“Deil’s in the man,” cried Mary Lyon, snatching the bag from him, “but it’s a blessing I’m no so easy to tak’ in as the guidman there. Let that bag alane, will ye, na! Wha kens what may be in it? There—what did I tell you?”
Unintentionally she shook the catch open, and within were two pistols cocked and primed, of which Eben and Tom took instant possession. Meanwhile, as may be imagined, my grandmother improved the occasion.
“A lawvier, are you, Master Wringham Poole o’ Dumfries,” she cried? “A bonny lawvier, that does his business wi’ a pair o’ loaded pistols. Like master, like man, I say! There’s but ae kind o’ lawvier that does his business like that—he’s caa’ed a cut-purse, a common highwayman, and ends by dancing a bonny saraband at the end o’ a tow-rope! Lalor Maitland assaulted Marnhoul wi’ just such a band o’ thieves and robbers—to steal away the bairns. This will be another o’ the gang. Lads, take hold, and see what he has on him.”
But with one bound the seemingly weak and slender man flung himself in the direction of the door. Before they could move he was out into the lobby among the lavender bags containing Mary Lyon’s Sunday wardrobe, and but for the fact that he mistook the door of a preserve closet for the front door, he might easily have escaped them all. But Rob, who was young and active, closed in upon him. The slim man squirmed like an eel, and even when on the ground drew a knife and stuck it into the calf of Rob’s leg. A yell, and a stamp followed, and then a great silence in which we looked at one another awe-stricken. Mr. Wringham Poole lay like a crushed caterpillar, inert and twitching. It seemed as if Rob had killed him; but my grandfather, with proper care and precautions drew away the knife, and after having passed a hand over the body in search of further concealed weapons, laid him out on the four haircloth chairs, with a footstool under his head for a pillow.
Then, having listened to the beating of the wounded man’s heart, he reassured us with a nod. All would be right. Next, from an inner pocket he drew a pocket-book, out of the first division of which dropped a black mask, like those worn at the assault upon Marnhoul, with pierced eyeholes and strings for fastening behind the ears. There were also a few papers and a card on which was printed a name—
“Wringham Pollixfen Poole”; and then underneath, written in pencil in a neat lawyer-like hand, were the words, “Consultation at the Old Port at midnight to-morrow.”
At this we all looked at one another with a renewal of our perturbation. The firm of Smart, Poole and Smart had existed in Dumfries for a long time, and was highly considered. But in these troubled times one never knew how far his neighbour might have been led. A man could only answer for himself, and even as to that, he had sometimes a difficulty in explaining himself. One of the firm of lawyers in the High Street might have been tempted out of his depth. But, at any rate, here was one of them damaged, and that by the hasty act of one of the sons of the house of Heathknowes—which in itself was a serious matter.
My grandfather, therefore, judged it well that the lawyers in Dumfries should be informed of what had befallen as soon as possible. But Mr. Wringham Pollixfen Poole, if such were his name, was certainly in need of being watched till my grandfather’s return, specially as of necessity he would be in the same house as Miss Irma and Sir Louis.
None of the young men, therefore, could be spared to carry a message to Dumfries. My father could not leave his school, and so it came to pass that I was dispatched to saddle my grandfather’s horse. He would ride to Dumfries with me on a pillion behind him, one hand tucked into the pocket of his blue coat, while with the other I held the belt about his waist to make sure. I had to walk up the hills, but that took little of the pleasure away. Indeed, best of all to me seemed that running hither and thither like a questing spaniel, in search of all manner of wild flowers, or the sight of strange, unknown houses lying in wooded glens—one I mind was Goldielea—which, as all the mead before the door was one mass of rag-weed (which only grows on the best land), appeared to me the prettiest and most appropriate name for a house that ever was.
And so think I still.