Rodney Stone, Arthur Conan Doyle [e reader comics .txt] 📗

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 prizefight.”

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