'em reel off the whole plan."

Hereupon the boy related all that he knew to the youth, who leaned against a gate and nodded his curly head approvingly until the story was finished.

"You've not mentioned this to any one, have you, Pat?"

"Niver a sowl but yersilf, sir."

"You're a sensible boy, Pat. Here's a shilling for you--and, look here, Pat, if you keep dark upon the matter till after breakfast to-morrow and don't open your lips to a living soul about it, I'll give you half a crown."

"Thank yer honour."

"Now mind--no hints to the police; no remarks to your master. Be dumb, in fact, from this moment, else I won't give you a penny."

"Sure I've forgot all about it already, sir," said the boy, with a wink so expressive that Harry felt his word to be as good as his bond, and went back to the parsonage laughing.

Arrived there, he went in search of his sister, but found that she was out.

"Just as well," he muttered, descending to the dining-room with his hands deep in his pockets, a pleased expression on his handsome mouth, and a stern frown on his brows. "It would not be safe to make a confidant of her in so delicate a matter. No, I'll do it all alone. But how to do it? That is the question. Shall I invite the aid of the police? Perish the thought! Shall I consult the Pater? Better not. The dear, self-devoted man might take it out of my hands altogether."

Harry paused in profound meditation. He was standing near the window at the time, with the "statters" on either hand of him.

They were complete suits of armour--one representing a knight in plate armour, the other a Crusader in chain-mail. Both had been in the family since two of the Stronghand warriors had followed Richard of the Lion Heart to the East. As the eldest brother of the Reverend Theophilus was in India, the second was on the deep, and the lawyer was dead, the iron shells of the ancient warriors had naturally found a resting-place in the parsonage, along with several family portraits, which seemed to show that the males of the race were prone to look very stern, and to stand in the neighbourhood of pillars and red curtains in very dark weather, while the females were addicted to old lace, scant clothing, and benign smiles. One of the warriors stood contemplatively leaning on his sword. The other rested a heavy mace on his shoulder, as if he still retained a faint hope that something might turn up to justify his striking yet one more blow.

"What would you advise, old man?" said Harry, glancing up at the Crusader with the mace.

The question was put gravely, for, ever since he could walk or do anything, the boy had amused himself by putting free-and-easy questions to the suits of armour, or defying them to mortal combat. As he was true to ancient friendships, he had acquired the habit of giving the warriors an occasional nod or word of recognition long after he had ceased to play with them.

"Shades of my ancestors!" exclaimed Harry with sudden animation, gazing earnestly at the Crusader on his right, "the very thing! I'll do it."

That evening, after tea, he went to his father's study.

"May I sit up in the dining-room to-night, father, till two in the morning?"

"Well, it will puzzle you to do that to-night, my son; but you may if you have a good reason."

"My reason is that I have a problem--a very curious problem--to work out, and as I positively shan't be able to sleep until I've done it, I may just as well sit up as not."

"Do as you please, Harry; I shall probably be up till that hour myself-- if not later--for unexpected calls on my time have prevented the preparation of a sermon about which I have had much anxious thought of late."

"Indeed, father!" remarked the son, in a sympathetic tone, on observing that the Reverend Theophilus passed his hand somewhat wearily over his brow. "What may be your text?"

"`Be gentle, showing meekness to all men,'" answered the worthy man, with an abstracted faraway look, as if he were wrestling in anticipation with the seventh head.

"Well, good-night, father, and please don't think it necessary to come in upon me to see how I am getting on. I never can work out a difficult problem if there is a chance of interruption."

"All right, my son--good-night."

"H'm," thought Harry, as he returned to the dining-room in a meditative mood; "I am afraid, daddy, that you'll find it hard to be gentle to _some_ men to-night! However, we shall see."

Ringing the bell, he stood with his back to the fire, gazing at the ceiling. The summons was answered by the gardener, who also performed the functions of footman and man-of-all-work at the parsonage.

"Simon, I am going out, and may not be home till late. I want either you or Robin to sit up for me."

"Very well, sir."

"And," continued the youth, with an air of offhand gravity, "I shall be obliged to sit up working well into the morning, so you may have a cup of strong coffee ready for me. Wait until I ring for it--perhaps about two in the morning. I shall sit in the dining-room, but don't bring it until I ring. Mind that, for I can't stand interruption--as you know."

"Yes, sir."

Simon knew his imperious young master too well to make any comment on his commands. He returned, therefore, to the kitchen, told the cook of the order he had received to sit up and take Master Harry's coffee to him when he should ring, and made arrangements with Robin to sit up and help him to enliven his vigil with a game of draughts.

Having thus made his arrangements, Harry Stronghand went out to enjoy a walk. He was a tremendous walker--thought nothing of twenty or thirty miles, and rather preferred to walk at night than during the day, especially when moon and stars were shining. Perhaps it was a dash of poetry in his nature that induced this preference.

About midnight he returned, went straight to the dining-room, and, entering, shut the door, while Simon retired to his own regions and resumed his game with Robin.

A small fire was burning in the dining-room grate, the flickering flames of which leaped up occasionally, illuminated the frowning ancestors on the walls, and gleamed on the armour of the ancient knight and the Crusader.

Walking up to the latter, Harry looked at him sternly; but as he looked, his mouth relaxed into a peculiar smile, and displayed his magnificent teeth as far back as the molars. Then he went to the window, saw that the fastenings were right, and drew down the blinds. He did not think it needful to close the shutters, but he drew a thick heavy curtain across the opening of the bay-window, so as to shut it off effectually from the rest of the room. This curtain was so arranged that the iron sentinels were not covered by it, but were left in the room, as it were, to mount guard over the curtain.

This done, the youth turned again to the Crusader and mounted behind him on the low pedestal on which he stood. Unfastening his chain-mail armour at the back, he opened him up, so to speak, and went in. The suit fitted him fairly well, for Harry was a tall, strapping youth for his years, and when he looked out at the aperture of the headpiece and smiled grimly, he seemed by no means a degenerate warrior.

Returning to the fireplace, he sat down in an easy chair and buried himself in a favourite author.

One o'clock struck. Harry glanced up, nodded pleasantly, as if on familiar terms with Time, and resumed his author. The timepiece chimed the quarters. This was convenient. It prevented anxious watchfulness. The half-hour chimed. Harry did not move. Then the three-quarters rang out in silvery tones. Thereupon Harry arose, shut up his author, blew out his light, drew back the heavy curtains, and, returning to the arm-chair sat down to listen in comparative darkness.

The moon by that time had set and darkness profound had settled down upon that part of the universe. The embers in the grate were just sufficient to render objects in the room barely visible and ghost-like.

Presently there was the slightest imaginable sound near the bay-window. It might have been the Crusader's ghost, but that was not likely, for at the moment something very like Harry's ghost flitted across the room and entered into the warrior.

Again the sound was heard, more decidedly than before. It was followed by a sharp click as the inefficient catch was forced back. Then the sash began to rise, softly, slowly--an eighth of an inch at a time. During this process Harry remained invisible and inactive; Paterfamilias in the study addressed himself to the sixth head of his discourse, and the gardener with his satellite hung in silent meditation over the draught-board in the kitchen.

After the sash stopped rising, the centre blind was moved gently to one side, and the head of Dick appeared with a furtive expression on the countenance. For a few seconds his eyes roved around without much apparent purpose; then, as they became accustomed to the dim light, a gleam of intelligence shot from them; the rugged head turned to one side; the coarse mouth turned still more to one side in its effort to address some one behind, and, in a whisper that would have been hoarse had it been loud enough, Dick said--

"Hall right, Bill. We won't need matches. Keep clear o' the statters in passin'."

As he spoke, Dick's hobnailed boot appeared, his corduroy leg followed, and next moment he stood in the room with a menacing look and attitude and a short thick bludgeon in his knuckly hand. Bill quickly stood beside him. After another cautious look round, the two advanced with extreme care--each step so carefully taken that the hobnails fell like rose-leaves on the carpet. Feeling that the "coast was clear," Dick advanced with more confidence, until he stood between the ancient warriors, whose pedestals raised them considerably above his head.

At that moment there was a sharp click, as of an iron hinge. Dick's heart seemed to leap into his throat. Before he could swallow it, the iron mace of the Crusader descended with stunning violence on his crown.

Well was it for the misguided man that morning that he happened to have purchased a new and strong billycock the day before, else would that mace have sent him--as it had sent many a Saracen of old--to his long home. The blow effectually spoilt the billycock, however, and stretched its owner insensible on the floor.

The other burglar was too close behind his comrade to permit of a second blow being struck. The lively Crusader, however, sprang upon him, threw his mailed arms round his neck, and held him fast.

And now began a combat of wondrous ferocity and rare conditions. The combatants were unequally matched, for the man was huge and muscular, while the youth was undeveloped and slender, but what the latter lacked in brute force was counterbalanced by the weight of his armour, his youthful agility, and his indomitable pluck. By a deft movement of his legs he caused Bill to come down on his back, and fell upon him with all his weight plus that of the Crusader. Annoyed at this, and desperately anxious to escape before the house should be alarmed, Bill delivered a roundabout blow with his practised fist that ought to have driven in the skull of his opponent, but it only scarified the man's knuckles on the Crusader's helmet. He tried another on the ribs, but the folds of chain-mail rendered that abortive. Then the burglar essayed strangulation, but there again the folds of mail foiled him. During these unavailing efforts the unconscious Dick came in for a few accidental raps and squeezes as he lay prone beside them.

Meanwhile, the Crusader adopted the plan of masterly inactivity, by simply holding on tight and doing nothing. He did not shout for help, because, being bull-doggish in his nature, he preferred to fight in silent ferocity. Exasperated as well as worn by this method, Bill became reckless, and made several wild plunges to regain his feet. He did not succeed, but he managed to come against the pedestal of the knight in mail with great violence. The iron warrior lost his balance, toppled over, and came down on the combatants with a hideous crash, suggestive of coal-scuttles and fire-irons.

Sleep, sermons, and draughts could no longer enchain! Mrs Stronghand awoke, buried her startled head in the bed-clothes, and quaked. Emmie sprang out of bed and huddled on her clothes, under the impression that fire-engines were at work. The Reverend Theophilus leaped up, seized the study poker and a lamp, and rushed towards the dining-room. Overturning the draught-board, Simon grasped a rolling-pin, Robin the tongs, and both made for the same place. They all collided at the door, burst it open, and advanced to the scene of war.

It was a strange scene! Bill and the Crusader, still struggling, were giving the remains of the other knight a lively time of it, and Dick, just beginning to recover, was sitting with a dazed look in a sea of iron debris.

"That's right; hit him hard, father!" cried Harry, trying to look round.

"No, don't, sir," cried the burglar; "I gives in."

"Let my son--let the Crusa--let _him_ go, then," said the Reverend gentleman, raising his poker.

"I can't, sir, 'cause he won't let _me_ go."

"All right, I'll let you go now," said Harry, unclasping his arms and rising with a long-drawn sigh. "Now you. Come to the light and let's have a look at you."

So saying, the lad thrust his mailed hand into the burglar's neckerchief, and assisted by the Reverend Theophilus, led his captive to the light which had been put on the table. The gardener and Robin did the same with Dick. For one moment it seemed as if the two men meditated a rush for freedom, for they both glanced at the still open window, but the stalwart Simon with the rolling-pin and the sturdy Robin with the tongs stood between them and that mode of exit, while the Crusader with his mace and huge Mr Stronghand with the study poker stood on either side of them. They thought better of it. "Bring two chairs here," said the clergyman, in a gentle yet decided tone.

Robin and Harry obeyed--the latter wondering what "the governor was going to be up to."

"Sit down," said the clergyman, quietly and with much solemnity.

The burglars humbly obeyed.

"Now, my men, I am going to preach you a sermon."

"That's right, father," interrupted Harry, in gleeful surprise. "Give it 'em hot. Don't spare them. Put plenty of brimstone into it."

But, to Harry's intense disgust, his father put no brimstone into it at all. On the contrary, without availing himself of heads or subdivisions, he pointed out in a few plain words the evil of their course, and the only method of escaping from that evil. Then he told them that penal servitude for many years was their due according to the law of the land.

"Now," said he, in conclusion, "you are both of you young and strong men who may yet do good service and honest work in the land. I have no desire to ruin your lives. Penal servitude might do so. Forgiveness may save you--therefore I forgive you! There is the open window. You are at liberty to go."

The burglars had been gazing at their reprover with wide-open eyes. They now turned and gazed at each other with half-open mouths; then they again turned to the clergyman as if in doubt, but with a benignant smile he again pointed to the open window.

They rose like men in a dream, went softly across the room, stepped humbly out, and melted into darkness.

The parson's conduct may not have been in accordance with law, but it was eminently successful, for it is recorded that those burglars laid that sermon seriously to heart--at all events, they never again broke into that parsonage, and never again was there occasion for Harry to call in the services of the ancient knight or the Crusader.

[The end]
R. M. Ballantyne's short story: The Burglars And The Parson

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