Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated), page 830
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.”
