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Dmitri Nesteruk
Design Patterns in .NET: Reusable Approaches in C# and F# for
Object-Oriented Software Design
Dmitri Nesteruk
St. Petersburg, c.St-Peterburg, Russia
Part I: Introduction����������������������������������������������������������������������1
Chapter 1: The SOLID Design Principles�����������������������������������������������3
Single Responsibility Principle������������������������������������������������������������������������������3
Open-Closed Principle������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������6
Liskov Substitution Principle�������������������������������������������������������������������������������14
Interface Segregation Principle��������������������������������������������������������������������������17
Dependency Inversion Principle��������������������������������������������������������������������������22
iii
Table of Contents
Fluent Builder������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������45
Communicating Intent�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������46
Composite Builder�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������48
Builder Parameter�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������52
Fluent Interface Inheritance��������������������������������������������������������������������������������55
DSL Construction in F#����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������59
Summary������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������61
Chapter 4: Factories���������������������������������������������������������������������������63
Scenario��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������63
Factory Method���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������65
Factory����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������67
Inner Factory�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������67
Logical Separation�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������69
Abstract Factory��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������69
Functional Factory����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������72
Summary������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������74
Chapter 5: Prototype���������������������������������������������������������������������������77
Deep vs. Shallow Copying�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������77
ICloneable Is Bad������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������78
Deep Copying with a Special Interface���������������������������������������������������������������80
Deep Copying Objects�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������81
Duplication via Copy Construction����������������������������������������������������������������������83
Serialization��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������84
Prototype Factory������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������86
Summary������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������88
iv
Table of Contents
Chapter 6: Singleton���������������������������������������������������������������������������91
Singleton by Convention�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������92
Classic Implementation���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������93
Lazy Loading��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������94
The Trouble with Singleton���������������������������������������������������������������������������������95
Singletons and Inversion of Control������������������������������������������������������������������100
Monostate���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������101
Summary����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������102
Chapter 8: Bridge������������������������������������������������������������������������������121
Conventional Bridge������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������121
Dynamic Prototyping Bridge�����������������������������������������������������������������������������125
Summary����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������129
Chapter 9: Composite�����������������������������������������������������������������������131
Grouping Graphic Objects���������������������������������������������������������������������������������131
Neural Networks�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������134
Shrink Wrapping the Composite�����������������������������������������������������������������������138
Summary����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������140
v
Table of Contents
vi
Table of Contents
vii
Table of Contents
viii
Table of Contents
ix
Table of Contents
Classic Visitor����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������340
Implementing an Additional Visitor��������������������������������������������������������������343
Acyclic Visitor����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������345
Functional Visitor����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������348
Summary����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������349
Index�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������351
x
About the Author
Dmitri Nesteruk is a quantitative analyst,
developer, course and book author, and an
occasional conference speaker. His interests lie
in software development and integration
practices in the areas of computation,
quantitative finance, and algorithmic trading.
His technological interests include C# and C++
programming as well as high-performance
computing using technologies such as CUDA
and field-programmable gate arrays (FPGAs).
He has been a C# MVP since 2009.
xi
Introduction
The topic of design patterns sounds dry, academically dull and, in
all honesty, done to death in almost every programming language
imaginable—including programming languages such as JavaScript
that aren’t even properly object-oriented programming (OOP)! So why
another book on it? I know that if you’re reading this in a bookstore, you
probably have a limited amount of time to decide whether this is worth the
investment.
I decided to write this book to fill a gap left by the lack of patterns
books in the .NET space. Plenty of books have been written over the years,
but not one has attempted to research all the ways in which modern C#
and F# language features can be used to implement design patterns and
present corresponding examples. Having just completed a similar body of
work for C++,1 I thought it fitting to replicate the process with .NET.
Now, on to design patterns. The original design patterns book2 was
published with examples in C++ and Smalltalk and, since then, plenty of
programming languages have incorporated certain design patterns directly
into the language. For example, C# directly incorporated the Observer
pattern with its built-in support for events (and the corresponding event
keyword).
Design patterns are also a fun investigation of how a problem can
be solved in many different ways, with varying degrees of technical
sophistication and different sorts of trade-offs. Some patterns are more
1
Dmitri Nesteruk, Design Patterns in Modern C++ (New York, NY: Apress, 2017).
2
Erich Gamma, Richard Helm, Raplph Johnson, and John Vlissides, Design
Patterns: Elements of Reusable Object-Oriented Software (Reading, MA: Addison
Wesley, 1994).
xiii
Introduction
xiv
Introduction
You should be aware that most of the examples leverage the latest
version of C# and generally use the latest C# language features that are
available to developers. For example, I use dynamic, pattern matching, and
expression-bodied members liberally.
At certain points in time, I reference other programming languages
such as C++ or Kotlin. It is sometimes interesting to note how designers of
other languages have implemented a particular feature. C# is no stranger
to borrowing generally available ideas from other languages, so I mention
those when we come to them.
xv
PART I
Introduction
CHAPTER 1
Now, you could add functionality for adding an entry to the journal,
prefixed by the entry’s ordinal number in the journal. You could also have
functionality for removing entries (implemented in a very crude way here).
This is easy:
It makes sense to have this method as part of the Journal class because
adding a journal entry is something the journal actually needs to do. It is
the journal’s responsibility to keep entries, so anything related to that is fair
game.
Now, suppose you decide to make the journal persist by saving it to a
file. You add this code to the Journal class:
4
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
O
pen-Closed Principle
Suppose we have an (entirely hypothetical) range of products in a
database. Each product has a color and size and is defined as follows:
1
An anti-pattern is a design pattern that also, unfortunately, shows up in code
often enough to be recognized globally. The difference between a pattern and an
anti-pattern is that anti-patterns are typically patterns of bad design, resulting in
code that is difficult to understand, maintain, and refactor.
6
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
Our current approach of filtering items by color is all well and good,
although of course it could be greatly simplified with the use of LINQ. So,
our code goes into production but, unfortunately, some time later, the
7
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
This feels like outright duplication, doesn’t it? Why don’t we just write
a general method that takes a predicate (i.e., a Predicate<T>)? Well, one
reason could be that different forms of filtering can be done in different
ways: For example, some record types might be indexed and need to be
searched in a specific way; some data types are amenable to search on a
Graphics processing units (GPU) whereas others are not.
Furthermore, you might want to restrict the criteria one can filter on.
For example, if you look at Amazon or a similar online store, you are only
allowed to perform filtering on a finite set of criteria. Those criteria can be
added or removed by Amazon if they find that, say, sorting by number of
reviews interferes with the bottom line.
Okay, so our code goes into production but, once again, the boss
comes back and tells us that now there is a need to search by both size and
color. So what are we to do but add another methods?
8
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
Again, all we are doing is specifying the signature for a method called
Filter() that takes all the items and a specification, and returns only
those items that conform to the specification.
9
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
10
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
Armed with this specification, and given a list of products, we can now
filter them as follows:
This code gets us “Apple” and “Tree” because they are both green. Now,
the only thing we have not implemented so far is searching for size and color
(or, indeed, explaining how you would search for size or color, or mix different
criteria). The answer is that you simply make a composite specification (or a
combinator). For example, for the logical AND, you can make it as follows:
11
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
This was a lot of code to do something seemingly simple, but the benefits
are well worth it. The only really annoying part is having to specify the
generic argument to AndSpecification—remember, unlike the color and
size specifications, the combinator is not constrained to the Product type.
Keep in mind that, thanks to the power of C#, you can simply introduce
an operator & (important: note the single ampersand here; && is a by-
product) for two ISpecification<T> objects, thereby making the process
of filtering by two (or more) criteria somewhat simpler. The only problem
is that we need to change from an interface to an abstract class (feel free to
remove the leading I from the name).
12
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
If you now avoid making extra variables for size and color
specifications, the composite specification can be reduced to a single line:2
2
otice we’re using a single & in the evaluation. If you want to use &&, you’ll also
N
need to override the true and false operators in ISpecification.
13
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
So, let’s recap what OCP is and how the given example enforces it.
Basically, OCP states that you shouldn’t need to go back to code you have
already written and tested and change it. That is exactly what’s happening
here! We made ISpecification<T> and IFilter<T> and, from then on, all
we have to do is implement either of the interfaces (without modifying the
interfaces themselves) to implement new filtering mechanics. This is what
is meant by “open for extension, closed for modification.”
One thing worth noting is that conformance with OCP is only possible
inside an object-oriented paradigm. For example, F#’s discriminated
unions are by definition not compliant with OCP because it is impossible
to extend them without modifying their original definition.
14
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
Here’s a rectangle; it has width and height and a bunch of getters and
setters, and a property getter for calculating the area:
public Rectangle() {}
public Rectangle(int width, int height)
{
Width = width;
Height = height;
}
15
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
This approach is evil. You cannot see it yet, because it looks very
innocent indeed: The setters simply set both dimensions (so that a square
always remains a square). What could possibly go wrong? Well, suppose
we introduce a method that makes use of a Rectangle:
16
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
This is fine. Now, suppose you decide to define an interface that needs
to be implemented by everyone who also plans to make a multifunction
17
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
printer. You could use the Extract Interface function in your favorite IDE
and you’ll get something like the following:
18
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
19
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
20
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
21
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
3
Robert C. Martin, Agile Software Development, Principles, Patterns, and Practices
(Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 2002), pp. 127–131.
22
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
23
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
{
// high-level: find all of John's children
var relations = relationships.Relations;
foreach (var r in relations
.Where(x => x.Item1.Name == "John"
&& x.Item2 == Relationship.Parent))
{
WriteLine($"John has a child called {r.Item3.Name}");
}
}
}
24
Chapter 1 The SOLID Design Principles
Now this is something that our Research module can depend on! We
can inject an IRelationshipBrowser into its constructor and perform the
research safely, without digging into the low-level module’s internals:
25
CHAPTER 2
The Functional
Perspective
The functional paradigm is supported by both the C# and F# languages.
Both languages can claim to be multiparadigm because they fully support
both object-oriented programming (OOP) and functional programming,
although F# has more of a “functional first” mindset with object
orientation added for completeness, whereas in C# the integration of
functional programming aspects appears to be much more harmonious.
Here we are going to take a very cursory look at functional
programming in the C# and F# languages. Some of the material might
already be familiar to you; in that case, feel free to skip this part.
F unction Basics
First, a note on notation. In this book, I use the words method and function
interchangeably to mean the same thing: a self-contained operation that
takes zero or more inputs and has zero or more outputs (return values).
I use the word method when working exclusively in the C# domain,
and likewise use the word function when dealing exclusively with the
functional domain.
class Ops
{
public static int Add(int a, int b)
{
return a + b;
}
}
let add a b = a + b
[CompilationMapping]
public static class Program
{
[CompilationArgumentCounts(new int[] {1, 1})]
public static int add(int a, int b)
{
28
Chapter 2 The Functional Perspective
return a + b;
}
}
As you might have guessed, the static class Program got its name from
the name of the file the code was in (in this case, Program.fs). The types
of arguments were chosen as a guesstimate. What if we were to add a call
with different argument types?
The reason why this is possible is called type inference: The compiler
figures out which types you are actually using in a function, and tries to
accommodate by constructing a function with corresponding parameters.
Sadly, this is not a silver bullet. For example, if you were to subsequently
add another call, it would fail:
let n = add 1 2
// Error: This expression was expected to have type 'string'
but here has type 'int'
29
Chapter 2 The Functional Perspective
Functional Literals in C#
It is not always convenient to define functions inside classes: sometimes
you want to create a function exactly where you need it; that is, in another
function. These sorts of functions are called anonymous because they are
not given persistent names; instead, the function is stored in a delegate.
The old-fashioned, C# 2.0 way of defining anonymous functions is with
the use of a delegate keyword, similar to the following:
Storing Functions in C#
A key feature of functional programming is being able to refer to functions
and call them through references. In C#, the simplest way to do this is
using delegates.
30
Chapter 2 The Functional Perspective
BinaryOperation op = Ops.Add;
int x = op(2, 3);
class Program
{
static int Subtract(int a, int b) => a - b;
static void Main(string[] args)
{
BinaryOperation op = Subtract;
int x = op(10, 2); // 8
}
}
31
Chapter 2 The Functional Perspective
void SomeMethod()
{
BinaryOperation op = (a, b) => a / b;
int x = op(10, 2); // 5
}
Now, here is the important part: in the majority of cases, defining your
own delegates is not necessary. Why? Because the .NET Base Class Library
(BCL) comes with predefined delegates of up to 16 parameters in length
(C# has no variadic templates1) that cover most cases in which you might
be interested.
The Action delegate represents a function that does not return a
value (is void). Its generic arguments relate to the types of arguments this
function takes. So you can write something like:
1
ariadic templates are primarily a C++ concept. They allow you to define
V
template (generic) types and methods that take an arbitrary number of type
arguments, and provide syntax for efficiently iterating the argument type list.
.NET generics are implemented differently to C++ templates (their “genericity” is
preserved at runtime), so variadics in .NET are not possible.
32
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
Wherever you come from, you have fallen a very opportune
hostage.”
“Ah! my friend. But it shows others than the master of the
house to be on the alert. I am not informed of the details of your
attack; but no doubt you thought to rush the place at your first
assault.”
“You are absolutely right. We failed in that; but I may tell you,
sir, that any prolonged resistance there, besides necessarily proving
futile, will greatly incense my men.”
“But why necessarily futile?”
“Pooh! Mr. Tuke. We have gone over our ground long and
carefully. (Again I will be entirely open with you. Why should I not?
If ever right justified might, it does in this business.) Do you fancy I
am ignorant of the nature and capacity of your household?”
“True, true. Now, I am curious to know, Mr. Fern, how long you
have been gathered here in this force?”
“Shall we put it at seventeen hours? When the snow increased
we saw that Providence was set to favour the cause of justice, and
we moved up here by twos and threes, and were all—thirteen of us,
sir—assembled in the lodge by four o’clock of yesterday afternoon.”
“So ’twas the snow decided you?”
“Sir, I will own to you that we had thought originally to make a
simpler finish of the matter; but your unexpected return from
London disturbed our plans. However, all has worked for the best;
for here we stand in our relations of besieged and besieging, as
isolated as though we were vulture and deserted camel in the midst
of Sahara. You see your position, Mr. Tuke. There is no hope of
succour from any quarter. We have food and ammunition in
abundance, and if we choose, we can batter your house about the
ears of its two or three defenders. Already my strong fellows have
been at work, cutting a path up the drive and beyond it, and they
have accounted for one of your trumpery force. If you are wise, you
will consent to treat. If you are humane, you will forbear to sacrifice
to your vanity the lives of the unthinking few who serve you. And
you have women there, Mr. Tuke—women, sir, women! They have a
fashion of thinking death not the worst evil they can suffer.”
The captive, his heart blazing, saw the soul of this unspeakable
ruffian revealed. He would have risked all and choked him with his
hands, had these been free. As it was, he sought to play a sounder
part by hiding his repulsion.
“Now, sir,” said the white-haired man very softly, “I put my
proposal quite definitely—quite plainly, that there may be no
mistaking it and no temporizing with it. I will exchange the person of
Mr. Tuke for the stone that goes by the name of the ‘Lake of Wine,’
and, upon receipt of the latter, will withdraw my men and leave this
neighbourhood for ever at peace.”
The other did not answer.
“You need not say,” went on Mr. Fern in the same quiet tone,
“that you have not the jewel or any knowledge of its whereabouts.
That were superfluous. I possess convincing evidence of its being
concealed somewhere in your house. Pray do not trouble yourself or
me with a denial.”
He paused for an answer. An acute observer might have noticed
that his fingers twitched a little, as though they longed to tear out
by the roots the confession he so suavely invited.
“And if I refuse your terms?” said Tuke, looking steadily at his
man.
“Then I much regret it will be necessary to adopt coercive
measures.”
The baronet drew himself up, the fury he had so long
suppressed glinting in his eyes.
“You brazen scoundrel!” he cried, “to dare to assume that any
threat could bring me to condone your villainy! Do your worst, you
dog, and clinch your account with the devil!”
He was starting forward, when the other went swiftly to the
door, opened it, looked back with a horrible smile, and vanished.
“And here endeth the first lesson,” said Mr. Tuke.
CHAPTER XLIV.
Upon the unfortunate gentleman, now committed to an irksome
and most apprehensive solitude, fell a score of little demons of
melancholy and alarm. To men of his fibre there is no chastening so
bitter as confinement; and though with the master-rogue he had
borne himself like the spirited knight of destiny he was, no sooner
was he left alone than he found his indignation subordinated to
reflections that were distracting to the last degree.
What would his companions think had become of him? and,
failing his return, would they follow in his tracks and fall into that
selfsame snare?
Was Miss Royston, with her lordling cavalier, even now
established a prisoner in his house? or had she failed to respond to
her brother’s invitation?
Who was it that had shut “Delsrop” against the besieging
rascals? and would his household, deprived of its legitimate head
and in ignorance as to his fate, exhibit the nerve to conduct and
sustain an effective resistance?
What member of his personnel had been shot that morning? A
man, it appeared. Then, if not Dunlone——
He ran over in his mind the names of those in his service—two
grooms, one of them a mere boy, and the imported Jim. These, with
Betty, Darda, possibly Angela, and three maids, were the sum total
of the defenders. Half-a-dozen girls, two men and a boy; and one of
the latter already accounted for.
He groaned, and set to tramping to and fro like a wild, caged
beast. His impotence, the impossibility of resolving any one of these
problems that tortured him, set his brain reeling. His hands had
been corded behind him so tightly that the flesh swelled and lapped
over the knots. Yet it was not his personal discomfort that chiefly
perturbed him, or any apprehension of the force of coercion his
captors would be brutal enough to employ. That he was condemned,
in the midst of a stirring episode in his career, to a pitiful inaction,
was what galled him like a rowel.
Almost simultaneously with his interlocutor’s withdrawal from
the room, a sentry, of a villainous cast, had made his appearance
outside the window, where he took his stand, flint-lock on shoulder.
Another (by token of his hard breathing and the intermittent click of
a hammer against his coat-buttons as he shifted his position from
time to time) was stationed outside the door.
From the room opposite came fitfully the sound of voices in low
discussion. The fire upon the hearth died upon itself and consigned
the stark little room to a perfect apathy of chilliness. Frost gathered
on the diamonds of the casement and turned the stolid sentry into a
phantom of himself. And still the dull hours sped onwards and not a
soul came to lighten his depression.
He had long before drawn the marrow, in his monotonous tramp
hither and thither, from every object of slightest interest that the
small ruined chamber could boast. Here was the crazed girl’s
museum, arranged on worm-eaten shelves—a medley of grotesque
rubbish that superstition had thought fit to respect. It was a
gruesome litter—skins, stones, and petrified vegetables; and he had
cursed his own high precipitancy over the thought of how a little
forbearance on his part might have saved to the collection its most
notable item, and so rendered nugatory all the present evil that
encompassed him.
Once he had stooped to examine a certain object amongst the
trash—a round pebble that seemed familiar to him. It was the
scrawled stone that had been slung through a window for Dennis’s
behoof, and he peered at it with an emotion commingled of curiosity
and remorse. So Darda it was had secured the treasure—to her, no
doubt, a veritable message from the shadows. And had the rascal
that threw it recognized his handiwork amongst these other fetishes
and chuckled to see it reserved for such high distinction? It was
probable enough, for the room bore signs of late occupation by
some very rough company. Gnawed crusts, onion-skins, tobacco-
ashes lay scattered about the hearth. In one corner was a litter of
twigs and broken branches, hastily collected, it would appear, for
fire-wood, and cast down beside them was an old canvas-bag,
striped pink and drab, that had been stuffed with dead leaves for
fuel. In another a greasy gridiron and a dinted tin pannikin or so
were evidence of a certain commissariat foresight on the part of the
besiegers; while an empty rundlet, thrown aside like a discharged
cartridge-case, was earnest of that species of baggage without
which no knight of fortune can be brought to take the road.
Each and all of these objects the prisoner dwelt upon, and
passed by, and reviewed again and again, till his brain learnt to
loathe their inevitability at the turning-points of his wearisome
sentry-go. And still the icy hours closed upon themselves and no
soul came near him.
By and by, as an acute accent to his long trial of cold and
anxiety, extreme hunger asserted itself the overpowering sensation.
He had not touched food then for more than thirty hours, and his
frame had been submitted during the whole of that time to severe
and exhausting experiences. When at last, from thoughts otherwise
preoccupying, he woke to an amazed realization of the fact that he
was being starved into submission, he strode to the door and kicked
at the panels in an excess of furious indignation. To the very
thundering noise of his onset a low voice across the passage
returned like an echo.
“Rudland, if the prisoner shows himself outside, shoot him at
once.”
“You hound!” he shouted at that—“bring me food! d’ye hear?
bring me food, or I’ll burn the house down!”
A little answer of laughter was clipt in the bud. The threat was
to be considered. A moment later Brander’s step crossed the
passage, and the man himself entered the room. His eye sought the
fire-place, found its relief in the dead coldness there, and came back
with a twinkle of mockery to the prisoner.
“You are hungry?” he said.
“What would you suppose, fellow?”
“That you are, of course. ’Tis a pitiful sensation. I’ve suffered it,
believe me.”
“D’you think to starve me into tameness?”
“What!—a high-spirited gentleman like you? I believe—as I have
advised elsewhere—that far more caustic measures will be necessary
to prevail with you. Still, hunger is a very good ground-bait to
precede the angler and his hook.”
“And you think to subdue me by such means? ’Tis a protecting
clause of humanity that scoundrels cut their cloth according to the
measure of their own cowardice.”
“According to the features of their hostages, by your leave, sir.”
“I’m not going to ask you what you mean.”
“You shall have the explanation gratis. You’ve twitted me,
vulgarly enough on the loss of these——”
He signified with a fierce gesture his flapless earholes.
“Twitted?” said Tuke. “Where is the reason to twit a docked
curt?”
“You’ll find they left me my teeth, by God—my teeth and my
nails.”
He almost shouted—“You shall grow a love-lock—you shall grow
a love-lock, sir, to hide the place that your lady mayn’t know when
she whispers there!”
“What! are you going to cut off my ears?”
“Aye, you may grin your fill. You’ll grin to suffer that on an
empty belly. You shall feel the hook before we land you, and grin like
a sole!”
There was something so horribly relishing in the man’s tone that
the listener’s heart went sick.
“Mutilation!” said he. “Beware what you say, fellow.”
“’Tis what we’ll do, man. We’ll lop your fine heroics toe by toe,
till there remain nought but stumps to foot it on. Why—d’ye suppose
we’ve pushed the matter so far to shrink at a shadow? I give you
warning. We’ve neither time nor mood for palaver. To-night you shall
have for reflection—the devils of cold and hunger to counsel you;
and so be you’re in a like frame of obstinacy after that test to-
morrow you shall be pruned for token to your friends over there, and
again and yet again till you or they are convinced of the wisdom of
an exchange. I’ve learnt the right art of clipping in Calabria, sir, and
will shave you that ’twill be a pleasure to you to feel the razor.”
He stopped, with a dark and malignant look on his face—backed
a step, opened the door and disappeared.
For a minute after his exit Tuke stood too astounded for speech
or action. That here, on his own land, in the heart of orderly
England, he should be held by blackguard outlaws for ransom, and
menaced with outrage like any victim of continental brigandage,
seemed too preposterous for belief. Coming to his senses, in a
paroxysm of rage he flung himself against the door and hurled
curses on his invisible enemies till he was hoarse. Not a murmur in
response was vouchsafed him. Spent and agitated, though still
boiling with anger, he resumed his monotonous tramp to and fro, till,
utterly worn out, he let himself drop upon a heap of sticks, and,
leaning his shoulder against the wall-corner, fell into a sort of stupor
of exhaustion.
Night closed upon him lying thus—a night of sleeplessness and
torture. His furious struggles to release his hands had only riveted
their bonds the closer, and his inflamed and swollen wrists gave him
exquisite anguish. The position of his arms was one long cramping
torment. The worm of hunger writhed in his vitals, while fever
glowed in the marrow of his bones; and all the long dark through,
the bitter frost smote his limbs into numbness and seemed to
hammer at his heart.
Now and again to his deadened senses would come a little
appeal like a memory—the smell of roasting meat, the crackle of a
fire, the sound of reckless voices passing discordant toasts. He only
connected these with the processes of a conscious delirium, and was
concerned simply that they would not cease and leave him to his
miserable loneliness.
Sometimes, in lucid intervals, as it seemed, and that before the
rising tide of darkness had drowned the last glimmering streaks of
light, he would find himself on his feet insanely inspired for the
twentieth time to break his prison by one swift and silent effort; and
there always, a blurred phantom outside the window, was the
inexorable presentment of the guard.
No least balm of sleep could he woo to his aching eyelids; only
presently, into his other sufferings was dropped that keystone of
anguish, a raging thirst.
Racked, body and mind, burnt and frozen and twisted, he fell at
last into a torpor of the senses that must do duty for rest, and so
triumphed over the hours and was aware all at once of daylight in
the room. The very sight was life. A haggard ghost of himself, he
scrambled painfully to his feet, and, lurching to the window, stood
drinking in the weak wine of sunlight.
Suddenly it came to him that the sentry was withdrawn. A wild
hope tingled in his veins, only to as swiftly die away. These dogs
could take the right measure of cruelty. Yesterday, bound as he was,
it would have needed all his vigour and resourcefulness to escape by
way of that little aperture; now, weakened and nerveless, he must
find the task impossible. And, even while assuring himself on this
point, he heard the room-door opened, and, turning, saw a stealthy
face look in, take stock of him, and vanish.
Presently, finding a little of the spirit of strength and defiance
returning to him, he set to tramping the room again, feebly at first,
but by and by with an increase of vigour. For an hour he may have
walked, when, without forespeech or warning, the door was flung
open and there quickly entered Fern and Brander, who shut
themselves in and stood by the threshold, facing the prisoner.
Both men were braced and accoutred as if for some immediate
business of violence. Into belts drawn about their waists were stuck
murderous-looking knives; pistol-butts stood from their skirt-pockets,
and each had a flint-lock slung across his shoulders. For the rest
they were the suave and the brutal, and a couple of as soulless
ruffians as ever fouled the sunlight.
There was to be no more temporizing, it seemed; and the
white-haired leader spoke up at once.
“We would ask your decision, Mr. Tuke,” he said.
The gentleman, his eyes blazing contempt, had paused opposite
the two, as if he questioned a very daring intrusion.
“What do you want of me?” said he.
“The answer is simple. We demand our own—a ruby that goes
by the name of the ‘Lake of Wine.’”
“I have no such ruby in my possession.”
“Tut, sir, tut; the prevarication is unworthy of you. Let us say,
then, the skull that contains it.”
“The skull!”
“Mr. Tuke, Mr. Tuke, this will not serve your purpose. We have
direct evidence of the truth, sir, and that from more than one
source.”
“You have, have you?”
“—And I am free to advise you, sir, to refrain for the future from
discussing with your friends such very private affairs on the public
road.”
To the unfortunate prisoner all in a moment came a clap of
revelation.
“We were overheard?”
“Ah-ha! You give yourself away.”
“There was more said—and ’twas that evening the ‘First Inn’
was fired.”
Some conscious sign passed between the rogues at his words.
Tuke sprang at them, actually gnashing his teeth.
“I guessed it, you foul-blooded dogs! and may God burn your
hearts for that wanton ruin of a poor maid!”
They had seized him and forced him back struggling and
helpless. The beast was awake in Fern. His eyes opened bloodshot,
his lip was lifted; he snapped out his knife and held it like a butcher.
“You Jack-a-dandy!” he screamed in a woman’s voice—“for a
word I’d rip you like a pig!”
He stamped on the floor.
“Take your choice, or go piecemeal to hell. An ear and a nose
and a lip for the stone, and if they don’t serve, every member of
your cursed carcass for token to the fat wench I gave you for
mistress.”
Tuke wrenched himself free, and, butting with his shoulder,
flung himself at the scoundrel with all his force. He felt himself spun
round—a fiery tooth crossed his wrist, and he stumbled and went his
length on the floor. Looking up as he lay, momentarily expecting to
feel the deadlier plunge of the blade that had already slashed at
him, he saw to his surprise Fern raving and struggling in the grasp of
his more powerful fellow-rogue.
“Let go!” he was shrieking—“you fool, d’you think to baulk me in
my blood-lust!”
“Yes!” cried Brander fiercely. “You kill the goose—you kill the
goose, you madman! Come out—by God, you shall! I’ve another test
to propose!”
His own face was white with fury as he held back the dribbling
and snarling animal, and had his better strength failed to master it,
it is likely he would have driven his knife into the swollen throat
under him. But he prevailed in a moment, and dragged the other in
a patter of curses from the room.
As the key turned in the lock, Tuke collapsed upon himself in a
half-faint.
CHAPTER XLV.
To a sane and humane soul there is no revelation so shocking
as that of the scorn in which its rectitude is held by the prevailing
beasts of the world. To the most of us at some time comes this
bitter realization of the force that keeps humanity low. High as our
sense of justice and of decency may be—serene as may figure the
outlook from our lofty chambers of self-respect, we have only to
descend into the plain to find manifest the brutal ruggedness of life
that our hitherto aloofness has idealized. The impotence of honesty
to enforce itself in any question of might; the impotence of morality
to convince self-interest of its baseness—these are the first lessons
in the despair of being. And when, for climax, actual bodily violence
shakes us out of all the uses of dignity, we are fain to wonder what
creative incongruity seeks to leaven all these seething continents of
devils with a finger-pinch of just men, and how the end has justified
the means of blazing Sodom and the Deluge.
To the fainting and battered prisoner in the lodge something in
the nature of such reflections was conveyed through his sufferings.
He had been beaten and mastered, it seemed, by the force that was
merely brutal. Such a situation for himself he had never remotely
conceived. His vagabondage was to have been of the picturesque
sort that aims at nothing more definite than a scorn of conventions.
That which gives or receives a blow—sings with the birds or plays
with the prison rats, with an equal philosophy, or an equal bluntness
of perception, was outside his scope, and certainly outside his
knowledge. If asked, he would have said the condition was not
possible to him, inasmuch as all his experience led him to such a
confidence in his innate capacity for finesse, in his own
masterfulness and sense of what was due to himself, as would carry
the most difficult situation. That any, no matter who, should dare to
treat him with the contempt of the strong for the weak, he had not
dreamed could be; and waking to the realization that it was, a bitter
stubborn hatred of those who had taught him his lesson stung in his
veins like poison.
It was a poison, nevertheless, that was a tonic. It brought him
to himself, and to a determination to subordinate his passions to his
intellect. Let him recover a little, regain a moiety of his strength,
and, instead of wasting his time in fruitless ravings, he would study
to set his wits against his captors’, and win or die in the attempt to
vindicate their superiority.
He was lying on his back on the floor as he had fallen. For how
long a time he had been stretched there he could not guess; but he
was stiff and numb with cold, and all his agony of being seemed
concentrated in a single flaring thread. This was underneath him, he
fancied—a taut string of pain; and at first he could not account for it,
or disassociate the sensation from some ridiculous travesties of
delirium. He had been given a red-hot knife with which to carve his
dinner—a joint all ribs and emptiness; he had thrust his hand into
his pocket, which had been lined with a grid of steel blades; he had
broken a great crystal goblet from which he was about to drink, and
a keen fragment had sliced his arm.
By and by the unfailing localization of these grotesque injuries
led his recovering perceptions to the remembrance that his hands
were tied behind him and that he was lying upon them. Then in a
flash he recalled the final scene—the vicious swoop of the knife and
the stinging pain that followed; and he recognized all at once that he
had been stabbed.
The nature of the wound—what was it? With an effort he turned
upon his side. For all the cramp and torment in his arms he could
move his fingers a little. The pressure on these maltreated limbs had
wrought one benefit—it had stopped the flow of blood. But there
was something else—something——
With the little weak cry he gave out, he rolled on to his back
once more; for there had been a sound at the door, and a man came
into the room.
“Joe,” he said feebly—“Joe Corby!”
The new-comer, looking down upon him, nodded.
“How’s you?” said he.
“I’m very bad, Joe. I’m hurt in body, and more in mind that you
should lend yourself to this business. What makes you do it, Joe?”
Mr. Corby’s answer was enigmatical and brief.
“Bulbs,” said he.
“Joe,” said the patient, “you’re a man of such few words that I
hardly like to ask you to squander any on an explanation. Still
circumstances have dulled my faculties.”
“I spekilated in ’em,” said Joe, “and I were sold.”
“I see, sold up. A man of courage would have turned and taken
Fortune by the neck.”
“Would he? It ain’t my way. You may thumb me in like a March
onion for to come up in June, but if the ground don’t soot me I
jumps out. Gardening was my ban and I tuk to the road. What’s the
odds? Here be the Lake o’ Wine a-blossoming like a toolip at the end
of it.”
“But is it, Joe?”
“Ain’t it, now? I speaks free, me and Rudland being left alone on
guard.”
“Why, where are the others?”
The ex-gardener gave a ponderous wink.
“Two ’ll suffice,” he said, “to keep this ’ere maggot from eatin’
his way out of the apple.”
“A baby would suffice, Joe, in my present state.”
The man nodded again serenely.
“I can ventur’ to ease you a trifle,” he said.
“No, leave me alone. I’m best left quiet. It’s odd what browsing
lambs you all were till misfortune came like a wolf into the fold.
What do you expect for your share, Joe?”
“More or less than you are a-going to offer me to let you
escape. It’s no good, cap’en. The riches of the world wouldn’t bribe
me with Fern a-treadin’ on my tail.”
With the words he went to the door, looked back grinning, and
vanished.
Tuke waited during an interval of suspense, until he judged
himself strong enough to make a noiseless effort to rise. Then, very
cautiously and by slow degrees, he got to his knees—to his feet, and
stood swaying. Suddenly he wrenched his arms, and they parted and
swung down idly by his sides. It was as he had felt and dared to
hope—the slash of the murderous knife had severed his bonds at the
wrist.
For some moments he stood wrapt in the mere ecstasy of
physical relief. Then he tried to lift his arms, found himself unable to,
and looked down at the poor dangling limbs. They were a pitiful
sight—swollen, paralyzed, discoloured, and streaked with clotted
blood. In alarm he endeavoured to woo them to a return of
circulation by gently swinging and rubbing them against his coat-
skirts. For a time no result was apparent; but persisting, in what
panic flurry of motion he could contrive without noise, he was
rewarded by and by with an awakening of such twinges as he was
convinced betokened a renewal of life in the maltreated members.
The twinges increased in quick recurrence and in force, until his
arms seemed mere engines of boiling and bursting pains. He could
hardly endure the agony and not cry out; but he set his teeth and
rubbed either limb furiously with a hand, unconscious in his torment
that the power of motion was thus restored to him.
At last the pain slackened, and he was able to think. He
examined his wrist and found the wound to be a long and superficial
one, but enough to have caused him considerable loss of blood had
chance not applied an effective tourniquet. His hands were still little
capable, his whole frame was suffering and enfeebled; but his
triumph of release from bondage was a stimulant that wrought upon
him like wine.
A weapon—that was his first necessity. Moving with extreme
nicety, he examined every corner and crevice in the room. Not so
much as a broken penknife rewarded his search. Across the hall-
passage Mr. Corby lifted up his voice in sincere but unmelodious
praise of the red, red rose. Escape appeared impossible but by some
bold and unexpected coup. Was he strong enough to venture it—to
issue from the room suddenly, overwhelm the unsuspecting Joe, put
him hors de combat with his own hanger, and made a bolt for the
wood by the garden-way? The risk was fearful; and what but a
floundering death in the drift should follow, with pursuit perhaps in
his tracks? On the other hand, to delay meant probable outrage and
mutilation, and a certain steady decrease of physique hour by hour.
He was resolved to it; he stood with his shoulder set to the
door-jamb, tense for one uttermost effort—when the sound of voices
close by in the drive brought him to a pause; and the next moment
he heard the front door flung open.
Silently, his heart fearfully drumming, he stepped back to the
very spot from which he had risen, and, slipping down upon the
boards, resumed as nearly as he could the position in which the
ruffians had left him. As he did so, he heard the tramp of men in the
passage, a sound of jeering voices, and the next moment the door
of the room was thrown open and his visitors of the morning re-
entered.
They bore the appearance of men baffled, but with some
gloating evil in their hearts. Fern strode to the prisoner and picked at
him roughly with his boot-toe.
“How now!” he shrilled. “D’you make your bed there?”
Tuke judged defiance the better policy.
“Curse you!” he cried in a broken voice. “Do you see this patch
on the floor? ’Twould have said little for your judgment to have left
me to bleed to death. A fine leader of rogues, on my faith!”
“Ha! my friend—we’ll cauterize the next wound for you with a
red-hot blade. And so you’ve been seeking to bribe the sentry?”
There was hoarse laughter from the door, where a half-dozen
scoundrel faces were gathered.
“I take my cue from the foremost of you,” said the prisoner,
speaking up from the boards. “’Tis not so long since Mr. Brander
there made me an offer of half-shares if I would give him secret
possession of the gem.”
The devil stood a-tiptoe and looked out through the
schoolmaster’s eyes. Mr. Fern’s face was gone a raw beetroot colour.
“How’s that, Brander?” said he.
“A ruse,” said the other coolly. “I have more tricks to my
philosophy of persuasion than you have methods to your villainy.”
“My style suits my company best, I think. You acknowledge you
tried to treat, then?”
“And do you look to my condescension to deny or explain?”
There had been murmurs at the door; and, upon this: “He’s
lying!” cried a voice.
Mr. Brander was a man of few superfluities—a born director of
others. This was because he never let an occasion over-ripen, but
plucked his fruit before it fell. He had been quite prepared before the
threatening utterance, and with the echo of it he wheeled about and
fired his pistol with unerring aim into the thick of the group.
On the clap of the shot broke a loud hiccough—as if the bullet
had pierced a wind-bag—and a fellow pitched forward on the
threshold and bled silently on the floor.
“That’s my bird,” said the sportsman.
He strode to the door, the company stumbling and retreating
before him.
“I’ve the other barrel,” he said. “Does any one want it?”
He stood waiting a moment in a black pause before he spoke
again:
“You’re reflecting who it is plans the entrances while your cow-
heads are butting at the wall. Who is it prepares the way, here and
everywhere, I say, and supplies the brains without which you’d never
finger a crown-piece of your own getting?”
A little patter of voices murmured up, “Ebenezer Brander!”
“Ah!” he said, “that’s proper scholars, and spoken to the word.”
He pocketed his discharged pistol.
“When you feel you can do without me—when you feel you can
depend upon him there” (he turned fiercely and signified his captain,
who stood with an infernal smile on his face) “for all that suits you
best—then’ll be the time to question my methods and offer me my
pass to hell.”
He kicked out his foot slightly in the direction of the dead rogue.
“We were a baker’s dozen. Take away Judas Iscariot and change
the luck.”
Perhaps the suggestion, the appeal to superstition, operated as
powerfully with the company as the man’s own sinister personality.
With exclamations of approval they dragged away the fallen body. It
left a torn wake of red behind it.
“Now, Mr. Fern,” said Brander, turning once more upon his chief
—“in your own interests you’ll thank me, I know, for this exhibition
of authority. It only remains to give this gentleman his last warning.”
“You bitter dogs!” cried up the captive, horror-stricken and
overcome at the swiftness of the tragedy. “I refuse any terms you
may offer. Why, what could such brutal cowards effect against a
couple of honest, determined men? Kill me, if you like, and certify
yourselves for the gallows. I back my good fellows to hold you at
bay till the snow melts, and there you’ll be caught in a trap and the
crows shall banquet. Kill me, and effect more than you’ve done in all
these two days!”
Forgetful in his emotion of every prudence, he raised himself on
an arm. Brander uttered a hoarse chuckling cry.
“God of thunder!” he exclaimed. “Where’s Joe Corby?”
The man was pushed into the room.
“Joe,” said the villain—“he tempted but couldn’t prevail, eh?
Isn’t that so?”
The puzzled fellow scratched his head.
“Work it out, Joe. We cut you short in cutting his bonds, didn’t
we?”
He was fingering his second pistol. Tuke cried out in agony:
“The man’s innocent, you hound! ’Twas that ruffian’s knife
severed the strands when he slashed at me!”
Brander hesitated; but Joe’s profound amazement was
convincing.
“Providence works for us in spite of fools—eh, Jack Fern?” said
the former.
He called in two of the men.
“Splice him up again,” he said, “and firmly.”
It was useless to resist. They tied the wretched gentleman’s
hands behind him once more, cruelly enough, with a long cord, and
the slack of this they fastened to the fire-grate.
“Now,” said Brander—(he seemed virtually the leader; through
all this scene the nominal one stood blazing sullenness)—“we’ve a
little surprise for you, my buck, and have effected more, perhaps,
than you think. Bring in the girl there!”
Lost, broken, and dumfounded, the captive raised his miserable
head at the words. What new triumph of devilry did they betoken?
Darda, before God! His swimming heart was conscious of a
shock, and following it a little burst of shameful thankfulness. Bad
was it, in all conscience, but——
He knew his cracked lips trying to mutter, “What has happened?
How did she fall into your hands?”—but only inarticulate sounds
came from them.
The girl stood there on the threshold, fierce, defiant, held by
two men. The next moment, at a gesture from Brander, she was
gone.
“Now, sir,” said the schoolmaster, beckoning his coconspirator,
and coming close up to his victim—“we deal, as you see, in very
severe realities. We have two in our power at this outset of our little
campaign. A capture a day would serve, but we are impatient for a
quicker settlement. To-night again for reflection. ’Tis a concession,
but we grant it you. With dawn to-morrow it is for you to decide the
fate of this maid and of your own very ornamental members.”
Tuke, like a dying man, saw him nod to him darkly—a grotesque
phantasm as of a last delirium; saw him turn and, in company with
his chief, stalk from the room; knew himself committed to such a
further ordeal of torture as he feared his weakened body would be
powerless to sustain; and, as the last echo of retreating footsteps
came to his ears, his head dropped upon his breast and he
despaired.
CHAPTER XLVI.
An apology is submitted for here retailing some commonplaces
of a very evil duet of rascals.
That began with certain dropping shots of irony, and it ended at
pretty close range.
The kitchen of the tumbled lodge served for guardhouse; and
the two officers were quartered in the little parlour opposite Mr.
Tuke’s room of bondage. Between walked a sentry, and another (on
this occasion Mr. Joseph Corby) was stationed to the front of the
house in the freezing moonlight. Burnt fallow-deer meat had been
plentifully bolted after the exertions of the day, and kegs of rum—
supplied, it must be confessed, by Mr. Breeds, who was not
otherwise represented in this climax of affairs—topped very
agreeably the simplicity of the repast.
Mr. Fern and his lieutenant exchanged speech for the first time
after the second glass. Then said the former suddenly:
“Brander, who’s the cock of this run?”
“Oh, don’t you know, Jack Fern,” was the answer; “the bantam,
by the token, that crows himself red in the face?”
There seemed some personality here.
“Then I’ll have you know, by God, that I’m not to be supplanted
by any white-shackled rooster that can out-screech me. You assume
too much authority, sir, on the strength of an acquaintance with
primers.”
Mr. Brander very urbanely recited the fable of the cock and the
jewel.
“’Twas the Lake of Wine,” said he; “and there it was under your
nose while you kicked up the dunghill. Primers have their uses.”
“Maybe; maybe not.”
“Why, man—give me Cutwater’s letter.”
“What for?”
“Give me Cutwater’s letter, I say.”
The other hesitated, then from a pocket-book that he drew from
his coat, selected a yellowed fragment of paper and flung it sulkily
across the table to his companion.
“Now, Mr. Fern,” said Brander, taking up the letter deliberately
and referring to it—“vouchsafe me your kind attention, if you please.
This was dated, I think, some months before the lamented
gentleman’s death, and was addressed to you?”
“Oh! curse you out of your pedantry, Ebenezer Brander!”
“In it occur the following words, once expressive of mere
violence to you—of enigma to me. Let me re-read them. ‘I’ve got the
stone, bloody Jack Fern, and the stone I mean to keep. You’ll find it,
despite the devil and Mister C., will you? Find it, you——’ (Tut, tut,
Mr. Cutwater! what a shocking unpoliteness!) ‘Pray to the blessed St.
Anthony, you’d better; for it’s hid well, I’ll tell you. It’s in my head
but you’ll make a lame matter of the search.’”
He finished, threw the paper back to the other and pulled at his
pipe.
“‘In my head,’” he repeated, softly knuckling the table. “Who,
when you showed him the letter, half-read the riddle in those words,
and egged you on to renew the search? Whose prognostications
were verified in that which was overheard by our friend the
innkeeper?”
“I grant you can see further into a haystack than the most of
us.”
“You do, do you? Then what’s your complaint?”
“That you undermine me in the favour of my fellows, by God!—
that you assume the leadership and work first and foremost to your
own advancement.”
“Have I misrepresented you in giving that gentleman-scamp his
last warning?”
“No.”
“In concealing from him the truth of the girl’s throwing herself
into our hands?”
“No.”
“You would have blundered in all this. You have the hoofs and
horns of a bullock, and they are your one appeal and resource. Take
the fighting to yourself and leave the diplomacy to your betters.”
“You don’t rest content with your share. I grant you one devil,
and you spawn out a dozen. As there’s hell smouldering for us all, I
believe there was truth in the fellow’s story of your double-dealing
with him.”
Brander rose to his feet.
“Mr. Bloody Jack Fern,” he said, “I’ll wish you good-bye and a
happy release from your difficulties. I waive all claim to a share in
the profits of this undertaking as conducted by you.”
“Sit down, man, sit down—by God, sit down! I believe you’ve
the right honour, and I apologize. ’Twas a test, and the devil fly
away with it! I don’t understand your methods. To me we’re as little
advanced as two days back, and I begin to scent failure.”
“Of course. You’ve a crimson standard of measurement in such
affairs. A murder or two would set you clucking like a hen.”
“The thaw, man, the thaw. Should it come, as that fribble
hinted, before——”
“And where should we be the better then, for staining our
hands? I play for our necks, Jack Fern. From the first I’ve founded
our claim on the unlawful detention of the stone. But you want the
leadership—you want the leadership and that means the credit for
all. And you shall have it, by thunder, and set that fat head of yours,
with the brains drawn out o’t, against a miry problem you shall sink
in for all your frog’s croaking.”
Mr. Fern came slowly to his feet.
“Not empty enough,” he said, in an indrawn voice—“not empty
enough, Ebenezer Brander, to misread the little game you’re
contriving. Oh, I see through it, my friend! You’ll carry your brains to
the enemy’s camp, will you, and——”
He choked with his rage. In a moment he had snapped out his
knife and sprung round the table. The other was prepared for him in
the same instant. They set at one another bent-headed, like a
couple of game-cocks seeking to strike. Here promised an end of the
pretty conspiracy; but the devil cares for his own. On the tick of
combat the door was thrown open and one of the gang stood gaping
in the entrance.
“Curse the fool!” cried Brander. “What does he want?”
The man, half-drunk, stood confused, as if he had interrupted
some sacred ceremony.
“The gal,” he mumbled, “she’s a-singin’ psalms in the attic.”
“You——!” shouted the schoolmaster; cracked in his upper
register and went into a skirl of laughter. The tension of the cord
was eased, and both men fell back.
“Get to your bowl, you horn-bug!” screeched Fern. “What, the
fiend! Shan’t she prepare herself for the sacrifice?”
“Oh!” said the man, “I thought subbody might ’ear—thas all.”
“Hear, you rat? Who’s to hear in the middle of Sahara?”
He waved his hand peremptorily. The fellow stumbled out and
drew the door to behind him with a clap. Fern slipped his knife into
its sheath. He looked at the other scoundrel stealthily, and grinned.
“Cry off, Brander,” he said. “We’re hunting counter. Fill and call a
toast, man. My heart warms to the ladies. ’Twere a pity to waste this
heat of passion on a friend’s undoing, when an enemy, and a pretty
one, offers.”
Brander strode to the table and seized the flask.
“A bottle to that,” he said grimly. “Nothing under a quart
reconciles me to a petticoat.”
They sat for an hour—for two hours, swilling fire and
wickedness. The night closed upon itself, and the moon was half-
across the sky. The frost without crackled in the very heart of the
fearful sentry, so that presently he could stand it no more, and
tapped on the casement.
“It’s in my roots,” he said, when Brander came to him. “I must
be let in or die.”
“I can’t have you in his room, Joe. He’s far too cunning a
gentleman to trust you with him.”
“Then give me a drink. A bucket of schnapps wouldn’t drowse
me here.”
They handed him out a stiff jorum in a bottle, and closing the
window again, resumed their orgy. Another hour passed. Suddenly
one beast looked significantly at the other, and both rose. Together
they staggered to the door, opened it, and lurched out into the
passage. The sentry here came to himself with a start, and stared at
them like an owl. They bade him have ears for his only business,
and went swaying on to where, by the kitchen, a little stairway led
to the floor above. The house was dimly lighted with candles that
guttered here and there on brackets. One of these Fern seized in his
evil hand, and they ascended softly to a narrow landing. The
congested snore of many crapulous ruffians came to them from
below; a third sentry nodded at hand on the top step.
“Let him be,” whispered Brander. “He shall be breeched for
neglect to-morrow.”
In a little attic, with barred windows, the girl had been confined.
Gently they turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and
entered.
The room was empty as a rifled grave.
Stupidly staring, they saw by the hearth a heap of rubbish, an
overturned flag; and with bursting oaths they rushed for the place,
and, swinging the light down, were aware of a jagged rent, torn
through the rotted fabric, that looked into the room below.
“His room!” cried Fern, putting his hand to his forehead and
staggering back.
The next moment they were out on the landing again. The
sitting sentry grunted and cocked a bleared eye at them. With a foul
curse, and no condescension of question to him, Brander drove his
heavy foot at the man with all his force. The fellow started up with a
shriek like a neigh, doubled upon himself, and, toppling, went down
the whole flight with a noise of snapping, and collapsed in a writhing
and coughing heap at the bottom.
Immediately there was a humming uproar of waking men, in
the midst of which the two bounded into the passage and scrambled
for the door of the second prison-chamber.
They burst it open. The window was flung wide—the room was
empty—a fragment of rope trailed from the fire-place.
“Dolts! dogs! bullock-heads!” cried Brander, pelting, screaming
with fury, into the passage again. “Where are they? What have you
been doing, hearing, overlooking in your damned folly? Let me pass,
you worse than curs and maniacs!”
He was wrenching and tugging frantically at the handle of the
entrance-door. In an instant he was out, had staggered, had
sprawled with his hands to save himself, and had gone with a sliding
run into the snow. He was up directly, and shrieking to those within
for a light. Some one brought it flurried, and he seized and held it
over some shapeless thing huddled against the porch.
“Drunk?” he muttered. “No, by God!” and he stooped and gave
a little pull to the inert mass. A squelch of darkness ran out into the
snow, that received and held it like a blotting-paper.
Mr. Corby had been stabbed to the heart.
CHAPTER XLVII.
When upon the poor gentleman, starved and re-fettered,
descended once more the sick loneliness of confinement, he assured
himself that only a little time now was needed to see the quenching
of his last spark of reason. He was so exhausted and unstrung—so
doubly weakened by this latest wanton cantrip of Fortune, as to feel
that the spirit of venture, fluttering within him on a broken wing,
was physically incapable at last of the least independence of action.
He looked upon himself as one who, having half raised a fallen
treasure from a near-inaccessible ledge, has let it slip out of pure
carelessness into the abyss; and so regarding his folly, he was
miserably ready, like the born gambler he was, to cry Kismet! over
his punishment.
The girl it was concerned him most—prominently for her own
sake, but also because he might not guess what her seizure
betokened, or what weak defences had made the fact of it possible.
About her condition, or her safety in the midst of these lawless
ruffians, his brain was too worn to speculate; but at least he could
understand that the purpose for which she was held would not be
allowed to perish upon itself of inaction.
He was only numbly conscious of the passing hours; the semi-
torpor induced by cold and hunger deadened the pain of his scarified
wrists, and he sat or lay huddled against the hearth unmoved to the
least further effort of self-release. Sometimes, as evening crept on
and darkened, he was aware, in a confused manner, of jangling
sounds about the house that he dimly associated with the definite
business of life—the rattle of pans and of crockery; the purr of rough
voices strangely attuned to the pitch eloquent of the domestic
virtues; later, a harsher medley of discords—the song, the quarrel,
the crash of boisterous mirth, and often enough the thud of blows or
shuffle of drunken feet. Intermittently through all, the penance-walk
of the sentry in the passage went monotonously on, now dragging
sullenly, now moved to some spasmodic briskness as the laugh
bubbled high in the kitchen, now accented with a curse like a dog’s
snap at a fly. Intermittently, too, came the hum of voices from the
room opposite, sinking and swooping and moaning, as if a wind of
evil thoughts were there gathering for any purpose of destruction.
And the night deepened, and the cold; and deep sank the
expression of both into his tormented soul.
Once he thought he heard a window opened and the sound of
voices in parley; and at that the least spark of hope flickered in him
that negotiations (of what nature he was too stupefied to so much
as remotely conceive) were in process on his behalf. But the murmur
ceased and the glass was rattled to, and a profounder misery settled
upon him that the little needle of light had showed itself to vanish.
He was abandoned to his fate; and about that he felt no
bitterness. Only he greatly desired that the climax of his personal
affairs should suffer no long postponement.
It may have been an hour short of midnight when, with his sad
eyes fixed upon the moonlit square of window, his lids closed
involuntarily and he sank into a sort of unresting stupor of the
faculties. How long this travesty of sleep dwelt with him he might
not know; but in an instant he had leapt from it and made as if to
scramble to his feet. Something, that seemed to his disordered mind
horribly suggestive of evil, had come between him and the white
patch of the casement.
He tried to cry out, and found no power but for a sigh; and
suddenly the shape was beside him, silently, on its knees, and an
arm was round his neck and a soft hand upon his mouth.
“Betty, Betty, Betty!” whispered a tiny febrile voice in his ear—
and instantly he knew, and, giving a little broken whinny, dropped
his tired head upon her shoulder.
She clasped him, and she made no shame to kiss him with her
lips like flowers; and then very gently, very pitifully, she passed her
fingers over his right ear, over his left, and gave a heaving sigh from
the bosom that lifted against his cheek.
“Oh, the cowards, the cowards!” she whispered, “to fright me
so, and for a lie!”
He found a little voice for her. He would have, I think, from the
grave.
“Are you come to save me, Betty?”
“Yes.”
“My hands are tied behind. They are so cut and bound I have
lost all feeling in them; and if I shouldn’t be able to rise, Betty?”
She held his head to her convulsively. She cried silently, as a
woman can if she will.
“We must not be a moment,” she whispered. “I hear them
talking. We must move like mice. There is a horror outside; but what
of it, if it let me pass to you.”
She put her hand again on his mouth, tacitly bidding him to the
most tense silence. With her heart torn with pity, she bent and
examined the knots. They were cruelly drawn, but love and good
white teeth will work sufficient miracles. She had cracked harder
nuts in her time. He felt her at work like a rat, vicious and
determined. Once he felt lips light like down on the bruised
members, and he thought. Though they were mortified and dead
they should quicken at that.
All of a sudden his hands were free. He would have
endeavoured to rise, but with a quick gesture she kept him down.
She came to the front, and swiftly with her strong young arms pulled
the boots from his numbed feet.
“Now!” she signified.
He was up in a moment. Broken as he was, the stimulus given
his spirit by the devotion of this true soul was divine. Supporting him
with all her love, she helped him step by step across the floor. Then
for the first time he noticed that the girl was in her stockinged feet,
and that the casement stood wide to the freezing night.
Come to the opening, he stooped his face to hers with a very
pathetic look.
“Not now,” she whispered. “Not an instant for delay or
explanation”—but seeing what he would be at, she put an arm to his
neck, and drew his lips hard against hers.
The sill was but a step to an active wench. Betty was outside,
scarcely having released his hands; and then she turned and
beckoned. At her nod, another appeared at the opening—Dennis, by
all the alphabet of wonder! She bade him to keep perfect silence by
a word. The good fellow was white as ashes, and as he came up he
was fumbling a long blade into his pocket. The moonlight revealed a
wide horrified look in his eyes. He was like a saint whom love has
defrauded of heaven.
He took his master under the arms, and with a convulsive effort
haled him out into the snow. Inevitably a little noise resulted. Betty
gave an indrawn gasp; but by all good luck a burst of laughter from
within covered the accident.
Tuke stood like a drunken man, swaying and staring vacantly
about him. Against the porch he was aware of a misshapen bundle.
“God forgive me, sir,” said Dennis. “’Twas for you I did it.”
The woman was the Roman.
“He died at his post,” she whispered; “and I would have done it
blithely myself for this. And Mr. Whimple, he has stood guard at the
door and left me only the sweets of service.”
Then she said, “Are you strong now to come?” and, seeing her
poor gentleman all weak and bewildered, she held him again pitifully
and bade Dennis to his other side; and so they led him, with what
swiftness they could compass and creeping like frantic things, out
through the lodge-gate and a little way up the foundered road, until
they came to that very snowy gap in the brushwood through which
the party of wanderers had forced their way three days before. And
presently—for the moon made all distinct—they broke and stumbled
into the clearing and stood before the ice-house.
“Betty,” then murmured her master—“I must not question; but
why not push up the drive, now the coast is clear?—And here we
shall only die.”
“Oh! you are wise,” she cried, with a little triumphant laugh—a
pretty confection of love and relief and tears. “You are wise and
bold, but not a little stupid perhaps. Who shall say that another
sentry is not posted between the lodge and the house? And now you
are to see.”
She put her shapely foot against the door and pushed it open.
She jumped into the jaws of Erebus, and held up her arms to him;
and he let himself down into them, trusting, and was taken and
rejoiced over.
“Now,” she said, “whatever comes we are safe to win clear, and
I will cry a little. But I can cry walking.”
“And will you explain a little, Betty?”
“This is no ice-house; or at least it is only the mouth of an
underground passage, that leads straight through into that you call
the ‘Priest’s Hole.’”
“Betty!”
“I have heard grandfather (woe is me—the poor old man!) talk
o’t many a time. For he worked here when a lad in the service of Sir
Thomas Woodruff. And I doubted not your honour knew; though the
end in truth was choked with rubbish. But when you returned not,
and the rogues came in force and made their purpose clear, we
women watched wi’ sore hearts from the shelter of the roof, and we
saw Sir David Blythewood and the captain come out on to the snow
by the fringe of the shaw no earlier than this morning; and I cried at
once, ‘They ha’ taken refuge in the ice-house, and have lain there in
ignorance to this moment!’”
“Go on, Betty. Are you sure of the way? Never mind my crowing,
girl. I haven’t broken food or tasted drink for three days, and my
lungs are like glass paper.”
“Oh me! but I will not cry for a minute. I took Jim, and we
found our way to the hole and went down into it; and there sure
enough under the ledge was a stone in the wall that turned on a
great pin; and this we swung round and saw a black gully shoot
before us. Well, we took a candle and entered, and not twenty feet
in, the light went out and we had to walk in darkness.”
“Oh, my child, my little Betty! That said ‘Go back!’ as plain as
foul gas could speak.”
“Did it? It was close and stifling, of course; but we took hands
and won through this very tunnel we are creeping along now; and
all of a sudden we came to rubbish and the murmur of voices. At
that Jim shouted. They were close at hand and heard us plain; and
in ten minutes we had made a hole through the heap big enough to
pass through.”
“And foolish they must have looked to hear how they had sat
down to die within reach of rescue.”
“Maybe.”
“Did they not, Betty?”
“How should I know? I had no eyes for them. You weren’t
there.”
He stopped in the black darkness and put his arms about her.
“Dennis,” he murmured back. “Are you following? Don’t run us
down, but listen to this. I love Betty Pollack with all my heart and
soul.”
The girl burst into tears.
“Don’t!” she whispered, and clung to him convulsively.
He said softly over his shoulder:
“Take up the tale, Whimple. She saved you?”
“She saved us, sir. We had dwelt there like fools. We had waited
anxiously for your return; and at last, when hope was failing us, Sir
David set off in your tracks, fought his way to the lodge, and came
within view of the truth. He saw the villains all about the place, and
had much ado to keep himself secret. But he managed to steal back
unobserved; and all that afternoon till dark one or other of us was
posted in the wood watching for your return. And so the night shut
upon us again, and we tried to comfort ourselves with the assurance
that you had had warning, had evaded the enemy, and had made
your way round to the house by a circuitous path. Sir, when this
good girl saved us, and we came to know you had probably fallen
into Fern’s hands, I think there was none in the world more broken-
hearted than Dennis Whimple.”
“Good fellow! But who gave you confirmation of the truth?”
“Fern himself, sir—the bloody villain himself. He came before the
house at noon to-day, with a flag of truce—that Sir David would
respect, though the captain desired to shoot him then and there—
and told us that he had you a prisoner. Now Sir David would not let
him know that we three was returned, hoping thereby to tempt him
and his band to venture themselves to their destruction—as they
already deemed the little garrison to be innocent of fighting men—
and he sent one of the grooms to parley. And Fern promised this