THE END.
SIR JAMES OVINGTON’S carriage was waiting without, and in it the Avon
family, so tragically separated and so strangely re-united, were borne
away to the squire’s hospitable home. When they had gone, my uncle
mounted his curricle, and drove Ambrose and myself to the village.
“We had best see your father at once, nephew,” said he. “Sir Lothian and
his man started some time ago. I should be sorry if there should be any
hitch in our meeting.”
For my part, I was thinking of our opponent’s deadly reputation as a
duellist, and I suppose that my features must have betrayed my feelings,
for my uncle began to laugh.
“Why, nephew,” said he, “you look as if you were walking behind my
coffin. It is not my first affair, and I dare bet that it will not be my
last. When I fight near town I usually fire a hundred or so in Manton’s
back shop, but I dare say I can find my way to his waistcoat. But I
confess that I am somewhat _accablé_, by all that has befallen us. To
think of my dear old friend being not only alive, but innocent as well!
And that he should have such a strapping son and heir to carry on the
race of Avon! This will be the last blow to Hume, for I know that the
Jews have given him rope on the score of his expectations. And you,
Ambrose, that you should break out in such a way!”
Of all the amazing things which had happened, this seemed to have
impressed my uncle most, and he recurred to it again and again. That a
man whom he had come to regard as a machine for tying cravats and brewing
chocolate should suddenly develop fiery human passions was indeed a
prodigy. If his silver razor-heater had taken to evil ways he could not
have been more astounded.
We were still a hundred yards from the cottage when I saw the tall,
green-coated Mr. Corcoran striding down the garden path. My father was
waiting for us at the door with an expression of subdued delight upon his
face.
“Happy to serve you in any way, Sir Charles,” said he. “We’ve arranged
it for to-morrow at seven on Ditching Common.”
“I wish these things could be brought off a little later in the day,”
said my uncle. “One has either to rise at a perfectly absurd hour, or
else to neglect one’s toilet.”
“They are stopping across the road at the Friar’s Oak inn, and if you
would wish it later—”
“No, no; I shall make the effort. Ambrose, you will bring up the
_batteris de toilette_ at five.”
“I don’t know whether you would care to use my barkers,” said my father.
“I’ve had ’em in fourteen actions, and up to thirty yards you couldn’t
wish a better tool.”
“Thank you, I have my duelling pistols under the seat. See that the
triggers are oiled, Ambrose, for I love a light pull. Ah, sister Mary, I
have brought your boy back to you, none the worse, I hope, for the
dissipations of town.”
I need not tell you how my dear mother wept over me and fondled me, for
you who have mothers will know for yourselves, and you who have not will
never understand how warm and snug the home nest can be. How I had
chafed and longed for the wonders of town, and yet, now that I had seen
more than my wildest dreams had ever deemed possible, my eyes had rested
upon nothing which was so sweet and so restful as our own little
sitting-room, with its terra-cotta-coloured walls, and those trifles
which are so insignificant in themselves, and yet so rich in memories—the
blow-fish from the Moluccas, the narwhal’s horn from the Arctic, and the
picture of the _Ca Ira_, with Lord Hotham in chase! How cheery, too, to
see at one side of the shining grate my father with his pipe and his
merry red face, and on the other my mother with her fingers ever turning
and darting with her knitting-needles! As I looked at them I marvelled
that I could ever have longed to leave them, or that I could bring myself
to leave them again.
But leave them I must, and that speedily, as I learned amidst the
boisterous congratulations of my father and the tears of my mother. He
had himself been appointed to the _Cato_, 64, with post rank, whilst a
note had come from Lord Nelson at Portsmouth to say that a vacancy was
open for me if I should present myself at once.
“And your mother has your sea-chest all ready, my lad, and you can travel
down with me to-morrow; for if you are to be one of Nelson’s men, you
must show him that you are worthy of it.”
“All the Stones have been in the sea-service,” said my mother,
apologetically to my uncle, “and it is a great chance that he should
enter under Lord Nelson’s own patronage. But we can never forget your
kindness, Charles, in showing our dear Rodney something of the world.”
“On the contrary, sister Mary,” said my uncle, graciously, “your son has
been an excellent companion to me—so much so that I fear that I am open
to the charge of having neglected my dear Fidelio. I trust that I bring
him back somewhat more polished than I found him. It would be folly to
call him _distingué_, but he is at least unobjectionable. Nature has
denied him the highest gifts, and I find him adverse to employing the
compensating advantages of art; but, at least, I have shown him something
of life, and I have taught him a few lessons in finesse and deportment
which may appear to be wasted upon him at present, but which, none the
less, may come back to him in his more mature years. If his career in
town has been a disappointment to me, the reason lies mainly in the fact
that I am foolish enough to measure others by the standard which I have
myself set. I am well disposed towards him, however, and I consider him
eminently adapted for the profession which he is about to adopt.”
He held out his sacred snuff-box to me as he spoke, as a solemn pledge of
his goodwill, and, as I look back at him, there is no moment at which I
see him more plainly than that with the old mischievous light dancing
once more in his large intolerant eyes, one thumb in the armpit of his
vest, and the little shining box held out upon his snow-white palm. He
was a type and leader of a strange breed of men which has vanished away
from England—the full-blooded, virile buck, exquisite in his dress,
narrow in his thoughts, coarse in his amusements, and eccentric in his
habits. They walk across the bright stage of English history with their
finicky step, their preposterous cravats, their high collars, their
dangling seals, and they vanish into those dark wings from which there is
no return. The world has outgrown them, and there is no place now for
their strange fashions, their practical jokes, and carefully cultivated
eccentricities. And yet behind this outer veiling of folly, with which
they so carefully draped themselves, they were often men of strong
character and robust personality. The languid loungers of St. James’s
were also the yachtsmen of the Solent, the fine riders of the shires, and
the hardy fighters in many a wayside battle and many a morning frolic.
Wellington picked his best officers from amongst them. They condescended
occasionally to poetry or oratory; and Byron, Charles James Fox,
Sheridan, and Castlereagh, preserved some reputation amongst them, in
spite of their publicity. I cannot think how the historian of the future
can hope to understand them, when I, who knew one of them so well, and
bore his blood in my veins, could never quite tell how much of him was
real, and how much was due to the affectations which he had cultivated so
long that they had ceased to deserve the name. Through the chinks of
that armour of folly I have sometimes thought that I had caught a glimpse
of a good and true man within, and it pleases me to hope that I was
right.
It was destined that the exciting incidents of that day were even now not
at an end. I had retired early to rest, but it was impossible for me to
sleep, for my mind would turn to Boy Jim and to the extraordinary change
in his position and prospects. I was still turning and tossing when I
heard the sound of flying hoofs coming down the London Road, and
immediately afterwards the grating of wheels as they pulled up in front
of the inn. My window chanced to be open, for it was a fresh spring
night, and I heard the creak of the inn door, and a voice asking whether
Sir Lothian Hume was within. At the name I sprang from my bed, and I was
in time to see three men, who had alighted from the carriage, file into
the lighted hall. The two horses were left standing, with the glare of
the open door falling upon their brown shoulders and patient heads.
Ten minutes may have passed, and then I heard the clatter of many steps,
and a knot of men came clustering through the door.
“You need not employ violence,” said a harsh, clear voice. “On whose
suit is it?”
“Several suits, sir. They ’eld over in the ’opes that you’d pull off the
fight this mornin’. Total amounts is twelve thousand pound.”
“Look here, my man, I have a very important appointment for seven o’clock
to-morrow. I’ll give you fifty pounds if you will leave me until then.”
“Couldn’t do it, sir, really. It’s more than our places as sheriff’s
officers is worth.”
In the yellow glare of the carriage-lamp I saw the baronet look up at our
windows, and if hatred could have killed, his eyes would have been as
deadly as his pistol.
“I can’t mount the carriage unless you free my hands,” said he.
“’Old ’ard, Bill, for ’e looks vicious. Let go o’ one arm at a time!
Ah, would you then?”
“Corcoran! Corcoran!” screamed a voice, and I saw a plunge, a struggle,
and one frantic figure breaking its way from the rest. Then came a heavy
blow, and down he fell in the middle of the moonlit road, flapping and
jumping among the dust like a trout new landed.
“He’s napped it this time! Get ’im by the wrists, Jim! Now, all
together!”
He was hoisted up like a bag of flour, and fell with a brutal thud into
the bottom of the carriage. The three men sprang in after him, a whip
whistled in the darkness, and I had seen the last that I or any one else,
save some charitable visitor to a debtors’ gaol, was ever again destined
to see of Sir Lothian Hume, the once fashionable Corinthian.
* * * * *
Lord Avon lived for two years longer—long enough, with the help of
Ambrose, to fully establish his innocence of the horrible crime, in the
shadow of which he had lived so long. What he could not clear away,
however, was the effect of those years of morbid and unnatural life spent
in the hidden chambers of the old house; and it was only the devotion of
his wife and of his son which kept the thin and flickering flame of his
life alight. She whom I had known as the play actress of Anstey Cross
became the dowager Lady Avon; whilst Boy Jim, as dear to me now as when
we harried birds’ nests and tickled trout together, is now Lord Avon,
beloved by his tenantry, the finest sportsman and the most popular man
from the north of the Weald to the Channel. He was married to the second
daughter of Sir James Ovington; and as I have seen three of his
grandchildren within the week, I fancy that if any of Sir Lothian’s
descendants have their eye upon the property, they are likely to be as
disappointed as their ancestor was before them. The old house of Cliffe
Royal has been pulled down, owing to the terrible family associations
which hung round it, and a beautiful modern building sprang up in its
place. The lodge which stood by the Brighton Road was so dainty with its
trellis-work and its rose bushes that I was not the only visitor who
declared that I had rather be the owner of it than of the great house
amongst the trees. There for many years in a happy and peaceful old age
lived Jack Harrison and his wife, receiving back in the sunset of their
lives the loving care which they had themselves bestowed. Never again
did Champion Harrison throw his leg over the ropes of a twenty-four-foot
ring; but the story of the great battle between the smith and the West
Countryman is still familiar to old ring-goers, and nothing pleased him
better than to re-fight it all, round by round, as he sat in the sunshine
under his rose-girt porch. But if he heard the tap of his wife’s stick
approaching him, his talk would break off at once into the garden and its
prospects, for she was still haunted by the fear that he would some day
go back to the ring, and she never missed the old man for an hour without
being convinced that he had hobbled off to wrest the belt from the latest
upstart champion. It was at his own very earnest request that they
inscribed “He fought the good fight” upon his tombstone, and though I
cannot doubt that he had Black Bank and Crab Wilson in his mind when he
asked it, yet none who knew him would grudge its spiritual meaning as a
summing up of his clean and manly life.
Sir Charles Tregellis continued for some years to show his scarlet and
gold at Newmarket, and his inimitable coats in St. James’s. It was he
who invented buttons and loops at the ends of dress pantaloons, and who
broke fresh ground by his investigation of the comparative merits of
isinglass and of starch in the preparation of shirt-fronts. There are
old fops still lurking in the corners of Arthur’s or of White’s who can
remember Tregellis’s dictum, that a cravat should be so stiffened that
three parts of the length could be raised by one corner, and the painful
schism which followed when Lord Alvanley and his school contended that a
half was sufficient. Then came the supremacy of Brummell, and the open
breach upon the subject of velvet collars, in which the town followed the
lead of the younger man. My uncle, who was not born to be second to any
one, retired instantly to St. Albans, and announced that he would make it
the centre of fashion and of society, instead of degenerate London. It
chanced, however, that the mayor and corporation waited upon him with an
address of thanks for his good intentions towards the town, and that the
burgesses, having ordered new coats from London for the occasion, were
all arrayed in velvet collars, which so preyed upon my uncle’s spirits
that he took to his bed, and never showed his face in public again. His
money, which had ruined what might have been a great life, was divided
amongst many bequests, an annuity to his valet, Ambrose, being amongst
them; but enough has come to his sister, my dear mother, to help to make
her old age as sunny and as pleasant as even I could wish.
* * * * *
And as for me—the poor string upon which these beads are strung—I dare
scarce say another word about myself, lest this, which I had meant to be
the last word of a chapter, should grow into the first words of a new
one. Had I not taken up my pen to tell you a story of the land, I might,
perchance, have made a better one of the sea; but the one frame cannot
hold two opposite pictures. The day may come when I shall write down all
that I remember of the greatest battle ever fought upon salt water, and
how my father’s gallant life was brought to an end as, with his paint
rubbing against a French eighty-gun ship on one side and a Spanish
seventy-four upon the other he stood eating an apple in the break of his
poop. I saw the smoke banks on that October evening swirl slowly up over
the Atlantic swell, and rise, and rise, until they had shredded into
thinnest air, and lost themselves in the infinite blue of heaven. And
with them rose the cloud which had hung over the country; and it also
thinned and thinned, until God’s own sun of peace and security was
shining once more upon us, never more, we hope, to be bedimmed.
* * * * *
THE END.
* * * * *
PRINTED BY GARDEN CITY PRESS, LETCHWORTH, ENGLAND.