PART II. THE SILVER MIRROR

Jan. 3.--This affair of White and Wotherspoon’s accounts proves to be

a gigantic task. There are twenty thick ledgers to be examined and

checked. Who would be a junior partner? However, it is the first big bit

of business which has been left entirely in my hands. I must justify

it. But it has to be finished so that the lawyers may have the result in

time for the trial. Johnson said this morning that I should have to get

the last figure out before the twentieth of the month. Good Lord! Well,

have at it, and if human brain and nerve can stand the strain, I’ll win

out at the other side. It means office-work from ten to five, and then a

second sitting from about eight to one in the morning. There’s drama in

an accountant’s life. When I find myself in the still early hours, while

all the world sleeps, hunting through column after column for those

missing figures which will turn a respected alderman into a felon, I

understand that it is not such a prosaic profession after all.

On Monday I came on the first trace of defalcation. No heavy game hunter

ever got a finer thrill when first he caught sight of the trail of his

quarry. But I look at the twenty ledgers and think of the jungle through

which I have to follow him before I get my kill. Hard work--but rare

sport, too, in a way! I saw the fat fellow once at a City dinner, his

red face glowing above a white napkin. He looked at the little pale man

at the end of the table. He would have been pale too if he could have

seen the task that would be mine.

Jan. 6.--What perfect nonsense it is for doctors to prescribe rest when

rest is out of the question! Asses! They might as well shout to a man

who has a pack of wolves at his heels that what he wants is absolute

quiet. My figures must be out by a certain date; unless they are so, I

shall lose the chance of my lifetime, so how on earth am I to rest? I’ll

take a week or so after the trial.

Perhaps I was myself a fool to go to the doctor at all. But I get

nervous and highly-strung when I sit alone at my work at night. It’s not

a pain--only a sort of fullness of the head with an occasional mist over

the eyes. I thought perhaps some bromide, or chloral, or something of

the kind might do me good. But stop work? It’s absurd to ask such a

thing. It’s like a long-distance race. You feel queer at first and your

heart thumps and your lungs pant, but if you have only the pluck to

keep on, you get your second wind. I’ll stick to my work and wait for my

second wind. If it never comes--all the same, I’ll stick to my work. Two

ledgers are done, and I am well on in the third. The rascal has covered

his tracks well, but I pick them up for all that.

Jan. 9.--I had not meant to go to the doctor again. And yet I have had

to. “Straining my nerves, risking a complete breakdown, even endangering

my sanity.” That’s a nice sentence to have fired off at one. Well, I’ll

stand the strain and I’ll take the risk, and so long as I can sit in my

chair and move a pen I’ll follow the old sinner’s slot.

By the way, I may as well set down here the queer experience which

drove me this second time to the doctor. I’ll keep an exact record of my

symptoms and sensations, because they are interesting in themselves--“a

curious psycho-physiological study,” says the doctor--and also because I

am perfectly certain that when I am through with them they will all seem

blurred and unreal, like some queer dream betwixt sleeping and waking.

So now, while they are fresh, I will just make a note of them, if only

as a change of thought after the endless figures.

There’s an old silver-framed mirror in my room. It was given me by a

friend who had a taste for antiquities, and he, as I happen to know,

picked it up at a sale and had no notion where it came from. It’s a

large thing--three feet across and two feet high--and it leans at the

back of a side-table on my left as I write. The frame is flat, about

three inches across, and very old; far too old for hall-marks or other

methods of determining its age. The glass part projects, with a bevelled

edge, and has the magnificent reflecting power which is only, as it

seems to me, to be found in very old mirrors. There’s a feeling of

perspective when you look into it such as no modern glass can ever give.

The mirror is so situated that as I sit at the table I can usually see

nothing in it but the reflection of the red window curtains. But a queer

thing happened last night. I had been working for some hours, very much

against the grain, with continual bouts of that mistiness of which I had

complained. Again and again I had to stop and clear my eyes. Well,

on one of these occasions I chanced to look at the mirror. It had the

oddest appearance. The red curtains which should have been reflected in

it were no longer there, but the glass seemed to be clouded and steamy,

not on the surface, which glittered like steel, but deep down in the

very grain of it. This opacity, when I stared hard at it, appeared

to slowly rotate this way and that, until it was a thick white cloud

swirling in heavy wreaths. So real and solid was it, and so reasonable

was I, that I remember turning, with the idea that the curtains were

on fire. But everything was deadly still in the room--no sound save the

ticking of the clock, no movement save the slow gyration of that strange

woolly cloud deep in the heart of the old mirror.

Then, as I looked, the mist, or smoke, or cloud, or whatever one may

call it, seemed to coalesce and solidify at two points quite close

together, and I was aware, with a thrill of interest rather than of

fear, that these were two eyes looking out into the room. A vague

outline of a head I could see--a woman’s by the hair, but this was very

shadowy. Only the eyes were quite distinct; such eyes--dark, luminous,

filled with some passionate emotion, fury or horror, I could not say

which. Never have I seen eyes which were so full of intense, vivid life.

They were not fixed upon me, but stared out into the room. Then as I sat

erect, passed my hand over my brow, and made a strong conscious effort

to pull myself together, the dim head faded into the general opacity,

the mirror slowly cleared, and there were the red curtains once again.

A sceptic would say, no doubt, that I had dropped asleep over my

figures, and that my experience was a dream. As a matter of fact, I was

never more vividly awake in my life. I was able to argue about it

even as I looked at it, and to tell myself that it was a subjective

impression--a chimera of the nerves--begotten by worry and insomnia.

But why this particular shape? And who is the woman, and what is the

dreadful emotion which I read in those wonderful brown eyes? They come

between me and my work. For the first time I have done less than the

daily tally which I had marked out. Perhaps that is why I have had no

abnormal sensations tonight. Tomorrow I must wake up, come what may.

Jan. 11.--All well, and good progress with my work. I wind the net, coil

after coil, round that bulky body. But the last smile may remain with

him if my own nerves break over it. The mirror would seem to be a sort

of barometer which marks my brain-pressure. Each night I have observed

that it had clouded before I reached the end of my task.

Dr. Sinclair (who is, it seems, a bit of a psychologist) was so

interested in my account that he came round this evening to have a look

at the mirror. I had observed that something was scribbled in crabbed

old characters upon the metal-work at the back. He examined this with

a lens, but could make nothing of it. “Sanc. X. Pal.” was his final

reading of it, but that did not bring us any farther. He advised me to

put it away into another room; but, after all, whatever I may see in

it is, by his own account only a symptom. It is in the cause that the

danger lies. The twenty ledgers--not the silver mirror--should be packed

away if I could only do it. I’m at the eighth now, so I progress.

Jan. 13.-Perhaps it would have been wiser after all if I had packed away

the mirror. I had an extraordinary experience with it last night. And

yet I find it so interesting, so fascinating, that even now I will keep

it in its place. What on earth is the meaning of it all?

I suppose it was about one in the morning, and I was closing my books

preparatory to staggering off to bed, when I saw her there in front of

me. The stage of mistiness and development must have passed unobserved,

and there she was in all her beauty and passion and distress, as

clear-cut as if she were really in the flesh before me. The figure

was small, but very distinct--so much so that every feature, and every

detail of dress, are stamped in my memory. She is seated on the extreme

left of the mirror. A sort of shadowy figure crouches down beside her--I

can dimly discern that it is a man--and then behind them is cloud, in

which I see figures--figures which move. It is not a mere picture upon

which I look. It is a scene in life, an actual episode. She crouches and

quivers. The man beside her cowers down. The vague figures make abrupt

movements and gestures. All my fears were swallowed up in my interest.

It was maddening to see so much and not to see more.

But I can at least describe the woman to the smallest point. She is

very beautiful and quite young--not more than five-and-twenty, I should

judge. Her hair is of a very rich brown, with a warm chestnut shade

fining into gold at the edges. A little flat-pointed cap comes to an

angle in front, and is made of lace edged with pearls. The forehead is

high, too high perhaps for perfect beauty; but one would not have it

otherwise, as it gives a touch of power and strength to what would

otherwise be a softly feminine face. The brows are most delicately

curved over heavy eyelids, and then come those wonderful eyes--so

large, so dark, so full of over-mastering emotion, of rage and horror,

contending with a pride of self-control which holds her from sheer

frenzy! The cheeks are pale, the lips white with agony, the chin and

throat most exquisitely rounded. The figure sits and leans forward in

the chair, straining and rigid, cataleptic with horror. The dress is

black velvet, a jewel gleams like a flame in the breast, and a golden

crucifix smoulders in the shadow of a fold. This is the lady whose image

still lives in the old silver mirror. What dire deed could it be which

has left its impress there, so that now, in another age, if the spirit

of a man be but worn down to it, he may be conscious of its presence?

One other detail: On the left side of the skirt of the black dress was,

as I thought at first, a shapeless bunch of white ribbon. Then, as I

looked more intently or as the vision defined itself more clearly, I

perceived what it was. It was the hand of a man, clenched and knotted in

agony, which held on with a convulsive grasp to the fold of the dress.

The rest of the crouching figure was a mere vague outline, but that

strenuous hand shone clear on the dark background, with a

sinister suggestion of tragedy in its frantic clutch. The man is

frightened-horribly frightened. That I can clearly discern. What has

terrified him so? Why does he grip the woman’s dress? The answer lies

amongst those moving figures in the background. They have brought danger

both to him and to her. The interest of the thing fascinated me. I

thought no more of its relation to my own nerves. I stared and stared

as if in a theatre. But I could get no farther. The mist thinned.

There were tumultuous movements in which all the figures were vaguely

concerned. Then the mirror was clear once more.

The doctor says I must drop work for a day, and I can afford to do

so, for I have made good progress lately. It is quite evident that the

visions depend entirely upon my own nervous state, for I sat in front of

the mirror for an hour tonight, with no result whatever. My soothing day

has chased them away. I wonder whether I shall ever penetrate what they

all mean? I examined the mirror this evening under a good light, and

besides the mysterious inscription “Sanc. X. Pal.,” I was able to

discern some signs of heraldic marks, very faintly visible upon the

silver. They must be very ancient, as they are almost obliterated. So

far as I could make out, they were three spear-heads, two above and one

below. I will show them to the doctor when he calls tomorrow.

Jan. 14.--Feel perfectly well again, and I intend that nothing else

shall stop me until my task is finished. The doctor was shown the marks

on the mirror and agreed that they were armorial bearings. He is deeply

interested in all that I have told him, and cross-questioned me

closely on the details. It amuses me to notice how he is torn in two by

conflicting desires--the one that his patient should lose his symptoms,

the other that the medium--for so he regards me--should solve this

mystery of the past. He advised continued rest, but did not oppose me

too violently when I declared that such a thing was out of the question

until the ten remaining ledgers have been checked.

Jan. 17.--For three nights I have had no experiences--my day of rest has

borne fruit. Only a quarter of my task is left, but I must make a forced

march, for the lawyers are clamouring for their material. I will give

them enough and to spare. I have him fast on a hundred counts. When they

realize what a slippery, cunning rascal he is, I should gain some credit

from the case. False trading accounts, false balance-sheets, dividends

drawn from capital, losses written down as profits, suppression of

working expenses, manipulation of petty cash--it is a fine record!

Jan. 18.--Headaches, nervous twitches, mistiness, fullness of the

temples--all the premonitions of trouble, and the trouble came sure

enough. And yet my real sorrow is not so much that the vision should

come as that it should cease before all is revealed.

But I saw more tonight. The crouching man was as visible as the

lady whose gown he clutched. He is a little swarthy fellow, with a

black-pointed beard. He has a loose gown of damask trimmed with fur. The

prevailing tints of his dress are red. What a fright the fellow is in,

to be sure! He cowers and shivers and glares back over his shoulder.

There is a small knife in his other hand, but he is far too tremulous

and cowed to use it. Dimly now I begin to see the figures in the

background. Fierce faces, bearded and dark, shape themselves out of the

mist. There is one terrible creature, a skeleton of a man, with hollow

cheeks and eyes sunk in his head. He also has a knife in his hand. On

the right of the woman stands a tall man, very young, with flaxen hair,

his face sullen and dour. The beautiful woman looks up at him in appeal.

So does the man on the ground. This youth seems to be the arbiter of

their fate. The crouching man draws closer and hides himself in the

woman’s skirts. The tall youth bends and tries to drag her away from

him. So much I saw last night before the mirror cleared. Shall I never

know what it leads to and whence it comes? It is not a mere imagination,

of that I am very sure. Somewhere, some time, this scene has been acted,

and this old mirror has reflected it. But when--where?

Jan. 20.--My work draws to a close, and it is time. I feel a tenseness

within my brain, a sense of intolerable strain, which warns me that

something must give. I have worked myself to the limit. But tonight

should be the last night. With a supreme effort I should finish the

final ledger and complete the case before I rise from my chair. I will

do it. I will.

Feb. 7.--I did. My God, what an experience! I hardly know if I am strong

enough yet to set it down.

Let me explain in the first instance that I am writing this in Dr.

Sinclair’s private hospital some three weeks after the last entry in my

diary. On the night of January 20 my nervous system finally gave way,

and I remembered nothing afterwards until I found myself three days ago

in this home of rest. And I can rest with a good conscience. My work was

done before I went under. My figures are in the solicitors’ hands. The

hunt is over.

And now I must describe that last night. I had sworn to finish my work,

and so intently did I stick to it, though my head was bursting, that I

would never look up until the last column had been added. And yet it was

fine self-restraint, for all the time I knew that wonderful things were

happening in the mirror. Every nerve in my body told me so. If I looked

up there was an end of my work. So I did not look up till all was

finished. Then, when at last with throbbing temples I threw down my pen

and raised my eyes, what a sight was there!

The mirror in its silver frame was like a stage, brilliantly lit, in

which a drama was in progress. There was no mist now. The oppression

of my nerves had wrought this amazing clarity. Every feature, every

movement, was as clear-cut as in life. To think that I, a tired

accountant, the most prosaic of mankind, with the account-books of a

swindling bankrupt before me, should be chosen of all the human race to

look upon such a scene!

It was the same scene and the same figures, but the drama had advanced

a stage. The tall young man was holding the woman in his arms. She

strained away from him and looked up at him with loathing in her face.

They had torn the crouching man away from his hold upon the skirt of

her dress. A dozen of them were round him--savage men, bearded men. They

hacked at him with knives. All seemed to strike him together. Their

arms rose and fell. The blood did not flow from him-it squirted. His red

dress was dabbled in it. He threw himself this way and that, purple upon

crimson, like an over-ripe plum. Still they hacked, and still the jets

shot from him. It was horrible--horrible! They dragged him kicking to

the door. The woman looked over her shoulder at him and her mouth gaped.

I heard nothing, but I knew that she was screaming. And then, whether it

was this nerve-racking vision before me, or whether, my task finished,

all the overwork of the past weeks came in one crushing weight upon me,

the room danced round me, the floor seemed to sink away beneath my feet,

and I remembered no more. In the early morning my landlady found me

stretched senseless before the silver mirror, but I knew nothing myself

until three days ago I awoke in the deep peace of the doctor’s nursing

home.

Feb. 9.--Only today have I told Dr. Sinclair my full experience. He

had not allowed me to speak of such matters before. He listened with an

absorbed interest. “You don’t identify this with any well-known scene

in history?” he asked, with suspicion in his eyes. I assured him that I

knew nothing of history. “Have you no idea whence that mirror came and

to whom it once belonged?” he continued. “Have you?” I asked, for he

spoke with meaning. “It’s incredible,” said he, “and yet how else can

one explain it? The scenes which you described before suggested it, but

now it has gone beyond all range of coincidence. I will bring you some

notes in the evening.”

Later.--He has just left me. Let me set down his words as closely as I

can recall them. He began by laying several musty volumes upon my bed.

“These you can consult at your leisure,” said he. “I have some notes

here which you can confirm. There is not a doubt that what you have seen

is the murder of Rizzio by the Scottish nobles in the presence of

Mary, which occurred in March, 1566. Your description of the woman is

accurate. The high forehead and heavy eyelids combined with great beauty

could hardly apply to two women. The tall young man was her husband,

Darnley. Rizzio, says the chronicle, ‘was dressed in a loose

dressing-gown of furred damask, with hose of russet velvet.’ With one

hand he clutched Mary’s gown, with the other he held a dagger. Your

fierce, hollow-eyed man was Ruthven, who was new-risen from a bed of

sickness. Every detail is exact.”

“But why to me?” I asked, in bewilderment. “Why of all the human race to

me?”

“Because you were in the fit mental state to receive the impression.

Because you chanced to own the mirror which gave the impression.”

“The mirror! You think, then, that it was Mary’s mirror--that it stood

in the room where the deed was done?”

“I am convinced that it was Mary’s mirror. She had been Queen of France.

Her personal property would be stamped with the Royal arms. What you

took to be three spear-heads were really the lilies of France.”

“And the inscription?”

“‘Sanc. X. Pal.’ You can expand it into Sanctae Crucis Palatium. Some

one has made a note upon the mirror as to whence it came. It was the

Palace of the Holy Cross.”

“Holyrood!” I cried.

“Exactly. Your mirror came from Holyrood. You have had one very singular

experience, and have escaped. I trust that you will never put yourself

into the way of having such another.”

THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY

Sharkey, the abominable Sharkey, was out again. After two years of the

Coromandel coast, his black barque of death, _The Happy Delivery_, was

prowling off the Spanish Main, while trader and fisher flew for dear

life at the menace of that patched fore-topsail, rising slowly over the

violet rim of the tropical sea.

As the birds cower when the shadow of the hawk falls athwart the field,

or as the jungle folk crouch and shiver when the coughing cry of the

tiger is heard in the night-time, so through all the busy world of

ships, from the whalers of Nantucket to the tobacco ships of Charleston,

and from the Spanish supply ships of Cadiz to the sugar merchants of the

Main, there spread the rumour of the black curse of the ocean.

Some hugged the shore, ready to make for the nearest port, while others

struck far out beyond the known lines of commerce, but none were

so stout-hearted that they did not breathe more freely when their

passengers and cargoes were safe under the guns of some mothering fort.

Through all the islands there ran tales of charred derelicts at sea,

of sudden glares seen afar in the night-time, and of withered bodies

stretched upon the sand of waterless Bahama Keys. All the old signs were

there to show that Sharkey was at his bloody game once more.

These fair waters and yellow-rimmed, palm-nodding islands are

the traditional home of the sea rover. First it was the gentleman

adventurer, the man of family and honour, who fought as a patriot,

though he was ready to take his payment in Spanish plunder.

Then, within a century, his debonnaire figure had passed to make room

for the buccaneers, robbers pure and simple, yet with some organized

code of their own, commanded by notable chieftains, and taking in hand

great concerted enterprises.

They, too, passed with their fleets and their sacking of cities, to make

room for the worst of all, the lonely outcast pirate, the bloody Ishmael

of the seas, at war with the whole human race. This was the vile brood

which the early eighteenth century had spawned forth, and of them all

there was none who could compare in audacity, wickedness, and evil

repute with the unutterable Sharkey.

It was early in May, in the year 1720, that _The Happy Delivery_ lay

with her fore-yard aback some five leagues west of the Windward Passage,

waiting to see what rich, helpless craft the trade-wind might bring down

to her.

Three days she had lain there, a sinister black speck, in the centre of

the great sapphire circle of the ocean. Far to the south-east the low

blue hills of Hispaniola showed up on the skyline.

Hour by hour as he waited without avail, Sharkey’s savage temper had

risen, for his arrogant spirit chafed against any contradiction, even

from Fate itself. To his quartermaster, Ned Galloway, he had said

that night, with his odious neighing laugh, that the crew of the next

captured vessel should answer to him for having kept him waiting so

long.

The cabin of the pirate barque was a good-sized room, hung with

much tarnished finery, and presenting a strange medley of luxury and

disorder. The panelling of carved and polished sandal-wood was blotched

with foul smudges and chipped with bullet-marks fired in some drunken

revelry.

Rich velvets and laces were heaped upon the brocaded settees, while

metal-work and pictures of great price filled every niche and corner,

for anything which caught the pirate’s fancy in the sack of a hundred

vessels was thrown haphazard into his chamber. A rich, soft carpet

covered the floor, but it was mottled with wine-stains and charred with

burned tobacco.

Above, a great brass hanging-lamp threw a brilliant yellow light

upon this singular apartment, and upon the two men who sat in their

shirt-sleeves with the wine between them, and the cards in their hands,

deep in a game of piquet. Both were smoking long pipes, and the thin

blue reek filled the cabin and floated through the skylight above them,

which, half opened, disclosed a slip of deep violet sky spangled with

great silver stars.

Ned Galloway, the quartermaster, was a huge New England wastrel, the one

rotten branch upon a goodly Puritan family tree. His robust limbs and

giant frame were the heritage of a long line of God-fearing ancestors,

while his black savage heart was all his own. Bearded to the temples,

with fierce blue eyes, a tangled lion’s mane of coarse, dark hair,

and huge gold rings in his ears, he was the idol of the women in every

waterside hell from the Tortugas to Maracaibo on the Main. A red cap,

a blue silken shirt, brown velvet breeches with gaudy knee-ribbons, and

high sea-boots made up the costume of the rover Hercules.

A very different figure was Captain John Sharkey. His thin, drawn,

clean-shaven face was corpse-like in its pallor, and all the suns of the

Indies could but turn it to a more deathly parchment tint. He was

part bald, with a few lank locks of tow-like hair, and a steep, narrow

forehead. His thin nose jutted sharply forth, and near-set on either

side of it were those filmy blue eyes, red-rimmed like those of a white

bull-terrier, from which strong men winced away in fear and loathing.

His bony hands, with long, thin fingers which quivered ceaselessly like

the antennae of an insect, were toying constantly with the cards and the

heap of gold moidores which lay before him. His dress was of some sombre

drab material, but, indeed, the men who looked upon that fearsome face

had little thought for the costume of its owner.

The game was brought to a sudden interruption, for the cabin door was

swung rudely open, and two rough fellows--Israel Martin, the boatswain,

and Red Foley, the gunner--rushed into the cabin. In an instant Sharkey

was on his feet with a pistol in either hand and murder in his eyes.

“Sink you for villains!” he cried. “I see well that if I do not shoot

one of you from time to time you will forget the man I am. What mean you

by entering my cabin as though it were a Wapping alehouse?”

“Nay, Captain Sharkey,” said Martin, with a sullen frown upon his

brick-red face, “it is even such talk as this which has set us by the

ears. We have had enough of it.”

“And more than enough,” said Red Foley, the gunner. “There be no

mates aboard a pirate craft, and so the boatswain, the gunner, and the

quarter-master are the officers.”

“Did I gainsay it?” asked Sharkey with an oath.

“You have miscalled us and mishandled us before the men, and we scarce

know at this moment why we should risk our lives in fighting for the

cabin and against the foc’sle.”

Sharkey saw that something serious was in the wind. He laid down his

pistols and leaned back in his chair with a flash of his yellow fangs.

“Nay, this is sad talk,” said he, “that two stout fellows who have

emptied many a bottle and cut many a throat with me, should now fall out

over nothing. I know you to be roaring boys who would go with me against

the devil himself if I bid you. Let the steward bring cups and drown all

unkindness between us.”

“It is no time for drinking, Captain Sharkey,” said Martin. “The men are

holding council round the mainmast, and may be aft at any minute. They

mean mischief, Captain Sharkey, and we have come to warn you.”

Sharkey sprang for the brass-handled sword which hung from the wall.

“Sink them for rascals!” he cried. “When I have gutted one or two of

them they may hear reason.”

But the others barred his frantic way to the door.

“There are forty of them under the lead of Sweetlocks, the master,” said

Martin, “and on the open deck they would surely cut you to pieces. Here

within the cabin it may be that we can hold them off at the points of

our pistols.”

He had hardly spoken when there came the tread of many heavy feet upon

the deck. Then there was a pause with no sound but the gentle lipping

of the water against the sides of the pirate vessel. Finally, a crashing

blow as from a pistol-butt fell upon the door, and an instant afterwards

Sweetlocks himself, a tall, dark man, with a deep red birthmark blazing

upon his cheek, strode into the cabin. His swaggering air sank somewhat

as he looked into those pale and filmy eyes.

“Captain Sharkey,” said he, “I come as spokesman of the crew.”

“So I have heard, Sweetlocks,” said the captain, softly. “I may live to

rip you the length of your vest for this night’s work.”

“That is as it may be, Captain Sharkey,” the master answered, “but if

you will look up you will see that I have those at my back who will not

see me mishandled.”

“Cursed if we do!” growled a deep voice from above, and glancing upwards

the officers in the cabin were aware of a line of fierce, bearded,

sun-blackened faces looking down at them through the open skylight.

“Well, what would you have?” asked Sharkey. “Put it in words, man, and

let us have an end of it.”

“The men think,” said Sweetlocks, “that you are the devil himself, and

that there will be no luck for them whilst they sail the sea in such

company. Time was when we did our two or three craft a day, and every

man had women and dollars to his liking, but now for a long week we have

not raised a sail, and save for three beggarly sloops, have taken never

a vessel since we passed the Bahama Bank. Also, they know that you

killed Jack Bartholomew, the carpenter, by beating his head in with a

bucket, so that each of us goes in fear of his life. Also, the rum has

given out, and we are hard put to it for liquor. Also, you sit in your

cabin whilst it is in the articles that you should drink and roar with

the crew. For all these reasons it has been this day in general meeting

decreed--”

Sharkey had stealthily cocked a pistol under the table, so it may have

been as well for the mutinous master that he never reached the end of

his discourse, for even as he came to it there was a swift patter of

feet upon the deck, and a ship lad, wild with his tidings, rushed into

the room.

“A craft!” he yelled. “A great craft, and close aboard us!”

In a flash the quarrel was forgotten, and the pirates were rushing to

quarters. Sure enough, surging slowly down before the gentle trade-wind,

a great full-rigged ship, with all sail set, was close beside them.

It was clear that she had come from afar and knew nothing of the ways of

the Caribbean Sea, for she made no effort to avoid the low, dark craft

which lay so close upon her bow, but blundered on as if her mere size

would avail her.

So daring was she, that for an instant the Rovers, as they flew to loose

the tackles of their guns, and hoisted their battle-lanterns, believed

that a man-of-war had caught them napping.

But at the sight of her bulging, portless sides and merchant rig a shout

of exultation broke from amongst them, and in an instant they had swung

round their fore-yard, and darting alongside they had grappled with her

and flung a spray of shrieking, cursing ruffians upon her deck.

Half a dozen seamen of the night-watch were cut down where they stood,

the mate was felled by Sharkey and tossed overboard by Ned Galloway, and

before the sleepers had time to sit up in their berths, the vessel was

in the hands of the pirates.

The prize proved to be the full-rigged ship _Portobello_--Captain Hardy,

master--bound from London to Kingston in Jamaica, with a cargo of cotton

goods and hoop-iron.

Having secured their prisoners, all huddled together in a dazed,

distracted group, the pirates spread over the vessel in search of

plunder, handing all that was found to the giant quartermaster, who in

turn passed it over the side of _The Happy Delivery_ and laid it under

guard at the foot of her mainmast.

The cargo was useless, but there were a thousand guineas in the ship’s

strong-box, and there were some eight or ten passengers, three of them

wealthy Jamaica merchants, all bringing home well-filled boxes from

their London visit.

When all the plunder was gathered, the passengers and crew were dragged

to the waist, and under the cold smile of Sharkey each in turn was

thrown over the side--Sweetlocks standing by the rail and ham-stringing

them with his cutlass as they passed over, lest some strong swimmer

should rise in judgment against them. A portly, grey-haired woman, the

wife of one of the planters, was among the captives, but she also was

thrust screaming and clutching over the side.

“Mercy, you hussy!” neighed Sharkey, “you are surely a good twenty years

too old for that.”

The captain of the _Portobello_, a hale, blue-eyed grey-beard, was the

last upon the deck. He stood, a thick-set resolute figure, in the glare

of the lanterns, while Sharkey bowed and smirked before him.

“One skipper should show courtesy to another,” said he, “and sink me if

Captain Sharkey would be behind in good manners! I have held you to the

last, as you see, where a brave man should be; so now, my bully, you

have seen the end of them, and may step over with an easy mind.”

“So I shall, Captain Sharkey,” said the old seaman, “for I have done my

duty so far as my power lay. But before I go over I would say a word in

your ear.”

“If it be to soften me, you may save your breath. You have kept us

waiting here for three days, and curse me if one of you shall live!”

“Nay, it is to tell you what you should know. You have not yet found

what is the true treasure aboard of this ship.”

“Not found it? Sink me, but I will slice your liver, Captain Hardy, if

you do not make good your words! Where is this treasure you speak of?”

“It is not a treasure of gold, but it is a fair maid, which may be no

less welcome.”

“Where is she, then? And why is she not with the others?”

“I will tell you why she is not with the others. She is the only

daughter of the Count and Countess Ramirez, who are amongst those whom

you have murdered. Her name is Inez Ramirez, and she is of the best

blood of Spain, her father being Governor of Chagre, to which he was now

bound. It chanced that she was found to have formed an attachment, as

maids will, to one far beneath her in rank aboard this ship; so her

parents, being people of great power, whose word is not to be gainsaid,

constrained me to confine her close in a special cabin aft of my own.

Here she was held straitly, all food being carried to her, and she

allowed to see no one. This I tell you as a last gift, though why I

should make it to you I do not know, for indeed you are a most bloody

rascal, and it comforts me in dying to think that you will surely be

gallow’s-meat in this world, and hell’s-meat in the next.”

At the words he ran to the rail, and vaulted over into the darkness,

praying as he sank into the depths of the sea, that the betrayal of this

maid might not be counted too heavily against his soul.

The body of Captain Hardy had not yet settled upon the sand forty

fathoms deep before the pirates had rushed along the cabin gangway.

There, sure enough, at the further end, was a barred door, overlooked in

their previous search. There was no key, but they beat it in with their

gunstocks, whilst shriek after shriek came from within. In the light of

their outstretched lanterns they saw a young woman, in the very prime

and fullness of her youth, crouching in a corner, her unkempt hair

hanging to the ground, her dark eyes glaring with fear, her lovely form

straining away in horror from this inrush of savage blood-stained men.

Rough hands seized her, she was jerked to her feet, and dragged with

scream on scream to where John Sharkey awaited her. He held the light

long and fondly to her face, then, laughing loudly, he bent forward and

left his red hand-print upon her cheek.

“‘Tis the Rover’s brand, lass, that he marks his ewes. Take her to the

cabin and use her well. Now, hearties, get her under water, and out to

our luck once more.”

Within an hour the good ship _Portobello_ had settled down to her doom,

till she lay beside her murdered passengers upon the Caribbean sand,

while the pirate barque, her deck littered with plunder, was heading

northward in search of another victim.

There was a carouse that night in the cabin of _The Happy Delivery_, at

which three men drank deep. They were the captain, the quartermaster,

and Baldy Stable, the surgeon, a man who had held the first practice in

Charleston, until, misusing a patient, he fled from justice, and took

his skill over to the pirates. A bloated fat man he was, with a creased

neck and a great shining scalp, which gave him his name. Sharkey had put

for the moment all thought of the mutiny out of his head, knowing that

no animal is fierce when it is over-fed, and that whilst the plunder of

the great ship was new to them he need fear no trouble from his crew.

He gave himself up, therefore, to the wine and the riot, shouting and

roaring with his boon companions. All three were flushed and mad, ripe

for any devilment, when the thought of the woman crossed the pirate’s

evil mind. He yelled to the negro steward that he should bring her on

the instant.

Inez Ramirez had now realized it all--the death of her father and

mother, and her own position in the hands of their murderers. Yet

calmness had come with the knowledge, and there was no sign of terror

in her proud, dark face as she was led into the cabin, but rather a

strange, firm set of the mouth and an exultant gleam of the eyes, like

one who sees great hopes in the future. She smiled at the pirate captain

as he rose and seized her by the waist.

“‘Fore God! this is a lass of spirit,” cried Sharkey, passing his arm

round her. “She was born to be a Rover’s bride. Come, my bird, and drink

to our better friendship.”

“Article Six!” hiccoughed the doctor. “All _bona robas_ in common.”

“Aye! we hold you to that, Captain Sharkey,” said Galloway. “It is so

writ in Article Six.”

“I will cut the man into ounces who comes betwixt us!” cried Sharkey, as

he turned his fish-like eyes from one to the other. “Nay, lass, the man

is not born that will take you from John Sharkey. Sit here upon my knee,

and place your arm round me so. Sink me, if she has not learned to love

me at sight! Tell me, my pretty, why you were so mishandled and laid in

the bilboes aboard yonder craft?”

The woman shook her head and smiled. “No Inglese--no Inglese,” she

lisped. She had drunk off the bumper of wine which Sharkey held to

her, and her dark eyes gleamed more brightly than before. Sitting on

Sharkey’s knee, her arm encircled his neck, and her hand toyed with

his hair, his ear, his cheek. Even the strange quartermaster and the

hardened surgeon felt a horror as they watched her, but Sharkey laughed

in his joy. “Curse me, if she is not a lass of metal!” he cried, as he

pressed her to him and kissed her unresisting lips.

But a strange intent look of interest had come into the surgeon’s eyes

as he watched her, and his face set rigidly, as if a fearsome thought

had entered his mind. There stole a grey pallor over his bull face,

mottling all the red of the tropics and the flush of the wine.

“Look at her hand, Captain Sharkey!” he cried. “For the Lord’s sake,

look at her hand!”

Sharkey stared down at the hand which had fondled him. It was of a

strange dead pallor, with a yellow shiny web betwixt the fingers. All

over it was a white fluffy dust, like the flour of a new-baked loaf. It

lay thick on Sharkey’s neck and cheek. With a cry of disgust he flung

the woman from his lap; but in an instant, with a wild-cat bound, and a

scream of triumphant malice, she had sprung at the surgeon, who vanished

yelling under the table. One of her clawing hands grasped Galloway by

the beard, but he tore himself away, and snatching a pike, held her off

from him as she gibbered and mowed with the blazing eyes of a maniac.

The black steward had run in on the sudden turmoil, and among them they

forced the mad creature back into a cabin and turned the key upon her.

Then the three sank panting into their chairs, and looked with eyes

of horror upon each other. The same word was in the mind of each, but

Galloway was the first to speak it.

“A leper!” he cried. “She has us all, curse her!”

“Not me,” said the surgeon; “she never laid her finger on me.”

“For that matter,” cried Galloway, “it was but my beard that she

touched. I will have every hair of it off before morning.”

“Dolts that we were!” the surgeon shouted, beating his head with his

hand. “Tainted or no, we shall never know a moment’s peace till the year

is up and the time of danger past. ‘Fore God, that merchant skipper has

left his mark on us, and pretty fools we were to think that such a maid

would be quarantined for the cause he gave. It is easy to see now that

her corruption broke forth in the journey, and that save throwing her

over they had no choice but to board her up until they should come to

some port with a lazarette.”

Sharkey had sat leaning back in his chair with a ghastly face while

he listened to the surgeon’s words. He mopped himself with his red

handkerchief, and wiped away the fatal dust with which he was smeared.

“What of me?” he croaked. “What say you, Baldy Stable? Is there a chance

for me? Curse you for a villain! speak out, or I will drub you within an

inch of your life, and that inch also! Is there a chance for me, I say?”

But the surgeon shook his head. “Captain Sharkey,” said he, “it would be

an ill deed to speak you false. The taint is on you. No man on whom the

leper scales have rested is ever clean again.”

Sharkey’s head fell forward on his chest, and he sat motionless,

stricken by this great and sudden horror, looking with his smouldering

eyes into his fearsome future. Softly the mate and the surgeon rose from

their places, and stealing out from the poisoned air of the cabin, came

forth into the freshness of the early dawn, with the soft, scent-laden

breeze in their faces and the first red feathers of cloud catching the

earliest gleam of the rising sun as it shot its golden rays over the

palm-clad ridges of distant Hispaniola.

That morning a second council of the Rovers was held at the base of

the mainmast, and a deputation chosen to see the captain. They were

approaching the after-cabins when Sharkey came forth, the old devil in

his eyes, and his bandolier with a pair of pistols over his shoulder.

“Sink you all for villains!” he cried, “Would you dare to cross my

hawse? Stand out, Sweetlocks, and I will lay you open! Here, Galloway,

Martin, Foley, stand by me and lash the dogs to their kennel!”

But his officers had deserted him, and there was none to come to his

aid. There was a rush of the pirates. One was shot through the body, but

an instant afterwards Sharkey had been seized and was triced to his own

mainmast. His filmy eyes looked round from face to face, and there was

none who felt the happier for having met them.

“Captain Sharkey,” said Sweetlocks, “you have mishandled many of us, and

you have now pistolled John Masters, besides killing Bartholomew, the

carpenter, by braining him with a bucket. All this might have been

forgiven you, in that you have been our leader for years, and that we

have signed articles to serve under you while the voyage lasts. But

now we have heard of this bona roba on board, and we know that you are

poisoned to the marrow, and that while you rot there will be no

safety for any of us, but that we shall all be turned into filth and

corruption. Therefore, John Sharkey, we Rovers of _The Happy Delivery_,

in council assembled, have decreed that while there be yet time, before

the plague spreads, you shall be set adrift in a boat to find such a

fate as Fortune may be pleased to send you.”

John Sharkey said nothing, but slowly circling his head, he cursed them

all with his baleful gaze. The ship’s dinghy had been lowered, and he

with his hands still tied, was dropped into it on the bight of a rope.

“Cast her off!” cried Sweetlocks.

“Nay, hold hard a moment, Master Sweetlocks!” shouted one of the crew.

“What of the wench? Is she to bide aboard and poison us all?”

“Send her off with her mate!” cried another, and the Rovers roared their

approval. Driven forth at the end of pikes, the girl was pushed towards

the boat. With all the spirit of Spain in her rotting body she flashed

triumphant glances on her captors. “Perros! Perros Ingleses! Lepero,

Lepero!” she cried in exultation, as they thrust her over into the boat.

“Good luck, captain! God speed you on your honeymoon!” cried a chorus of

mocking voices, as the painter was unloosed, and _The Happy Delivery_,

running full before the trade-wind, left the little boat astern, a tiny

dot upon the vast expanse of the lonely sea.

Extract from the log of H.M. fifty-gun ship _Hecate_ in her cruise off

the American Main.

“Jan. 26, 1721.--This day, the junk having become unfit for food, and

five of the crew down with scurvy, I ordered that we send two boats

ashore at the nor’-western point of Hispaniola, to seek for fresh fruit,

and perchance shoot some of the wild oxen with which the island abounds.

“7 p.m.--The boats have returned with good store of green stuff and two

bullocks. Mr. Woodruff, the master, reports that near the landing-place

at the edge of the forest was found the skeleton of a woman, clad in

European dress, of such sort as to show that she may have been a person

of quality. Her head had been crushed by a great stone which lay beside

her. Hard by was a grass hut, and signs that a man had dwelt therein for

some time, as was shown by charred wood, bones and other traces. There

is a rumour upon the coast that Sharkey, the bloody pirate, was marooned

in these parts last year, but whether he has made his way into the

interior, or whether he has been picked up by some craft, there is no

means of knowing. If he be once again afloat, then I pray that God send

him under our guns.”

THE MARRIAGE OF THE BRIGADIER

I am speaking, my friends, of days which are long gone by, when I had

scarcely begun to build up that fame which has made my name so familiar.

Among the thirty officers of the Hussars of Conflans there was nothing

to indicate that I was superior in any way to the others. I can well

imagine how surprised they would all have been had they realized that

young Lieutenant Etienne Gerard was destined for so glorious a career,

and would live to command a brigade and to receive from the Emperor’s

own hands that cross which I can show you any time that you do me the

honour to visit me in my little cottage. You know, do you not, the

little white-washed cottage with the vine in front, in the field beside

the Garonne?

People have said of me that I have never known what fear was. No doubt

you have heard them say it. For many years, out of a foolish pride, I

have let the saying pass. And yet now, in my old age, I can afford to

be honest. The brave man dares to be frank. It is only the coward who is

afraid to make admissions. So I tell you now that I also am human; that

I also have felt my skin grow cold, and my hair rise; that I have even

known what it was to run away until my limbs could scarce support me. It

shocks you to hear it? Well, some day it may comfort you, when your own

courage has reached its limits, to know that even Etienne Gerard has

known what it was to be afraid. I will tell you now how this experience

befell me, and also how it brought me a wife.

For the moment France was at peace, and we, the Hussars of Conflans,

were in camp all that summer a few miles from the town of Les Andelys

in Normandy. It is not a very gay place by itself, but we of the Light

Cavalry make all places gay which we visit, and so we passed our time

very pleasantly. Many years and many scenes have dulled my remembrance,

but still the name Les Andelys brings back to me a huge ruined castle,

great orchards of apple trees, and above all, a vision of the lovely

maidens of Normandy. They were the very finest of their sex, as we may

be said to have been of ours, and so we were well met in that sweet

sunlit summer. Ah, the youth, the beauty, the valour, and then the dull,

dead years that blurr them all! There are times when the glorious

past weighs on my heart like lead. No, sir, no wine can wash away such

thoughts, for they are of the spirit and the soul. It is only the gross

body which responds to wine, but if you offer it for that, then I will

not refuse it.

Now of all the maidens who dwelt in those parts there was one who was

so superior in beauty and in charm that she seemed to be very specially

marked out for me. Her name was Marie Ravon, and her people, the Ravons,

were of yeoman stock who had farmed their own land in those parts since

the days when Duke William went to England. If I close my eyes now, I

see her as she then was, her cheeks, dusky like moss roses; her hazel

eyes, so gentle and yet so full of spirit; her hair of that deepest

black which goes most fitly with poetry and with passion; her finger as

supple as a young birch tree in the wind. Ah! how she swayed away from

me when first I laid my arm round it, for she was full of fire and

pride, ever evading, ever resisting, fighting to the last that her

surrender might be the more sweet. Out of a hundred and forty women--But

who can compare where all are so near perfection!

You will wonder why it should be, if this maiden was so beautiful,

that I should be left without a rival. There was a very good reason, my

friends, for I so arranged it that my rivals were in the hospital. There

was Hippolyte Lesoeur, he visited them for two Sundays; but if he lives,

I dare swear that he still limps from the bullet which lodges in his

knee. Poor Victor also--up to his death at Austerlitz he wore my mark.

Soon it was understood that if I could not win Marie, I should at least

have a fair field in which to try. It was said in our camp that it was

safer to charge a square of unbroken infantry than to be seen too often

at the farmhouse of the Ravons.

Now let me be precise for a moment. Did I wish to marry Marie? Ah! my

friends, marriage is not for a Hussar. Today he is in Normandy; tomorrow

he is in the hills of Spain or in the bogs of Poland. What shall he do

with a wife? Would it be fair to either of them? Can it be right that

his courage should be blunted by the thought of the despair which his

death would bring, or is it reasonable that she should be left fearing

lest every post should bring her the news of irreparable misfortune?

A Hussar can but warm himself at the fire, and then hurry onwards, too

happy if he can but pass another fire from which some comfort may come.

And Marie, did she wish to marry me? She knew well that when our silver

trumpets blew the march it would be over the grave of our married life.

Better far to hold fast to her own people and her own soil, where she

and her husband could dwell for ever amid the rich orchards and within

sight of the great Castle of Le Galliard. Let her remember her Hussar in

her dreams, but let her waking days be spent in the world as she finds

it. Meanwhile we pushed such thoughts from our minds, and gave ourselves

up to a sweet companionship, each day complete in itself with never a

thought of the morrow. It is true that there were times when her father,

a stout old gentleman with a face like one of his own apples, and her

mother, a thin anxious woman of the country, gave me hints that they

would wish to be clearer as to my intentions; but in their hearts they

each knew well that Etienne Gerard was a man of honour, and that their

daughter was very safe as well as very happy in his keeping. So the

matter stood until the night of which I speak.

It was the Sunday evening, and I had ridden over from the camp. There

were several of our fellows who were visiting the village, and we all

left our horses at the inn. Thence I had to walk to the Ravons, which

was only separated by a single very large field extending to the very

door. I was about to start when the landlord ran after me. “Excuse

me, lieutenant,” said he, “it is farther by the road, and yet I should

advise you to take it.”

“It is a mile or more out of my way.”

“I know it. But I think that it would be wiser,” and he smiled as he

spoke.

“And why?” I asked.

“Because,” said he, “the English bull is loose in the field.”

If it were not for that odious smile, I might have considered it. But to

hold a danger over me and then to smile in such a fashion was more than

my proud temper could bear. I indicated by a gesture what I thought of

the English bull.

“I will go by the shortest way,” said I.

I had no sooner set my foot in the field than I felt that my spirit had

betrayed me into rashness. It was a very large square field, and as I

came further out into it I felt like the cockle-shell which ventures out

from land and sees no port save that from which it has issued. There was

a wall on every side of the field save that from which I had come. In

front of me was the farmhouse of the Ravons, with wall extending to

right and left. A back door opened upon the field, and there were

several windows, but all were barred, as is usual in the Norman farms.

I pushed on rapidly to the door, as being the only harbour of safety,

walking with dignity as befits a soldier, and yet with such speed as

I could summon. From the waist upwards I was unconcerned and even

debonnaire. Below, I was swift and alert.

I had nearly reached the middle of the field when I perceived the

creature. He was rooting about with his fore feet under a large beech

tree which lay upon my right hand. I did not turn my head, nor would

the bystander have detected that I took notice of him, but my eye was

watching him with anxiety. It may have been that he was in a contented

mood, or it may have been that he was arrested by the nonchalance of my

bearing, but he made no movement in my direction. Reassured, I fixed my

eyes upon the open window of Marie’s bed-chamber, which was immediately

over the back door, in the hope that those dear, tender, dark eyes,

were surveying me from behind the curtains. I flourished my little cane,

loitered to pick a primrose, and sang one of our devil-may-care choruses

in order to insult this English beast, and to show my love how little

I cared for danger when it stood between her and me. The creature was

abashed by my fearlessness, and so, pushing open the back door, I was

able to enter the farmhouse in safety and in honour.

And was it not worth the danger? Had all the bulls of Castile guarded

the entrance, would it not still have been worth it? Ah, the hours, the

sunny hours, which can never come back, when our youthful feet seemed

scarce to touch the ground, and we lived in a sweet dreamland of our own

creation! She honoured my courage, and she loved me for it. As she lay

with her flushed cheek pillowed against the silk of my dolman, looking

up at me with her wondering eyes, shining with love and admiration, she

marvelled at the stories in which I gave her some pictures of the true

character of her lover.

“Has your heart never failed you? Have you never known the feeling of

fear?” she asked. I laughed at such a thought. What place could fear

have in the mind of a Hussar? Young as I was, I had given my proofs.

I told her how I had led my squadron into a square of Hungarian

Grenadiers. She shuddered as she embraced me. I told her also how I had

swum my horse over the Danube at night with a message for Davoust. To be

frank, it was not the Danube, nor was it so deep that I was compelled to

swim, but when one is twenty and in love, one tells a story as best one

can. Many such stories I told her, while her dear eyes grew more and

more amazed.

“Never in my dreams, Etienne,” said she, “did I believe that so brave a

man existed. Lucky France that has such a soldier, lucky Marie that has

such a lover!”

You can think how I flung myself at her feet as I murmured that I was

the luckiest of all--I who had found some one who could appreciate and

understand.

It was a charming relationship, too infinitely sweet and delicate for

the interference of coarser minds. But you can understand that the

parents imagined that they also had their duty to do. I played dominoes

with the old man, and I wound wool for his wife, and yet they could not

be led to believe that it was from love of them that I came thrice a

week to their farm. For some time an explanation was inevitable, and

that night it came. Marie, in delightful mutiny, was packed off to her

room, and I faced the old people in the parlour as they plied me with

questions upon my prospects and my intentions.

“One way or the other,” they said, in their blunt country fashion. “Let

us hear that you are betrothed to Marie, or let us never see your face

again.”

I spoke of my honour, my hopes, and my future, but they remained

immovable upon the present. I pleaded my career, but they in their

selfish way would think of nothing but their daughter. It was indeed a

difficult position in which I found myself. On the one hand, I could

not forsake my Marie; on the other, what would a young Hussar do with

marriage? At last, hard pressed, I begged them to leave the matter, if

it were only for a day.

“I will see Marie,” said I, “I will see her without delay. It is her

heart and her happiness which come before all else.”

They were not satisfied, these grumbling old people, but they could

say no more. They bade me a short good night and I departed, full

of perplexity, for the inn. I came out by the same door which I had

entered, and I heard them lock and bar it behind me.

I walked across the field lost in thought, with my mind entirely filled

with the arguments of the old people and the skilful replies which I

had made to them. What should I do? I had promised to see Marie without

delay. What should I say to her when I did see her? Would I surrender

to her beauty and turn my back upon my profession? If Etienne Gerard’s

sword were turned to a scythe, then indeed it was a bad day for the

Emperor and France. Or should I harden my heart and turn away from

Marie? Or was it not possible that all might be reconciled; that I might

be a happy husband in Normandy but a brave soldier elsewhere? All these

thoughts were buzzing in my head, when a sudden noise made me look up.

The moon had come from behind a cloud, and there was the bull before me.

He had seemed a large animal beneath the beech tree, but now he appeared

enormous. He was black in colour. His head was held down, and the moon

shone upon two menacing and bloodshot eyes. His tail switched swiftly

from side to side, and his fore feet dug into the earth. A more

horrible-looking monster was never seen in a nightmare. He was moving

slowly and stealthily in my direction.

I glanced behind me, and I found that in my distraction I had come

a very long way from the edge of the field. I was more than half-way

across it. My nearest refuge was the inn, but the bull was between me

and it. Perhaps if the creature understood how little I feared him, he

would make way for me. I shrugged my shoulders and made a gesture of

contempt. I even whistled. The creature thought I called it, for he

approached with alacrity. I kept my face boldly towards him, but I

walked swiftly backwards. When one is young and active, one can almost

run backwards and yet keep a brave and smiling face to the enemy. As I

ran I menaced the animal with my cane. Perhaps it would have been

wiser had I restrained my spirit. He regarded it as a challenge--which,

indeed, was the last thing in my mind. It was a misunderstanding, but a

fatal one. With a snort he raised his tail and charged.

Have you ever seen a bull charge, my friends? It is a strange sight. You

think, perhaps, that he trots, or even that he gallops. No, it is worse

than this. It is a succession of bounds by which he advances, each more

menacing than the last. I have no fear of anything which man can do.

When I deal with man, I feel that the nobility of my own attitude, the

gallant ease with which I face him, will in itself go far to disarm him.

What he can do, I can do, so why should I fear him? But when it is a ton

of enraged beef with which you contend, it is another matter. You

cannot hope to argue, to soften, to conciliate. There is no resistance

possible. My proud assurance was all wasted upon the creature. In

an instant my ready wit had weighed every possible course, and had

determined that no one, not the Emperor himself, could hold his ground.

There was but one course--to fly.

But one may fly in many ways. One may fly with dignity or one may fly in

panic. I fled, I trust, like a soldier. My bearing was superb though

my legs moved rapidly. My whole appearance was a protest against the

position in which I was placed. I smiled as I ran--the bitter smile of

the brave man who mocks his own fate. Had all my comrades surrounded

the field, they could not have thought the less of me when they saw the

disdain with which I avoided the bull.

But here it is that I must make my confession. When once flight

commences, though it be ever so soldierly, panic follows hard upon it.

Was it not so with the Guard at Waterloo? So it was that night with

Etienne Gerard. After all, there was no one to note my bearing--no one

save this accursed bull. If for a minute I forgot my dignity, who would

be the wiser? Every moment the thunder of the hoofs and the horrible

snorts of the monster drew nearer to my heels. Horror filled me at the

thought of so ignoble a death. The brutal rage of the creature sent a

chill to my heart. In an instant everything was forgotten. There were

in the world but two creatures, the bull and I--he trying to kill me, I

striving to escape. I put down my head and I ran--I ran for my life.

It was for the house of the Ravons that I raced. But even as I reached

it, it flashed into my mind that there was no refuge for me there. The

door was locked. The lower windows were barred. The wall was high upon

either side. And the bull was nearer me with every stride. But oh, my

friends, it is at that supreme moment of danger that Etienne Gerard

has ever risen to his height. There was one path to safety, and in an

instant I had chosen it.

I have said that the window of Marie’s bedroom was above the door. The

curtains were closed, but the folding sides were thrown open, and a lamp

burned in the room. Young and active, I felt that I could spring high

enough to reach the edge of the window sill and to draw myself out

of danger. The monster was within touch of me as I sprang. Had I been

unaided, I should have done what I had planned. But even as in a superb

effort I rose from the earth he butted me into the air. I shot through

the curtains as if I had been fired from a gun, and I dropped upon my

hands and knees in the centre of the room.

There was, as it appears, a bed in the window, but I had passed over

it in safety. As I staggered to my feet I turned towards it in

consternation, but it was empty. My Marie sat in a low chair in the

corner of the room, and her flushed cheeks showed that she had been

weeping. No doubt her parents had given her some account of what had

passed between us. She was too amazed to move, and could only sit

looking at me with her mouth open.

“Etienne!” she gasped. “Etienne!”

In an instant I was as full of resource as ever. There was but one

course for a gentleman, and I took it.

“Marie,” I cried, “forgive, oh forgive the abruptness of my return!

Marie, I have seen your parents tonight. I could not return to the camp

without asking you whether you will make me for ever happy by promising

to be my wife?”

It was long before she could speak, so great was her amazement. Then

every emotion was swept away in the one great flood of her admiration.

“Oh, Etienne! my wonderful Etienne!” she cried, her arms round my neck.

“Was ever such love! Was ever such a man! As you stand there, white and

trembling with passion, you seem to me the very hero of my dreams. How

hard you breathe, my love, and what a spring it must have been which

brought you to my arms! At the instant that you came, I heard the tramp

of your war-horse without.”

There was nothing more to explain, and when one is newly betrothed, one

finds other uses for one’s lips. But there was a scurry in the passage

and a pounding at the panels. At the crash of my arrival the old folk

had rushed to the cellar to see if the great cider cask had toppled off

the trestles, but now they were back and eager for admittance. I flung

open the door, and stood with Marie’s hand in mine.

“Behold your son!” I said.

Ah, the joy which I had brought to that humble household! It warms my

heart still when I think of it. It did not seem too strange to them

that I should fly in through the window, for who should be a hot-headed

suitor if it is not a gallant Hussar? And if the door be locked, then

what way is there but the window? Once more we assembled all four in

the parlour, while the cobwebbed bottle was brought up and the ancient

glories of the House of Ravon were unrolled before me. Once more I see

the heavy-raftered room, the two old smiling faces, the golden circle

of the lamp-light, and she, my Marie, the bride of my youth, won so

strangely, and kept for so short a time.

It was late when we parted. The old man came with me into the hall.

“You can go by the front door or the back,” said he. “The back way is

the shorter.”

“I think that I will take the front way,” I answered. “It may be a bit

longer, but it will give me the more time to think of Marie.”

THE LORD OF FALCONBRIDGE

A LEGEND OF THE RING

Tom Cribb, Champion of England, having finished his active career by his

two famous battles with the terrible Molineux, had settled down into the

public house which was known as the Union Arms, at the corner of Panton

Street in the Haymarket. Behind the bar of this hostelry there was a

green baize door which opened into a large, red-papered parlour, adorned

by many sporting prints and by the numerous cups and belts which were

the treasured trophies of the famous prize-fighter’s victorious career.

In this snuggery it was the custom of the Corinthians of the day to

assemble in order to discuss, over Tom Cribb’s excellent wines, the

matches of the past, to await the news of the present, and to arrange

new ones for the future. Hither also came his brother pugilists,

especially such as were in poverty or distress, for the Champion’s

generosity was proverbial, and no man of his own trade was ever turned

from his door if cheering words or a full meal could mend his condition.

On the morning in question--August 25, 1818--there were but two men in

this famous snuggery. One was Cribb himself--all run to flesh since the

time seven years before, when, training for his last fight, he had done

his forty miles a day with Captain Barclay over the Highland roads.

Broad and deep, as well as tall, he was a little short of twenty stone

in weight, but his heavy, strong face and lion eyes showed that the

spirit of the prize-fighter was not yet altogether overgrown by the fat

of the publican. Though it was not eleven o’clock, a great tankard of

bitter ale stood upon the table before him, and he was busy cutting up

a plug of black tobacco and rubbing the slices into powder between his

horny fingers. For all his record of desperate battles, he looked what

he was--a good-hearted, respectable householder, law-abiding and kindly,

a happy and prosperous man.

His companion, however, was by no means in the same easy circumstances,

and his countenance wore a very different expression. He was a tall

and well-formed man, some fifteen years younger than the Champion, and

recalling in the masterful pose of his face and in the fine spread of

his shoulders something of the manly beauty which had distinguished

Cribb at his prime. No one looking at his countenance could fail to see

that he was a fighting man by profession, and any judge of the fancy,

considering his six feet in height, his thirteen stone solid muscle,

and his beautifully graceful build, would admit that he had started his

career with advantages which, if they were only backed by the driving

power of a stout heart, must carry him far. Tom Winter, or Spring--as

he chose to call himself--had indeed come up from his Herefordshire home

with a fine country record of local successes, which had been enhanced

by two victories gained over formidable London heavy-weights. Three

weeks before, however, he had been defeated by the famous Painter, and

the set-back weighed heavily upon the young man’s spirit.

“Cheer up, lad,” said the Champion, glancing across from under his

tufted eyebrows at the disconsolate face of his companion. “Indeed, Tom,

you take it overhard.”

The young man groaned, but made no reply. “Others have been beat before

you and lived to be Champions of England. Here I sit with that very

title. Was I not beat down Broadwater way by George Nicholls in 1805?

What then? I fought on, and here I am. When the big Black came from

America it was not George Nicholls they sent for. I say to you--fight

on, and by George, I’ll see you in my own shoes yet!”

Tom Spring shook his head. “Never, if I have to fight you to get there,

Daddy.”

“I can’t keep it for ever, Tom. It’s beyond all reason. I’m going to lay

it down before all London at the Fives Courts next year, and it’s to you

that I want to hand it. I couldn’t train down to it now, lad. My day’s

done.”

“Well, Dad, I’ll never bid for it till you choose to stand aside. After

that, it is as it may be.”

“Well, have a rest, Tom; wait for your chance, and, meantime, there’s

always a bed and crust for you here.”

Spring struck his clenched fist on his knee. “I know, Daddy! Ever since

I came up from Fownthorpe you’ve been as good as a father to me.”

“I’ve an eye for a winner.”

“A pretty winner! Beat in forty rounds by Ned Painter.”

“You had beat him first.”

“And by the Lord, I will again!”

“So you will, lad. George Nicholls would never give me another shy. Knew

too much, he did. Bought a butcher’s shop in Bristol with the money, and

there he is to this day.”

“Yes, I’ll come back on Painter, but I haven’t a shilling left. My

backers have lost faith in me. If it wasn’t for you, Daddy, I’d be in

the kennel.”

“Have you nothing left, Tom?”

“Not the price of a meal. I left every penny I had, and my good name as

well, in the ring at Kingston. I’m hard put to it to live unless I can

get another fight, and who’s going to back me now?”

“Tut, man! the knowing ones will back you. You’re the top of the list,

for all Ned Painter. But there are other ways a man may earn a bit.

There was a lady in here this morning--nothing flash, boy, a real

tip-top out-and-outer with a coronet on her coach--asking after you.”

“Asking after me! A lady!” The young pugilist stood up with surprise and

a certain horror rising in his eyes. “You don’t mean, Daddy--”

“I mean nothing but what is honest, my lad. You can lay to that!”

“You said I could earn a bit.”

“So, perhaps, you can. Enough, anyhow, to tide you over your bad time.

There’s something in the wind there. It’s to do with fightin’. She asked

questions about your height, weight, and my opinion of your prospect.

You can lay that my answers did you no harm.”

“She ain’t making a match, surely?”

“Well, she seemed to know a tidy bit about it. She asked about George

Cooper, and Richmond the Black, and Tom Oliver, always comin’ back to

you, and wantin’ to know if you were not the pick of the bunch. _And_

trustworthy. That was the other point. Could she trust you? Lord,

Tom, if you was a fightin’ archangel you could hardly live up to the

character that I’ve given you.”

A drawer looked in from the bar. “If you please, Mr. Cribb, the lady’s

carriage is back again.”

The Champion laid down his long clay pipe. “This way, lad,” said he,

plucking his young friend by the sleeve towards the side window. “Look

there, now! Saw you ever a more slap-up carriage? See, too, the pair of

bays--two hundred guineas apiece. Coachman, too, and footman--you’d find

‘em hard to beat. There she is now, stepping out of it. Wait here, lad,

till I do the honours of my house.”

Tom Cribb slipped off, and young Spring remained by the window, tapping

the glass nervously with his fingers, for he was a simple-minded country

lad with no knowledge of women, and many fears of the traps which await

the unwary in a great city. Many stories were afloat of pugilists who

had been taken up and cast aside again by wealthy ladies, even as the

gladiators were in decadent Rome. It was with some suspicion therefore,

and considerable inward trepidation, that he faced round as a tall

veiled figure swept into the room. He was much consoled, however, to

observe the bulky form of Tom Cribb immediately behind her as a proof

that the interview was not to be a private one. When the door was

closed, the lady very deliberately removed her gloves. Then with fingers

which glittered with diamonds she slowly rolled up and adjusted her

heavy veil. Finally, she turned her face upon Spring.

“Is this the man?” said she.

They stood looking at each other with mutual interest, which warmed

in both their faces into mutual admiration. What she saw was as fine a

figure of a young man as England could show, none the less attractive

for the restrained shyness of his manner and the blush which flushed his

cheeks. What he saw was a woman of thirty, tall, dark, queen-like, and

imperious, with a lovely face, every line and feature of which told of

pride and breed, a woman born to Courts, with the instinct of command

strong within her, and yet with all the softer woman’s graces to temper

and conceal the firmness of her soul. Tom Spring felt as he looked at

her that he had never seen nor ever dreamed of any one so beautiful, and

yet he could not shake off the instinct which warned him to be upon his

guard. Yes, it was beautiful, this face--beautiful beyond belief.

But was it good, was it kind, was it true? There was some strange

subconscious repulsion which mingled with his admiration for her

loveliness. As to the lady’s thoughts, she had already put away all idea

of the young pugilist as a man, and regarded him now with critical eyes

as a machine designed for a definite purpose.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr.--Mr. Spring,” said she, looking him over

with as much deliberation as a dealer who is purchasing a horse. “He

is hardly as tall as I was given to understand, Mr. Cribb. You said six

feet, I believe?”

“So he is, ma’am, but he carries it so easy. It’s only the beanstalk

that looks tall. See here, I’m six foot myself, and our heads are level,

except I’ve lost my fluff.”

“What is the chest measurement?”

“Forty-three inches, ma’am.”

“You certainly seem to be a very strong young man. And a game one, too,

I hope?”

Young Spring shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s not for me to say, ma’am.”

“I can speak for that, ma’am,” said Cribb. “You read the _Sporting

Chronicle_ for three weeks ago, ma’am. You’ll see how he stood up to Ned

Painter until his senses were beat out of him. I waited on him, ma’am,

and I know. I could show you my waistcoat now--that would let you guess

what punishment he can take.”

The lady waved aside the illustration. “But he was beat,” said she,

coldly. “The man who beat him must be the better man.”

“Saving your presence, ma’am, I think not, and outside Gentleman Jackson

my judgment would stand against any in the ring. My lad here has beat

Painter once, and will again, if your ladyship could see your way to

find the battle-money.”

The lady started and looked angrily at the Champion.

“Why do you call me that?”

“I beg pardon. It was just my way of speaking.”

“I order you not to do it again.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

“I am here incognito. I bind you both upon your honours to make no

inquiry as to who I am. If I do not get your firm promise, the matter

ends here.”

“Very good, ma’am. I’ll promise for my own part, and so, I am sure,

will Spring. But if I may be so bold, I can’t help my drawers and potmen

talking with your servants.”

“The coachman and footman know just as much about me as you do. But my

time is limited, so I must get to business. I think, Mr. Spring, that

you are in want of something to do at present?”

“That is so, ma’am.”

“I understand from Mr. Cribb that you are prepared to fight any one at

any weight?”

“Anything on two legs,” cried the Champion. “Who did you wish me to

fight?” asked the young pugilist.

“That cannot concern you. If you are really ready to fight any one,

then the particular name can be of no importance. I have my reasons for

withholding it.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

“You have been only a few weeks out of training. How long would it take

you to get back to your best?”

“Three weeks or a month.”

“Well, then, I will pay your training expenses and two pounds a week

over. Here are five pounds as a guarantee. You will fight when I

consider that you are ready, and that the circumstances are favourable.

If you win your fight, you shall have fifty pounds. Are you satisfied

with the terms?”

“Very handsome, ma’am, I’m sure.”

“And remember, Mr. Spring, I choose you, not because you are the best

man--for there are two opinions about that--but because I am given to

understand that you are a decent man whom I can trust. The terms of this

match are to be secret.”

“I understand that. I’ll say nothing.”

“It is a private match. Nothing more. You will begin your training

tomorrow.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

“I will ask Mr. Cribb to train you.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am, with pleasure. But, by your leave, does he have

anything if he loses?”

A spasm of emotion passed over the woman’s face and her hands clenched

white with passion.

“If he loses, not a penny, not a penny!” she cried. “He must not, shall

not lose!”

“Well, ma’am,” said Spring, “I’ve never heard of any such match. But

it’s true that I am down at heel, and beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll

do just what you say. I’ll train till you give the word, and then I’ll

fight where you tell me. I hope you’ll make it a large ring.”

“Yes,” said she; “it will be a large ring.”

“And how far from London?”

“Within a hundred miles. Have you anything else to say? My time is up.”

“I’d like to ask, ma’am,” said the Champion, earnestly, “whether I can

act as the lad’s second when the time comes. I’ve waited on him the last

two fights. Can I give him a knee?”

“No,” said the woman, sharply. Without another word she turned and

was gone, shutting the door behind her. A few moments later the trim

carriage flashed past the window, turned down the crowded Haymarket, and

was engulfed in the traffic.

The two men looked at each other in silence.

“Well, blow my dicky, if this don’t beat cockfightin’!” cried Tom Cribb

at last. “Anyhow, there’s the fiver, lad. But it’s a rum go, and no

mistake about it.”

After due consultation, it was agreed that Tom Spring should go into

training at the Castle Inn on Hampstead Heath, so that Cribb could drive

over and watch him. Thither Spring went on the day after the interview

with his patroness, and he set to work at once with drugs, dumb-bells,

and breathers on the common to get himself into condition. It was hard,

however, to take the matter seriously, and his good-natured trainer

found the same difficulty.

“It’s the baccy I miss, Daddy,” said the young pugilist, as they sat

together on the afternoon of the third day. “Surely there can’t be any

harm in my havin’ a pipe?”

“Well, well, lad, it’s against my conscience, but here’s my box and

there’s a yard o’ clay,” said the Champion. “My word, I don’t know what

Captain Barclay of Ury would have said if he had seen a man smoke when

he was in trainin’! He was the man to work you! He had me down from

sixteen to thirteen the second time I fought the Black.”

Spring had lit his pipe and was leaning back amid a haze of blue smoke.

“It was easy for you, Daddy, to keep strict trainin’ when you knew what

was before you. You had your date and your place and your man. You knew

that in a month you would jump the ropes with ten thousand folk round

you, and carrying maybe a hundred thousand in bets. You knew also the

man you had to meet, and you wouldn’t give him the better of you. But

it’s all different with me. For all I know, this is just a woman’s whim,

and will end in nothing. If I was sure it was serious, I’d break this

pipe before I would smoke it.”

Tom Cribb scratched his head in puzzlement.

“I can make nothing of it, lad, ‘cept that her money is good. Come to

think of it, how many men on the list could stand up to you for half an

hour? It can’t be Stringer, ‘cause you’ve beat him. Then there’s Cooper;

but he’s up Newcastle way. It can’t be him. There’s Richmond; but you

wouldn’t need to take your coat off to beat him. There’s the Gasman; but

he’s not twelve stone. And there’s Bill Neat of Bristol. That’s it, lad.

The lady has taken into her head to put you up against either the Gasman

or Bill Neat.”

“But why not say so? I’d train hard for the Gasman and harder for Bill

Neat, but I’m blowed if I can train, with any heart when I’m fightin’

nobody in particular and everybody in general, same as now.”

There was a sudden interruption to the speculations of the two

prize-fighters. The door opened and the lady entered. As her eyes fell

upon the two men her dark, handsome face flushed with anger, and she

gazed at them silently with an expression of contempt which brought them

both to their feet with hangdog faces. There they stood, their long,

reeking pipes in their hands, shuffling and downcast, like two great

rough mastiffs before an angry mistress.

“So!” said she, stamping her foot furiously. “And this is training!”

“I’m sure we’re very sorry, ma’am,” said the abashed Champion. “I didn’t

think--I never for one moment supposed--”

“That I would come myself to see if you were taking my money on false

pretences? No, I dare say not. You fool!” she blazed, turning suddenly

upon Tom Spring. “You’ll be beat. That will be the end of it.”

The young man looked up with an angry face.

“I’ll trouble you not to call me names, ma’am. I’ve my self-respect,

the same as you. I’ll allow that I shouldn’t have smoked when I was in

trainin’. But I was saying to Tom Cribb here, just before you came in,

that if you would give over treatin’ us as if we were children, and if

you would tell us just who it is you want me to fight, and when, and

where, it would be a deal easier for me to take myself in hand.”

“It’s true, ma’am,” said the Champion. “I know it must be either the

Gasman or Bill Neat. There’s no one else. So give me the office, and

I’ll promise to have him as fit as a trout on the day.”

The lady laughed contemptuously.

“Do you think,” said she, “that no one can fight save those who make a

living by it?”

“By George, it’s an amateur!” cried Cribb, in amazement. “But you don’t

surely ask Tom Spring to train for three weeks to meet a Corinthian?”

“I will say nothing more of who it is. It is no business of yours,” the

lady answered fiercely. “All I _do_ say is, that if you do not train

I will cast you aside and take some one who will. Do not think you can

fool me because I am a woman. I have learned the points of the game as

well as any man.”

“I saw that the very first word you spoke,” said Cribb.

“Then don’t forget it. I will not warn you again. If I have occasion to

find fault I shall choose another man.”

“And you won’t tell me who I am to fight?”

“Not a word. But you can take it from me that at your very best it will

take you, or any man in England, all your time to master him. Now, get

back this instant to your work, and never let me find you shirking it

again.” With imperious eyes she looked the two strong men down, and

then, turning on her heel, she swept out of the room.

The Champion whistled as the door closed behind her, and mopped his brow

with his red bandanna handkerchief as he looked across at his abashed

companion. “My word, lad,” said he, “it’s earnest from this day on.”

“Yes,” said Tom Spring, solemnly, “it’s earnest from this day on.”

In the course of the next fortnight the lady made several surprise

visits to see that her champion was being properly prepared for the

contest which lay before him. At the most unexpected moments she would

burst into the training quarters, but never again had she to complain of

any slackness upon his part or that of his trainer. With long bouts

of the gloves, with thirty-mile walks, with mile runs at the back of

a mailcart with a bit of blood between the shafts, with interminable

series of jumps with a skipping-rope, he was sweated down until his

trainer was able to proudly proclaim that “the last ounce of tallow is

off him and he is ready to fight for his life.” Only once was the

lady accompanied by any one upon these visits of inspection. Upon this

occasion a tall young man was her companion. He was graceful in figure,

aristocratic in his bearing, and would have been strikingly handsome had

it not been for some accident which had shattered his nose and broken

all the symmetry of his features. He stood in silence with moody eyes

and folded arms, looking at the splendid torso of the prize-fighter as,

stripped to the waist, he worked with his dumbbells.

“Don’t you think he will do?” said the lady.

The young swell shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t like it, _cara mia_. I

can’t pretend that I like it.”

“You must like it, George. I have set my very heart on it.”

“It is not English, you know. Lucrezia Borgia and Mediaeval Italy.

Woman’s love and woman’s hatred are always the same, but this particular

manifestation of it seems to me out of place in nineteenth-century

London.”

“Is not a lesson needed?”

“Yes, yes; but one would think there were other ways.”

“You tried another way. What did you get out of that?”

The young man smiled rather grimly, as he turned up his cuff and looked

at a puckered hole in his wrist.

“Not much, certainly,” said he.

“You’ve tried and failed.”

“Yes, I must admit it.”

“What else is there? The law?”

“Good gracious, no!”

“Then it is my turn, George, and I won’t be balked.”

“I don’t think any one is capable of balking you, _cara mia_. Certainly

I, for one, should never dream of trying. But I don’t feel as if I could

co-operate.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No, you certainly never did. You are perfectly capable of doing it

alone. I think, with your leave, if you have quite done with your

prize-fighter, we will drive back to London. I would not for the world

miss Goldoni in the Opera.”

So they drifted away; he, frivolous and dilettante, she with her face as

set as Fate, leaving the fighting men to their business.

And now the day came when Cribb was able to announce to his employer

that his man was as fit as science could make him.

“I can do no more, ma’am. He’s fit to fight for a kingdom. Another week

would see him stale.”

The lady looked Spring over with the eye of a connoisseur.

“I think he does you credit,” she said at last. “Today is Tuesday. He

will fight the day after tomorrow.”

“Very good, ma’am. Where shall he go?”

“I will tell you exactly, and you will please take careful note of all

that I say. You, Mr. Cribb, will take your man down to the Golden Cross

Inn at Charing Cross by nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. He will take

the Brighton coach as far as Tunbridge Wells, where he will alight at

the Royal Oak Arms. There he will take such refreshment as you advise

before a fight. He will wait at the Royal Oak Arms until he receives

a message by word, or by letter, brought him by a groom in a mulberry

livery. This message will give him his final instructions.”

“And I am not to come?”

“No,” said the lady.

“But surely, ma’am,” he pleaded, “I may come as far as Tunbridge Wells?

It’s hard on a man to train a cove for a fight and then to leave him.”

“It can’t be helped. You are too well known. Your arrival would spread

all over the town, and my plans might suffer. It is quite out of the

question that you should come.”

“Well, I’ll do what you tell me, but it’s main hard.”

“I suppose,” said Spring, “you would have me bring my fightin’ shorts

and my spiked shoes?”

“No; you will kindly bring nothing whatever which may point to your

trade. I would have you wear just those clothes in which I saw you

first, such clothes as any mechanic or artisan might be expected to

wear.”

Tom Cribb’s blank face had assumed an expression of absolute despair.

“No second, no clothes, no shoes--it don’t seem regular. I give you my

word, ma’am, I feel ashamed to be mixed up in such a fight. I don’t know

as you can call the thing a fight where there is no second. It’s just

a scramble--nothing more. I’ve gone too far to wash my hands of it now,

but I wish I had never touched it.”

In spite of all professional misgivings on the part of the Champion and

his pupil, the imperious will of the woman prevailed, and everything

was carried out exactly as she had directed. At nine o’clock Tom Spring

found himself upon the box-seat of the Brighton coach, and waved his

hand in goodbye to burly Tom Cribb, who stood, the admired of a ring of

waiters and ostlers, upon the doorstep of the Golden Cross. It was in

the pleasant season when summer is mellowing into autumn, and the

first golden patches are seen amid the beeches and the ferns. The young

country-bred lad breathed more freely when he had left the weary streets

of Southwark and Lewisham behind him, and he watched with delight the

glorious prospect as the coach, whirled along by six dapple greys,

passed by the classic grounds of Knowle, or after crossing Riverside

Hill skirted the vast expanse of the Weald of Kent. Past Tonbridge

School went the coach, and on through Southborough, until it wound down

a steep, curving road with strange outcrops of sandstone beside it, and

halted before a great hostelry, bearing the name which had been given

him in his directions. He descended, entered the coffee-room, and

ordered the underdone steak which his trainer had recommended. Hardly

had he finished it when a servant with a mulberry coat and a peculiarly

expressionless face entered the apartment.

“Beg your pardon, sir, are you Mr. Spring--Mr. Thomas Spring, of

London?”

“That is my name, young man.”

“Then the instructions which I had to give you are that you wait for one

hour after your meal. After that time you will find me in a phaeton at

the door, and I will drive you in the right direction.”

The young pugilist had never been daunted by any experience which had

befallen him in the ring. The rough encouragement of his backers, the

surge and shouting of the multitude, and the sight of his opponent had

always cheered his stout heart and excited him to prove himself worthy

of being the centre of such a scene. But his loneliness and uncertainty

were deadly. He flung himself down on the horse-hair couch and tried to

doze, but his mind was too restless and excited. Finally he rose, and

paced up and down the empty room. Suddenly he was aware of a great

rubicund face which surveyed him from round the angle of the door. Its

owner, seeing that he was observed, pushed forward into the room.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said he, “but surely I have the honour of talking

to Mr. Thomas Spring?”

“At your service,” said the young man.

“Bless me! I am vastly honoured to have you under my roof! Cordery is

my name, sir, landlord of this old-fashioned inn. I thought that my eyes

could not deceive me. I am a patron of the ring, sir, in my own humble

way, and was present at Moulsey in September last, when you beat Jack

Stringer of Rawcliffe. A very fine fight, sir, and very handsomely

fought, if I may make bold to say so. I have a right to an opinion, sir,

for there’s never been a fight for many a year in Kent or Sussex that

you wouldn’t find Joe Cordery at the ring-side. Ask Mr. Gregson at the

Chop-house in Holborn and he’ll tell you about old Joe Cordery. By the

way, Mr. Spring, I suppose it is not business that has brought you down

into these parts? Any one can see with half an eye that you are trained

to a hair. I’d take it very kindly if you would give me the office.”

It crossed Spring’s mind that if he were frank with the landlord it was

more than likely that he would receive more information than he could

give. He was a man of his word, however, and he remembered his promise

to his employer.

“Just a quiet day in the country, Mr. Cordery. That’s all.”

“Dear me! I had hoped there was a mill in the wind. I’ve a nose for

these things, Mr. Spring, and I thought I had a whiff of it. But, of

course, you should know best. Perhaps you will drive round with me this

afternoon and view the hop-gardens--just the right time of year, sir.”

Tom Spring was not very skilful in deception, and his stammering excuses

may not have been very convincing to the landlord, or finally persuaded

him that his original supposition was wrong. In the midst of the

conversation, however, the waiter entered with the news that a phaeton

was waiting at the door. The innkeeper’s eyes shone with suspicion and

eagerness.

“I thought you said you knew no one in these parts, Mr. Spring?”

“Just one kind friend, Mr. Cordery, and he has sent his gig for me. It’s

likely that I will take the night coach to town. But I’ll look in after

an hour or two and have a dish of tea with you.”

Outside the mulberry servant was sitting behind a fine black horse in

a phaeton, which had two seats in front and two behind. Tom Spring

was about to climb up beside him, when the servant whispered that his

directions were that he should sit behind. Then the phaeton whirled

away, while the excited landlord, more convinced than ever that there

was something in the wind, rushed into his stable-yard with shrieks to

his ostlers, and in a very few minutes was in hot pursuit, waiting at

every cross-road until he could hear tidings of a black horse and a

mulberry livery.

The phaeton meanwhile drove in the direction of Crowborough. Some miles

out it turned from the high-road into a narrow lane spanned by a tawny

arch of beech trees. Through this golden tunnel a lady was walking, tall

and graceful, her back to the phaeton. As it came abreast of her she

stood aside and looked up, while the coachman pulled up the horse.

“I trust that you are at your best,” said she, looking very earnestly at

the prize-fighter. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty tidy, ma’am, I thank you.”

“I will get up beside you, Johnson. We have some way to go. You will

drive through the Lower Warren, and then take the lane which skirts the

Gravel Hanger. I will tell you where to stop. Go slowly, for we are not

due for twenty minutes.”

Feeling as if the whole business was some extraordinary dream, the young

pugilist passed through a network of secluded lanes, until the phaeton

drew up at a wicket gate which led into a plantation of firs, choked

with a thick undergrowth. Here the lady descended and beckoned Spring to

alight.

“Wait down the lane,” said she to the coachman. “We shall be some little

time. Now, Mr. Spring, will you kindly follow me? I have written a

letter which makes an appointment.”

She passed swiftly through the plantation by a tortuous path, then

over a stile, and past another wood, loud with the deep chuckling of

pheasants. At the farther side was a fine rolling park, studded with

oak trees, and stretching away to a splendid Elizabethan mansion, with

balustraded terraces athwart its front. Across the park, and making for

the wood, a solitary figure was walking.

The lady gripped the prize-fighter by the wrist. “That is your man,”

said she.

They were standing under the shadow of the trees, so that he was very

visible to them, while they were out of his sight. Tom Spring looked

hard at the man, who was still some hundreds of yards away. He was a

tall, powerful fellow, clad in a blue coat with gilt buttons, which

gleamed in the sun. He had white corded breeches and riding-boots. He

walked with a vigorous step, and with every few strides he struck

his leg with a dog-whip which hung from his wrist. There was a great

suggestion of purpose and of energy in the man’s appearance and bearing.

“Why, he’s a gentleman!” said Spring. “Look ‘ere, ma’am, this is all a

bit out of my line. I’ve nothing against the man, and he can mean me no

harm. What am I to do with him?”

“Fight him! Smash him! That is what you are here for.”

Tom Spring turned on his heel with disgust. “I’m here to fight, ma’am,

but not to smash a man who has no thought of fighting. It’s off.”

“You don’t like the look of him,” hissed the woman. “You have met your

master.”

“That is as may be. It is no job for me.”

The woman’s face was white with vexation and anger.

“You fool!” she cried. “Is all to go wrong at the last minute? There are

fifty pounds here they are in this paper--would you refuse them?”

“It’s a cowardly business. I won’t do it.”

“Cowardly? You are giving the man two stone, and he can beat any amateur

in England.”

The young pugilist felt relieved. After all, if he could fairly earn

that fifty pounds, a good deal depended upon his winning it. If he could

only be sure that this was a worthy and willing antagonist!

“How do you know he is so good?” he asked.

“I ought to know. I am his wife.”

As she spoke she turned, and was gone like a flash among the bushes. The

man was quite close now, and Tom Spring’s scruples weakened as he looked

at him. He was a powerful, broad-chested fellow, about thirty, with a

heavy, brutal face, great thatched eyebrows, and a hard-set mouth. He

could not be less than fifteen stone in weight, and he carried himself

like a trained athlete. As he swung along he suddenly caught a glimpse

of Spring among the trees, and he at once quickened his pace and sprang

over the stile which separated them.

“Halloa!” said he, halting a few yards from him, and staring him up and

down. “Who the devil are you, and where the devil did you come from, and

what the devil are you doing on my property?”

His manner was even more offensive than his words. It brought a flush of

anger to Spring’s cheeks.

“See here, mister,” said he, “civil words is cheap. You’ve no call to

speak to me like that.”

“You infernal rascal!” cried the other. “I’ll show you the way out of

that plantation with the toe of my boot. Do you dare to stand there on

my land and talk back at me?” He advanced with a menacing face and his

dog-whip half raised. “Well, are you going?” he cried, as he swung it

into the air.

Tom Spring jumped back to avoid the threatened blow.

“Go slow, mister,” said he. “It’s only fair that you should know where

you are. I’m Spring, the prize-fighter. Maybe you have heard my name.”

“I thought you were a rascal of that breed,” said the man. “I’ve had the

handling of one or two of you gentry before, and I never found one that

could stand up to me for five minutes. Maybe you would like to try?”

“If you hit me with that dog-whip, mister----”

“There, then!” He gave the young man a vicious cut across the shoulder.

“Will that help you to fight?”

“I came here to fight,” said Tom Spring, licking his dry lips. “You can

drop that whip, mister, for I _will_ fight. I’m a trained man and ready.

But you would have it. Don’t blame me.”

The man was stripping the blue coat from his broad shoulders. There

was a sprigged satin vest beneath it, and they were hung together on an

alder branch.

“Trained are you?” he muttered. “By the Lord, I’ll train you before I am

through!”

Any fears that Tom Spring may have had lest he should be taking some

unfair advantage were set at rest by the man’s assured manner and by the

splendid physique, which became more apparent as he discarded a black

satin tie, with a great ruby glowing in its centre, and threw aside

the white collar which cramped his thick muscular neck. He then, very

deliberately, undid a pair of gold sleeve-links, and, rolling up his

shirt-sleeves, disclosed two hairy and muscular arms, which would have

served as a model for a sculptor.

“Come nearer the stile,” said he, when he had finished. “There is more

room.”

The prize-fighter had kept pace with the preparations of his formidable

antagonist. His own hat, coat, and vest hung suspended upon a bush. He

advanced now into the open space which the other had indicated.

“Ruffianing or fighting?” asked the amateur, coolly.

“Fighting.”

“Very good,” said the other. “Put up your hands, Spring. Try it out.”

They were standing facing one another in a grassy ring intersected by

the path at the outlet of the wood. The insolent and overbearing look

had passed away from the amateur’s face, but a grim half-smile was on

his lips and his eyes shone fiercely from under his tufted brows. From

the way in which he stood it was very clear that he was a past-master at

the game. Tom Spring, as he paced lightly to right and left, looking for

an opening, became suddenly aware that neither with Stringer nor with

the redoubtable Painter himself had he ever faced a more business-like

opponent. The amateur’s left was well forward, his guard low, his body

leaning back from the haunches, and his head well out of danger. Spring

tried a light lead at the mark, and another at the face, but in an

instant his adversary was on to him with a shower of sledge-hammer blows

which it took him all his time to avoid. He sprang back, but there was

no getting away from that whirlwind of muscle and bone. A heavy blow

beat down his guard, a second landed on his shoulder, and over went the

prize-fighter with the other on the top of him. Both sprang to their

feet, glared at each other, and fell into position once more.

There could be no doubt that the amateur was not only heavier, but also

the harder and stronger man. Twice again he rushed Spring down, once by

the weight of his blows, and once by closing and hurling him on to his

back. Such falls might have shaken the fight out of a less game man, but

to Tom Spring they were but incidents in his daily trade. Though bruised

and winded he was always up again in an instant. Blood was trickling

from his mouth, but his steadfast blue eyes told of the unshaken spirit

within.

He was accustomed now to his opponent’s rushing tactics, and he was

ready for them. The fourth round was the same as to attack, but it was

very different in defence. Up to now the young man had given way and

been fought down. This time he stood his ground. As his opponent

rushed in he met him with a tremendous straight hit from his left hand,

delivered with the full force of his body, and doubled in effect by the

momentum of the charge. So stunning was the concussion that the pugilist

himself recoiled from it across the grassy ring. The amateur staggered

back and leaned his shoulder on a tree-trunk, his hand up to his face.

“You’d best drop it,” said Spring. “You’ll get pepper if you don’t.”

The other gave an inarticulate curse, and spat out a mouthful of blood.

“Come on!” said he.

Even now the pugilist found that he had no light task before him. Warned

by his misadventure, the heavier man no longer tried to win the battle

at a rush, nor to beat down an accomplished boxer as he would a country

hawbuck at a village fair. He fought with his head and his feet as well

as with his hands. Spring had to admit in his heart that, trained to

the ring, this man must have been a match for the best. His guard was

strong, his counter was like lightning, he took punishment like a man

of iron, and when he could safely close he always brought his lighter

antagonist to the ground with a shattering fall. But the one stunning

blow which he had courted before he was taught respect for his adversary

weighed heavily on him all the time. His senses had lost something of

their quickness and his blows of their sting. He was fighting, too,

against a man who, of all the boxers who have made their names great,

was the safest, the coolest, the least likely to give anything away, or

lose an advantage gained. Slowly, gradually, round by round, he was worn

down by his cool, quick-stepping, sharp-hitting antagonist. At last he

stood exhausted, breathing hoarsely, his face, what could be seen of it,

purple with his exertions. He had reached the limit of human endurance.

His opponent stood waiting for him, bruised and beaten, but as cool, as

ready, as dangerous as ever.

“You’d best drop it, I tell you,” said he. “You’re done.”

But the other’s manhood would not have it so. With a snarl of fury he

cast his science to the winds, and rushed madly to slogging with both

hands. For a moment Spring was overborne. Then he side-stepped swiftly;

there was the crash of his blow, and the amateur tossed up his arms and

fell all asprawl, his great limbs outstretched, his disfigured face to

the sky.

For a moment Tom Spring stood looking down at his unconscious opponent.

The next he felt a soft, warm hand upon his bare arm. The woman was at

his elbow.

“Now is your time!” she cried, her dark eyes aflame. “Go in! Smash him!”

Spring shook her off with a cry of disgust, but she was back in an

instant.

“I’ll make it seventy-five pounds--”

“The fight’s over, ma’am. I can’t touch him.”

“A hundred pounds--a clear hundred! I have it here in my bodice. Would

you refuse a hundred?”

He turned on his heel. She darted past him and tried to kick at the face

of the prostrate man. Spring dragged her roughly away, before she could

do him a mischief.

“Stand clear!” he cried, giving her a shake. “You should take shame to

hit a fallen man.”

With a groan the injured man turned on his side. Then he slowly sat

up and passed his wet hand over his face. Finally, he staggered to his

feet.

“Well,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders, “it was a fair fight.

I’ve no complaint to make. I was Jackson’s favourite pupil, but I give

you best.” Suddenly his eyes lit upon the furious face of the woman.

“Hulloa, Betty!” he cried. “So I have you to thank. I might have guessed

it when I had your letter.”

“Yes, my lord,” said she, with a mock curtsey. “You have me to thank.

Your little wife managed it all. I lay behind those bushes, and I saw

you beaten like a hound. You haven’t had all that I had planned for you,

but I think it will be some little time before any woman loves you for

the sake of your appearance. Do you remember the words, my lord? Do you

remember the words?”

He stood stunned for a moment. Then he snatched his whip from the

ground, and looked at her from under his heavy brows.

“I believe you’re the devil!” he cried.

“I wonder what the governess will think?” said she.

He flared into furious rage and rushed at her with his whip. Tom Spring

threw himself before him with his arms out.

“It won’t do, sir; I can’t stand by.”

The man glared at his wife over the prize-fighter’s shoulder.

“So it’s for dear George’s sake!” he said, with a bitter laugh. “But

poor, broken-nosed George seems to have gone to the wall. Taken up with

a prize-fighter, eh? Found a fancy man for yourself!”

“You liar!” she gasped.

“Ha, my lady, that stings your pride, does it? Well, you shall stand

together in the dock for trespass and assault. What a picture--great

Lord, what a picture!”

“You wouldn’t, John!”

“Wouldn’t I, by--! you stay there three minutes and see if I wouldn’t.”

He seized his clothes from the bush, and staggered off as swiftly as he

could across the field, blowing a whistle as he ran.

“Quick! quick!” cried the woman. “There’s not an instant to lose.” Her

face was livid, and she was shivering and panting with apprehension.

“He’ll raise the country. It would be awful--awful!”

She ran swiftly down the tortuous path, Spring following after her and

dressing as he went. In a field to the right a gamekeeper, his gun in

his hand, was hurrying towards the whistling. Two labourers, loading

hay, had stopped their work and were looking about them, their

pitchforks in their hands.

But the path was empty, and the phaeton awaited them, the horse cropping

the grass by the lane-side, the driver half asleep on his perch. The

woman sprang swiftly in and motioned Spring to stand by the wheel.

“There is your fifty pounds,” she said, handing him a paper. “You were

a fool not to turn it into a hundred when you had the chance. I’ve done

with you now.”

“But where am I to go?” asked the prize-fighter, gazing around him at

the winding lanes.

“To the devil!” said she. “Drive on, Johnson!”

The phaeton whirled down the road and vanished round a curve. Tom Spring

was alone.

Everywhere over the countryside he heard shoutings and whistlings. It

was clear that so long as she escaped the indignity of sharing his fate

his employer was perfectly indifferent as to whether he got into trouble

or not. Tom Spring began to feel indifferent himself. He was weary

to death, his head was aching from the blows and falls which he had

received, and his feelings were raw from the treatment which he had

undergone. He walked slowly some few yards down the lane, but had no

idea which way to turn to reach Tunbridge Wells. In the distance he

heard the baying of dogs, and he guessed that they were being set upon

his track. In that case he could not hope to escape them, and might just

as well await them where he was. He picked out a heavy stake from the

hedge, and he sat down moodily waiting, in a very dangerous temper, for

what might befall him.

But it was a friend and not a foe who came first into sight. Round the

corner of the lane flew a small dog-cart, with a fast-trotting chestnut

cob between the shafts. In it was seated the rubicund landlord of the

Royal Oak, his whip going, his face continually flying round to glance

behind him.

“Jump in, Mr. Spring jump in!” he cried, as he reined up. “They’re all

coming, dogs and men! Come on! Now, hud up, Ginger!” Not another word

did he say until two miles of lanes had been left behind them at racing

speed and they were back in safety upon the Brighton road. Then he let

the reins hang loose on the pony’s back, and he slapped Tom Spring with

his fat hand upon the shoulder.

“Splendid!” he cried, his great red face shining with ecstasy. “Oh,

Lord! but it was beautiful!”