CLIFFE ROYAL.
MY uncle was humanely anxious to get Harrison to bed as soon as possible,
for the smith, although he laughed at his own injuries, had none the less
been severely punished.
“Don’t you dare ever to ask my leave to fight again, Jack Harrison,” said
his wife, as she looked ruefully at his battered face. “Why, it’s worse
than when you beat Black Baruk; and if it weren’t for your topcoat, I
couldn’t swear you were the man who led me to the altar! If the King of
England ask you, I’ll never let you do it more.”
“Well, old lass, I give my davy that I never will. It’s best that I
leave fightin’ before fightin’ leaves me.” He screwed up his face as he
took a sup from Sir Charles’s brandy flask. “It’s fine liquor, sir, but
it gets into my cut lips most cruel. Why, here’s John Cummings of the
Friars’ Oak Inn, as I’m a sinner, and seekin’ for a mad doctor, to judge
by the look of him!”
It was certainly a most singular figure who was approaching us over the
moor. With the flushed, dazed face of a man who is just recovering from
recent intoxication, the landlord was tearing madly about, his hat gone,
and his hair and beard flying in the wind. He ran in little zigzags from
one knot of people to another, whilst his peculiar appearance drew a
running fire of witticisms as he went, so that he reminded me
irresistibly of a snipe skimming along through a line of guns. We saw
him stop for an instant by the yellow barouche, and hand something to Sir
Lothian Hume. Then on he came again, until at last, catching sight of
us, he gave a cry of joy, and ran for us full speed with a note held out
at arm’s length.
“You’re a nice cove, too, John Cummings,” said Harrison, reproachfully.
“Didn’t I tell you not to let a drop pass your lips until you had given
your message to Sir Charles?”
“I ought to be pole-axed, I ought,” he cried in bitter repentance. “I
asked for you, Sir Charles, as I’m a livin’ man, I did, but you weren’t
there, and what with bein’ so pleased at gettin’ such odds when I knew
Harrison was goin’ to fight, an’ what with the landlord at the George
wantin’ me to try his own specials, I let my senses go clean away from
me. And now it’s only after the fight is over that I see you, Sir
Charles, an’ if you lay that whip over my back, it’s only what I
deserve.”
But my uncle was paying no attention whatever to the voluble
self-reproaches of the landlord. He had opened the note, and was reading
it with a slight raising of the eyebrows, which was almost the very
highest note in his limited emotional gamut.
“What make you of this, nephew?” he asked, handing it to me.
This was what I read—
“SIR CHARLES TREGELLIS,
“For God’s sake, come at once, when this reaches you, to Cliffe
Royal, and tarry as little as possible upon the way. You will see me
there, and you will hear much which concerns you deeply. I pray you
to come as soon as may be; and until then I remain him whom you knew
as
“JAMES HARRISON.”
“Well, nephew?” asked my uncle.
“Why, sir, I cannot tell what it may mean.”
“Who gave it to you, sirrah?”
“It was young Jim Harrison himself, sir,” said the landlord, “though
indeed I scarce knew him at first, for he looked like his own ghost. He
was so eager that it should reach you that he would not leave me until
the horse was harnessed and I started upon my way. There was one note
for you and one for Sir Lothian Hume, and I wish to God he had chosen a
better messenger!”
“This is a mystery indeed,” said my uncle, bending his brows over the
note. “What should he be doing at that house of ill-omen? And why does
he sign himself ‘him whom you knew as Jim Harrison?’ By what other style
should I know him? Harrison, you can throw a light upon this. You, Mrs.
Harrison; I see by your face that you understand it.”
“Maybe we do, Sir Charles; but we are plain folk, my Jack and I, and we
go as far as we see our way, and when we don’t see our way any longer, we
just stop. We’ve been goin’ this twenty year, but now we’ll draw aside
and let our betters get to the front; so if you wish to find what that
note means, I can only advise you to do what you are asked, and to drive
over to Cliffe Royal, where you will find out.”
My uncle put the note into his pocket.
“I don’t move until I have seen you safely in the hands of the surgeon,
Harrison.”
“Never mind for me, sir. The missus and me can drive down to Crawley in
the gig, and a yard of stickin’ plaster and a raw steak will soon set me
to rights.”
But my uncle was by no means to be persuaded, and he drove the pair into
Crawley, where the smith was left under the charge of his wife in the
very best quarters which money could procure. Then, after a hasty
luncheon, we turned the mares’ heads for the south.
“This ends my connection with the ring, nephew,” said my uncle. “I
perceive that there is no possible means by which it can be kept pure
from roguery. I have been cheated and befooled; but a man learns wisdom
at last, and never again do I give countenance to a prize-fight.”
Had I been older or he less formidable, I might have said what was in my
heart, and begged him to give up other things also—to come out from those
shallow circles in which he lived, and to find some work that was worthy
of his strong brain and his good heart. But the thought had hardly
formed itself in my mind before he had dropped his serious vein, and was
chatting away about some new silver-mounted harness which he intended to
spring upon the Mall, and about the match for a thousand guineas which he
meant to make between his filly Ethelberta and Lord Doncaster’s famous
three-year-old Aurelius.
We had got as far as Whiteman’s Green, which is rather more than midway
between Crawley Down and Friars’ Oak, when, looking backwards, I saw far
down the road the gleam of the sun upon a high yellow carriage. Sir
Lothian Hume was following us.
“He has had the same summons as we, and is bound for the same
destination,” said my uncle, glancing over his shoulder at the distant
barouche. “We are both wanted at Cliffe Royal—we, the two survivors of
that black business. And it is Jim Harrison of all people who calls us
there. Nephew, I have had an eventful life, but I feel as if the very
strangest scene of it were waiting for me among those trees.”
He whipped up the mares, and now from the curve of the road we could see
the high dark pinnacles of the old Manor-house shooting up above the
ancient oaks which ring it round. The sight of it, with its bloodstained
and ghost-blasted reputation, would in itself have been enough to send a
thrill through my nerves; but when the words of my uncle made me suddenly
realize that this strange summons was indeed for the two men who were
concerned in that old-world tragedy, and that it was the playmate of my
youth who had sent it, I caught my breath as I seemed vaguely to catch a
glimpse of some portentous thing forming itself in front of us. The
rusted gates between the crumbling heraldic pillars were folded back, and
my uncle flicked the mares impatiently as we flew up the weed-grown
avenue, until he pulled them on their haunches before the time-blotched
steps. The front door was open, and Boy Jim was waiting there to meet
us.
But it was a different Boy Jim from him whom I had known and loved.
There was a change in him somewhere, a change so marked that it was the
first thing that I noticed, and yet so subtle that I could not put words
to it. He was not better dressed than of old, for I well knew the old
brown suit that he wore.
He was not less comely, for his training had left him the very model of
what a man should be. And yet there was a change, a touch of dignity in
the expression, a suggestion of confidence in the bearing which seemed,
now that it was supplied, to be the one thing which had been needed to
give him harmony and finish.
Somehow, in spite of his prowess, his old school name of “Boy” had clung
very naturally to him, until that instant when I saw him standing in his
self-contained and magnificent manhood in the doorway of the ancient
house. A woman stood beside him, her hand resting upon his shoulder, and
I saw that it was Miss Hinton of Anstey Cross.
“You remember me, Sir Charles Tregellis,” said she, coming forward, as we
sprang down from the curricle.
My uncle looked hard at her with a puzzled face.
“I do not think that I have the privilege, madame. And yet—”
“Polly Hinton, of the Haymarket. You surely cannot have forgotten Polly
Hinton.”
“Forgotten! Why, we have mourned for you in Fops’ Alley for more years
than I care to think of. But what in the name of wonder—”
“I was privately married, and I retired from the stage. I want you to
forgive me for taking Jim away from you last night.”
“It was you, then?”
“I had a stronger claim even than you could have. You were his patron; I
was his mother.” She drew his head down to hers as she spoke, and there,
with their cheeks together, were the two faces, the one stamped with the
waning beauty of womanhood, the other with the waxing strength of man,
and yet so alike in the dark eyes, the blue-black hair and the broad
white brow, that I marvelled that I had never read her secret on the
first days that I had seen them together. “Yes,” she cried, “he is my
own boy, and he saved me from what is worse than death, as your nephew
Rodney could tell you. Yet my lips were sealed, and it was only last
night that I could tell him that it was his mother whom he had brought
back by his gentleness and his patience into the sweetness of life.”
“Hush, mother!” said Jim, turning his lips to her cheek. “There are some
things which are between ourselves. But tell me, Sir Charles, how went
the fight?”
“Your uncle would have won it, but the roughs broke the ring.”
“He is no uncle of mine, Sir Charles, but he has been the best and truest
friend, both to me and to my father, that ever the world could offer. I
only know one as true,” he continued, taking me by the hand, “and dear
old Rodney Stone is his name. But I trust he was not much hurt?”
“A week or two will set him right. But I cannot pretend to understand
how this matter stands, and you must allow me to say that I have not
heard you advance anything yet which seems to me to justify you in
abandoning your engagements at a moment’s notice.”
“Come in, Sir Charles, and I am convinced that you will acknowledge that
I could not have done otherwise. But here, if I mistake not, is Sir
Lothian Hume.”
The yellow barouche had swung into the avenue, and a few moments later
the weary, panting horses had pulled up behind our curricle. Sir Lothian
sprang out, looking as black as a thunder-cloud.
“Stay where you are, Corcoran,” said he; and I caught a glimpse of a
bottle-green coat which told me who was his travelling companion.
“Well,” he continued, looking round him with an insolent stare, “I should
vastly like to know who has had the insolence to give me so pressing an
invitation to visit my own house, and what in the devil you mean by
daring to trespass upon my grounds?”
“I promise you that you will understand this and a good deal more before
we part, Sir Lothian,” said Jim, with a curious smile playing over his
face. “If you will follow me, I will endeavour to make it all clear to
you.”
With his mother’s hand in his own, he led us into that ill-omened room
where the cards were still heaped upon the sideboard, and the dark shadow
lurked in the corner of the ceiling.
“Now, sirrah, your explanation!” cried Sir Lothian, standing with his
arms folded by the door.
“My first explanations I owe to you, Sir Charles,” said Jim; and as I
listened to his voice and noted his manner, I could not but admire the
effect which the company of her whom he now knew to be his mother had had
upon a rude country lad. “I wish to tell you what occurred last night.”
“I will tell it for you, Jim,” said his mother. “You must know, Sir
Charles, that though my son knew nothing of his parents, we were both
alive, and had never lost sight of him. For my part, I let him have his
own way in going to London and in taking up this challenge. It was only
yesterday that it came to the ears of his father, who would have none of
it. He was in the weakest health, and his wishes were not to be
gainsayed. He ordered me to go at once and to bring his son to his side.
I was at my wit’s end, for I was sure that Jim would never come unless a
substitute were provided for him. I went to the kind, good couple who
had brought him up, and I told them how matters stood. Mrs. Harrison
loved Jim as if he had been her own son, and her husband loved mine, so
they came to my help, and may God bless them for their kindness to a
distracted wife and mother! Harrison would take Jim’s place if Jim would
go to his father. Then I drove to Crawley. I found out which was Jim’s
room, and I spoke to him through the window, for I was sure that those
who had backed him would not let him go. I told him that I was his
mother. I told him who was his father. I said that I had my phaeton
ready, and that he might, for all I knew, be only in time to receive the
dying blessing of that parent whom he had never known. Still the boy
would not go until he had my assurance that Harrison would take his
place.”
“Why did he not leave a message with Belcher?”
“My head was in a whirl, Sir Charles. To find a father and a mother, a
new name and a new rank in a few minutes might turn a stronger brain than
ever mine was. My mother begged me to come with her, and I went. The
phaeton was waiting, but we had scarcely started when some fellow seized
the horses’ heads, and a couple of ruffians attacked us. One of them I
beat over the head with the butt of the whip, so that he dropped the
cudgel with which he was about to strike me; then lashing the horse, I
shook off the others and got safely away. I cannot imagine who they were
or why they should molest us.”
“Perhaps Sir Lothian Hume could tell you,” said my uncle.
Our enemy said nothing; but his little grey eyes slid round with a most
murderous glance in our direction.
“After I had come here and seen my father I went down—”
My uncle stopped him with a cry of astonishment.
“What did you say, young man? You came here and you saw your father—here
at Cliffe Royal?”
“Yes, sir.”
My uncle had turned very pale.
“In God’s name, then, tell us who your father is!”
Jim made no answer save to point over our shoulders, and glancing round,
we became aware that two people had entered the room through the door
which led to the bedroom stair. The one I recognized in an instant.
That impassive, mask-like face and demure manner could only belong to
Ambrose, the former valet of my uncle. The other was a very different
and even more singular figure. He was a tall man, clad in a dark
dressing-gown, and leaning heavily upon a stick. His long, bloodless
countenance was so thin and so white that it gave the strangest illusion
of transparency. Only within the folds of a shroud have I ever seen so
wan a face. The brindled hair and the rounded back gave the impression
of advanced age, and it was only the dark brows and the bright alert eyes
glancing out from beneath them which made me doubt whether it was really
an old man who stood before us.
There was an instant of silence, broken by a deep oath from Sir Lothian
Hume—
“Lord Avon, by God!” he cried.
“Very much at your service, gentlemen,” answered the strange figure in
the dressing-gown.