When he reached the gate of the farmhouse, Tom hitched his horse to the fence, went rapidly up the little walk, and knocked boldly and loudly on the front door. Repeated and prolonged knocking brought no response. He tried the door and found it fastened. He walked about the house. Every window on the ground floor was tightly closed and barred. There was no sign of life. He knocked at the door of the kitchen, but with no result. He tried it, and found it also locked. Determined not to be thwarted in his effort to see Mrs. Meath, he kicked vigourously against the door with his great hob-nailed boots. Unsuccessful in this, he detached a rail from the top of the fence and used it against the door as a battering-ram. At the first crash of timbers, the sash of a window in the second story, directly above the kitchen, was thrown open, and a dark-eyed, dark-haired, excessively angry-looking, young woman thrust her head out.
"Qui va la?" she exclaimed.
"Well," said Tom, smiling a little in spite of himself, for the young woman was in a state of great indignation. "I want to see Mrs. Meath. I may say, I am determined to see Mrs. Meath."
"Peste! Je ne parle pas anglais!" snapped the damsel.
"Very well then, mademoiselle, I'll try you in French," said Tom. And in very bad French indeed, scarcely even the French of Dr. Watson's school for the sons of gentlemen, Pembroke repeated his remarks.
"Je ne comprend pas," said the young woman.
Tom essayed his explanation again, but whether the youthful female in the window could or would not understand, she kept repeating in the midst of his every sentence "Je ne parle pas anglais," till Tom lost his temper.
"Bien, my fine girl," he exclaimed at last; "I am going to enter this house. If you won't open the door, I will batter it down. Understand? Comprenez-vous?"
"Je ne parle pas anglais."
"As you will." He raised the fence-rail again and made as if to ram the door. "Ouvrez la porte! Do you understand that?"