While the Northern Bruiser sat in the chair in his corner and was being
fanned he resolved to finish the fight at the next round. The superior
skill of his opponent was telling upon him, and although the Bruiser
was a young man of immense strength, yet, up to that time, the
alertness and dexterity of the Yorkshire Chicken had baffled him, and
prevented him from landing one of his tremendous shoulder thrusts. But
even though skill had checkmated strength up to this point, the Chicken
had not entirely succeeded in defending himself, and was in a condition
described by the yelling crowd as "groggy."
When time was called the Bruiser was speedily on his feet. His face did
not present the repulsive appearance so visible on the countenance of
his opponent, but the Bruiser had experience enough to know that the
body blows received in this fight had had their effect on his wind and
staying powers; and that although the Chicken presented an appalling
appearance with his swollen lips and cheeks, and his eyes nearly
closed, yet he was in better trim for continuing the battle than the
Bruiser.
The Chicken came up to the mark less promptly than his big antagonist,
but whether it was from weakness or lack of sight, he seemed uncertain
in his movements, and the hearts of his backers sank as they saw him
stagger rather than walk to his place.
Before the Chicken, as it were, fully waked up to the situation, the
Bruiser lunged forward and planted a blow on his temple that would have
broken the guard of a man who was in better condition than the Chicken.
The Yorkshireman fell like a log, and lay where he fell. Then the
Bruiser got a lesson which terrified him. A sickly ashen hue came over
the purple face of the man on the ground. The Bruiser had expected some
defence, and the terrible blow had been even more powerful than he
intended. A shivering whisper went round the crowd, "He is killed," and
instantly the silenced mob quietly scattered. It was every man for
himself before the authorities took a hand in the game.
The Bruiser stood there swaying from side to side, his gaze fixed upon
the prostrate man. He saw himself indicted and hanged for murder, and
he swore that if the Chicken recovered he would never again enter the
ring. This was a phase of prize-fighting that he had never before had
experience of. On different occasions he had, it is true, knocked out
his various opponents, and once or twice he had been knocked out
himself; but the Chicken had fought so pluckily up to the last round
that the Bruiser had put forth more of his tremendous strength than he
had bargained for, and now the man's life hung on a thread.
The unconscious pugilist was carried to an adjoining room. Two
physicians were in attendance upon him, and at first the reports were
most gloomy, but towards daylight the Bruiser learned with relief that
the chances were in favor of his opponent.
The Bruiser had been urged to fly, but he was a man of strong common
sense, and he thoroughly understood the futility of flight. His face
and his form were too well known all around the country. It would have
been impossible for him to escape, even if he had tried to do so.
When the Yorkshire Chicken recovered, the Bruiser's friends laughed at
his resolve to quit the ring, but they could not shake it. The money he
had won in his last fight, together with what he had accumulated
before--for he was a frugal man--was enough to keep him for the rest of
his days, and he resolved to return to the Border town where he was
born, and where doubtless his fame had preceded him.
He buckled his guineas in a belt around him, and with a stout stick in
his hand he left London for the North. He was a strong and healthy
young man, and had not given way to dissipation, as so many
prizefighters had done before, and will again. He had a horror of a
cramped and confined, seat in a stage coach. He loved the free air of
the heights and the quiet stillness of the valleys.
It was in the days of highwaymen, and travelling by coach was not
considered any too safe. The Bruiser was afraid of no man that lived,
if he met him in the open with a stick in his hand, or with nature's
weapons, but he feared the muzzle of a pistol held at his head in the
dark by a man with a mask over his face. So he buckled his belt around
him with all his worldly gear in gold, took his own almost forgotten
name, Abel Trenchon, set his back to the sun and his face to the north
wind, and journeyed on foot along the king's highway. He stopped at
night in the wayside inns, taking up his quarters before the sun had
set, and leaving them when it was broad daylight in the morning. He
disputed his reckonings like a man who must needs count the pennies,
and no one suspected the sturdy wayfarer of carrying a fortune around
his body.
As his face turned toward the North his thought went to the Border town
where he had spent his childhood. His father and mother were dead, and
he doubted now if anyone there remembered him, or would have a welcome
for him. Nevertheless no other spot on earth was so dear to him, and it
had always been his intention, when he settled down and took a wife, to
retire to the quiet little town.
The weather, at least, gave him a surly welcome. On the last day's
tramp the wind howled and the rain beat in gusts against him, but he
was a man who cared little for the tempest, and he bent his body to the
blast, trudging sturdily on. It was evening when he began to recognize
familiar objects by the wayside, and he was surprised to see how little
change there had been in all the years he was away. He stopped at an
inn for supper, and, having refreshed himself, resolved to break the
rule he had made for himself throughout the journey. He would push on
through the night, and sleep in his native village.
The storm became more pitiless as he proceeded, and he found himself
sympathizing with those poor creatures who were compelled to be out in
it, but he never gave a thought to himself.
It was nearly midnight when he saw the square church tower standing
blackly out against the dark sky; and when he began to descend the
valley, on the other side of which the town stood, a thrill of fear
came over him, as he remembered what he had so long forgotten--that the
valley was haunted, and was a particularly dangerous place about the
hour of midnight. To divert his thoughts he then began to wonder who
the woman was he would marry. She was doubtless now sleeping calmly in
the village on the hill, quite unconscious of the approach of her lover
and her husband. He could not conceal from himself the fact that he
would be reckoned a good match when his wealth was known, for,
excepting the Squire, he would probably be the richest man in the
place. However, he resolved to be silent about his riches, so that the
girl he married would little dream of the good fortune that awaited
her. He laughed aloud as he thought of the pleasure he would have in
telling his wife of her luck, but the laugh died on his lips as he saw,
or thought he saw, something moving stealthily along the hedge.
He was now in the depth of the valley in a most lonesome and eerie
spot. The huge trees on each side formed an arch over the roadway and
partially sheltered it from the rain.
He stood in his tracks, grasped his stick with firmer hold, and shouted
valiantly, "Who goes there?"
There was no answer, but in the silence which followed he thought he
heard a woman's sob.
"Come out into the road," he cried, "or I shall fire."
His own fear of pistols was so great that he expected everyone else to
be terrorized by the threat of using them; and yet he had never
possessed nor carried a pistol in his life.
"Please--please don't fire," cried a trembling voice, from out the
darkness. "I will do as you tell me." And so saying the figure moved
out upon the road.
Trenchon peered at her through the darkness, but whether she was old or
young he could not tell. Her voice seemed to indicate that she was
young.
"Why, lass," said Trenchon, kindly, "what dost thou here at such an
hour and in such a night?"
"Alas!" she cried, weeping; "my father turned me out, as he has often
done before, but to-night is a bitter night, and I had nowhere to go,
so I came here to be sheltered from the rain. He will be asleep ere
long, and he sleeps soundly. I may perhaps steal in by a window,
although sometimes he fastens them down."
"God's truth!" cried Trenchon, angrily. "Who is thy brute of a father?"
The girl hesitated, and then spoke as if to excuse him, but again
Trenchon demanded his name.
"He is the blacksmith of the village, and Cameron is his name."
"I remember him," said Trenchon. "Is thy mother, then, dead?"
"Yes," answered the girl, weeping afresh. "She has been dead these five
years."
"I knew her when I was a boy," said Trenchon. "Thy father also, and
many a grudge I owe him, although I had forgotten about them. Still, I
doubt not but as a boy I was as much in fault as he, although he was
harsh to all of us, and now it seems he is harsh to thee. My name is
Trenchon. I doubt if any in the village now remember me, although,
perhaps, they may have heard of me from London," he said, with some
pride, and a hope that the girl would confirm his thoughts. But she
shook her head.
"I have never heard thy name," she said.
Trenchon sighed. This, then, was fame!
"Ah, well!" he cried, "that matters not; they shall hear more of me
later. I will go with thee to thy father's house and demand for thee
admittance and decent usage."
But the girl shrank back. "Oh, no, no!" she cried; "that will never do.
My father is a hard man to cross. There are none in the village who
dare contend with him."
"That is as it may be," said Trenchon, with easy confidence. "I, for
one, fear him not. Come, lass, with me, and see if I cannot, after all
these years, pick out thy father's dwelling. Come, I say, thou must not
longer tarry here; the rain is coming on afresh, and these trees, thick
as they are, form scant protection. It is outrageous that thou should
wander in this storm, while thy brutal father lies in shelter. Nay, do
not fear harm for either thee or me; and as for him, he shall not
suffer if thou but wish it so." And, drawing the girl's hand through
his arm, he took her reluctantly with him, and without direction from
her soon stood before the blacksmith's house.
"You see," he said, triumphantly, "I knew the place, and yet I have not
seen the town for years."
Trenchon rapped soundly on the oaken door with his heavy stick, and the
blows re-echoed through the silent house. The girl shrank timidly
behind him, and would have fled, but that he held her firmly by the
wrist.
"Nay, nay," he said: "believe me there is naught to fear. I will see
that thou art not ill-used."
As he spoke the window above was thrown up, and a string of fearful
oaths greeted the two, whereat the girl once more tried to release her
imprisoned wrist, but Trenchon held it lightly, though with a grip like
steel.
The stout old man thrust his head through the open window.
"God's blight on thee!" he cried, "thou pair of fools who wish to wed
so much that ye venture out in such a night as this. Well, have your
way, and let me have my rest. In the name of the law of Scotland I
pronounce ye man and wife. There, that will bind two fools together as
strongly as if the Archbishop spoke the words. Place thou the money on
the steps. I warrant none will venture to touch it when it belongs to
me." And with that he closed the window.
"Is he raving mad or drunk?" cried Trenchon.
The girl gave a wailing cry. "Alas! alas!" she said; "he is neither. He
is so used to marrying folk who come from England across the Border
that he thinks not it his daughter who came with thee, but two who
wished to wed. They come at all hours of the night and day, and he has
married us. I am thy wife."
The astonished man dropped her wrist, and she put her hands before her
eyes and wept.
"Married!" cried Trenchon. "We two married!"
He looked with interest at the girl, but in the darkness could see
nothing of her. The unheeded rain pelted on them both.
"Hast thou"--he hesitated--"hast thou some other lover, since you
weep?"
The girl shook her head. "No one," she said, "comes near us. They fear
my father."
"Then, if this be true, why dost thou weep? I am not considered so bad
a fellow."
"I weep not for myself, but for thee, who through the kindness of thy
heart hast been led into this trap. Believe me, it was not my
intention."
"Judging from thy voice, my girl, and if thou favorest thy mother, as I
think, whom I remember well, this is a trap that I shall make little
effort to get my foot out of. But thou art dripping, and I stand
chattering here. Once more I will arouse my father-in-law."
So saying, he stoutly rapped again with his stick upon the door.
Once more the window was pushed up, and again the angry head appeared.
"Get you gone!" cried the maddened blacksmith, but before he could say
anything further Trenchon cried out:
"It is thy daughter here who waits. Open the door, thou limb of hell,
or I will burst it in and cast thee out as thou hast done thy
daughter."
The blacksmith, who had never in his life been spoken to in tones or
words like these, was so amazed that he could neither speak nor act,
but one stout kick against the door so shook the fabric that he
speedily saw another such would break into his domicile; so, leaving
the window open that his curses might the better reach them, the
blacksmith came down and threw the barrier from the door, flinging it
open and standing on the threshold so as to bar all ingress.
"Out of the way," cried Trenchon, roughly placing his hand on the
other's breast with apparent lightness, but with a push that sent him
staggering into the room.
The young man pulled the girl in after him and closed the door.
"Thou knowest the way," he whispered. "Strike thou a light."
The trembling girl lit a candle, and as it shone upon her face Trenchon
gave a deep sigh of happiness and relief. No girl in the village could
be more fair.
The blacksmith stood, his fingers clenched with rage; but he looked
with hesitation and respect upon the burly form of the prizefighter.
Yet the old man did not flinch.
"Throw aside thy stick," he cried, "or wait until I can get me another."
Trenchon flung his stick into the corner.
"Oh! oh!" cried the girl, clasping her hands. "You must not fight." But
she appealed to her husband and not to her father, which caused a glow
of satisfaction to rise from the heart of the young man.
"Get thee out of this house," cried her father, fiercely, turning upon
her.
"Talk not thus to my wife," said Trenchon, advancing upon him.
"Thy wife?" cried the blacksmith, in amaze.
"My wife," repeated the young man with emphasis. "They tell me,
blacksmith, that thou art strong. That thou art brutal I know, but thy
strength I doubt. Come to me and test it."
The old man sprang upon him, and the Bruiser caught him by the elbows
and held him helpless as a child. He pressed him up against the wall,
pushed his wrists together, and clasped them both in his one gigantic
hand. Then, placing the other on the blacksmith's shoulder, he put his
weight upon him, and the blacksmith, cursing but helpless, sank upon
his knees.
"Now, thou hardened sinner," cried the Bruiser, bending over him. "Beg
from thy daughter on thy knees for a night's shelter in this house.
Beg, or I will thrust thy craven face against the floor."
The girl clung to her newly-found husband, and entreated him not to
hurt her father.
"I shall not hurt him if he do but speak. If he has naught but curses
on his lips, why then those lips must kiss the flags that are beneath
him. Speak out, blacksmith: what hast thou to say?"
"I beg for shelter," said the conquered man.
Instantly the Bruiser released him.
"Get thee to bed," he said, and the old man slunk away.
"Wife," said Abel Trenchon, opening his arms, "I have come all the way
from London for thee. I knew not then what drew me north, but now I
know that One wiser than me led my steps hither. As far as erring man
may promise I do promise thee that thou shalt ne'er regret being cast
out this night into the storm."