Rodney Stone

“Clear the outer ring!” cried Jackson, standing up beside the ropes with a big silver watch in his hand.

“Ss-whack! ss-whack! ss-whack!” went the horse-whips—for a number of the spectators, either driven onwards by the pressure behind or willing to risk some physical pain on the chance of getting a better view, had crept under the ropes and formed a ragged fringe within the outer ring.  Now, amidst roars of laughter from the crowd and a shower of blows from the beaters-out, they dived madly back, with the ungainly haste of frightened sheep blundering through a gap in their hurdles.  Their case was a hard one, for the folk in front refused to yield an inch of their places—but the arguments from the rear prevailed over everything else, and presently every frantic fugitive had been absorbed, whilst the beaters-out took their stands along the edge at regular intervals, with their whips held down by their thighs.

“Gentlemen,” cried Jackson, again, “I am requested to inform you that Sir Charles Tregellis’s nominee is Jack Harrison, fighting at thirteen-eight, and Sir Lothian Hume’s is Crab Wilson, at thirteen-three.  No person can be allowed at the inner ropes save the referee and the timekeeper.  I have only to beg that, if the occasion should require it, you will all give me your assistance to keep the ground clear, to prevent confusion, and to have a fair fight.  All ready?”

“All ready!” from both corners.

“Time!”

There was a breathless hush as Harrison, Wilson, Belcher, and Dutch Sam walked very briskly into the centre of the ring.  The two men shook hands, whilst their seconds did the same, the four hands crossing each other.  Then the seconds dropped back, and the two champions stood toe to toe, with their hands up.

It was a magnificent sight to any one who had not lost his sense of appreciation of the noblest of all the works of Nature.  Both men fulfilled that requisite of the powerful athlete that they should look larger without their clothes than with them.  In ring slang, they buffed well.  And each showed up the other’s points on account of the extreme contrast between them: the long, loose-limbed, deer-footed youngster, and the square-set, rugged veteran with his trunk like the stump of an oak.  The betting began to rise upon the younger man from the instant that they were put face to face, for his advantages were obvious, whilst those qualities which had brought Harrison to the top in his youth were only a memory in the minds of the older men.  All could see the three inches extra of height and two of reach which Wilson possessed, and a glance at the quick, cat-like motions of his feet, and the perfect poise of his body upon his legs, showed how swiftly he could spring either in or out from his slower adversary.  But it took a subtler insight to read the grim smile which flickered over the smith’s mouth, or the smouldering fire which shone in his grey eyes, and it was only the old-timers who knew that, with his mighty heart and his iron frame, he was a perilous man to lay odds against.

Wilson stood in the position from which he had derived his nickname, his left hand and left foot well to the front, his body sloped very far back from his loins, and his guard thrown across his chest, but held well forward in a way which made him exceedingly hard to get at.  The smith, on the other hand, assumed the obsolete attitude which Humphries and Mendoza introduced, but which had not for ten years been seen in a first-class battle.  Both his knees were slightly bent, he stood square to his opponent, and his two big brown fists were held over his mark so that he could lead equally with either.  Wilson’s hands, which moved incessantly in and out, had been stained with some astringent juice with the purpose of preventing them from puffing, and so great was the contrast between them and his white forearms, that I imagined that he was wearing dark, close-fitting gloves until my uncle explained the matter in a whisper.  So they stood in a quiver of eagerness and expectation, whilst that huge multitude hung so silently and breathlessly upon every motion that they might have believed themselves to be alone, man to man, in the centre of some primeval solitude.

It was evident from the beginning that Crab Wilson meant to throw no chance away, and that he would trust to his lightness of foot and quickness of hand until he should see something of the tactics of this rough-looking antagonist.  He paced swiftly round several times, with little, elastic, menacing steps, whilst the smith pivoted slowly to correspond.  Then, as Wilson took a backward step to induce Harrison to break his ground and follow him, the older man grinned and shook his head.

“You must come to me, lad,” said he.  “I’m too old to scamper round the ring after you.  But we have the day before us, and I’ll wait.”

He may not have expected his invitation to be so promptly answered; but in an instant, with a panther spring, the west-countryman was on him.  Smack! smack! smack!  Thud! thud!  The first three were on Harrison’s face, the last two were heavy counters upon Wilson’s body.  Back danced the youngster, disengaging himself in beautiful style, but with two angry red blotches over the lower line of his ribs.  “Blood for Wilson!” yelled the crowd, and as the smith faced round to follow the movements of his nimble adversary, I saw with a thrill that his chin was crimson and dripping.  In came Wilson again with a feint at the mark and a flush hit on Harrison’s cheek; then, breaking the force of the smith’s ponderous right counter, he brought the round to a conclusion by slipping down upon the grass.

“First knock-down for Harrison!” roared a thousand voices, for ten times as many pounds would change hands upon the point.

“I appeal to the referee!” cried Sir Lothian Hume.  “It was a slip, and not a knock-down.”

“I give it a slip,” said Berkeley Craven, and the men walked to their corners, amidst a general shout of applause for a spirited and well-contested opening round.  Harrison fumbled in his mouth with his finger and thumb, and then with a sharp half-turn he wrenched out a tooth, which he threw into the basin.  “Quite like old times,” said he to Belcher.

“Have a care, Jack!” whispered the anxious second.  “You got rather more than you gave.”

“Maybe I can carry more, too,” said he serenely, whilst Caleb Baldwin mopped the big sponge over his face, and the shining bottom of the tin basin ceased suddenly to glimmer through the water.

I could gather from the comments of the experienced Corinthians around me, and from the remarks of the crowd behind, that Harrison’s chance was thought to have been lessened by this round.

“I’ve seen his old faults and I haven’t seen his old merits,” said Sir John Lade, our opponent of the Brighton Road.  “He’s as slow on his feet and with his guard as ever.  Wilson hit him as he liked.”

“Wilson may hit him three times to his once, but his one is worth Wilson’s three,” remarked my uncle.  “He’s a natural fighter and the other an excellent sparrer, but I don’t hedge a guinea.”

A sudden hush announced that the men were on their feet again, and so skilfully had the seconds done their work, that neither looked a jot the worse for what had passed.  Wilson led viciously with his left, but misjudged his distance, receiving a smashing counter on the mark in reply which sent him reeling and gasping to the ropes.  “Hurrah for the old one!” yelled the mob, and my uncle laughed and nudged Sir John Lade.  The west-countryman smiled, and shook himself like a dog from the water as with a stealthy step he came back to the centre of the ring, where his man was still standing.  Bang came Harrison’s right upon the mark once more, but Crab broke the blow with his elbow, and jumped laughing away.  Both men were a little winded, and their quick, high breathing, with the light patter of their feet as they danced round each other, blended into one continuous, long-drawn sound.  Two simultaneous exchanges with the left made a clap like a pistol-shot, and then as Harrison rushed in for a fall, Wilson slipped him, and over went my old friend upon his face, partly from the impetus of his own futile attack, and partly from a swinging half-arm blow which the west-countryman brought home upon his ear as he passed.

“Knock-down for Wilson,” cried the referee, and the answering roar was like the broadside of a seventy-four.  Up went hundreds of curly brimmed Corinthian hats into the air, and the slope before us was a bank of flushed and yelling faces.  My heart was cramped with my fears, and I winced at every blow, yet I was conscious also of an absolute fascination, with a wild thrill of fierce joy and a certain exultation in our common human nature which could rise above pain and fear in its straining after the very humblest form of fame.

Belcher and Baldwin had pounced upon their man, and had him up and in his corner in an instant, but, in spite of the coolness with which the hardy smith took his punishment, there was immense exultation amongst the west-countrymen.

“We’ve got him!  He’s beat!  He’s beat!” shouted the two Jew seconds.  “It’s a hundred to a tizzy on Gloucester!”

“Beat, is he?” answered Belcher.  “You’ll need to rent this field before you can beat him, for he’ll stand a month of that kind of fly-flappin’.”  He was swinging a towel in front of Harrison as he spoke, whilst Baldwin mopped him with the sponge.

“How is it with you, Harrison?” asked my uncle.

“Hearty as a buck, sir.  It’s as right as the day.”

The cheery answer came with so merry a ring that the clouds cleared from my uncle’s face.

“You should recommend your man to lead more, Tregellis,” said Sir John Lade.  “He’ll never win it unless he leads.”

“He knows more about the game than you or I do, Lade.  I’ll let him take his own way.”

“The betting is three to one against him now,” said a gentleman, whose grizzled moustache showed that he was an officer of the late war.

“Very true, General Fitzpatrick.  But you’ll observe that it is the raw young bloods who are giving the odds, and the Sheenies who are taking them.  I still stick to my opinion.”

The two men came briskly up to the scratch at the call of time, the smith a little lumpy on one side of his head, but with the same good-humoured and yet menacing smile upon his lips.  As to Wilson, he was exactly as he had begun in appearance, but twice I saw him close his lips sharply as if he were in a sudden spasm of pain, and the blotches over his ribs were darkening from scarlet to a sullen purple.  He held his guard somewhat lower to screen this vulnerable point, and he danced round his opponent with a lightness which showed that his wind had not been impaired by the body-blows, whilst the smith still adopted the impassive tactics with which he had commenced.

Many rumours had come up to us from the west as to Crab Wilson’s fine science and the quickness of his hitting, but the truth surpassed what had been expected of him.  In this round and the two which followed he showed a swiftness and accuracy which old ringsiders declared that Mendoza in his prime had never surpassed.  He was in and out like lightning, and his blows were heard and felt rather than seen.  But Harrison still took them all with the same dogged smile, occasionally getting in a hard body-blow in return, for his adversary’s height and his position combined to keep his face out of danger.  At the end of the fifth round the odds were four to one, and the west-countrymen were riotous in their exultation.

“What think you now?” cried the west-countryman behind me, and in his excitement he could get no further save to repeat over and over again, “What think you now?”  When in the sixth round the smith was peppered twice without getting in a counter, and had the worst of the fall as well, the fellow became inarticulate altogether, and could only huzza wildly in his delight.  Sir Lothian Hume was smiling and nodding his head, whilst my uncle was coldly impassive, though I was sure that his heart was as heavy as mine.

“This won’t do, Tregellis,” said General Fitzpatrick.  “My money is on the old one, but the other is the finer boxer.”

“My man is un peu passé, but he will come through all right,” answered my uncle.

I saw that both Belcher and Baldwin were looking grave, and I knew that we must have a change of some sort, or the old tale of youth and age would be told once more.

The seventh round, however, showed the reserve strength of the hardy old fighter, and lengthened the faces of those layers of odds who had imagined that the fight was practically over, and that a few finishing rounds would have given the smith his coup-de-grâce.  It was clear when the two men faced each other that Wilson had made himself up for mischief, and meant to force the fighting and maintain the lead which he had gained, but that grey gleam was not quenched yet in the veteran’s eyes, and still the same smile played over his grim face.  He had become more jaunty, too, in the swing of his shoulders and the poise of his head, and it brought my confidence back to see the brisk way in which he squared up to his man.

Wilson led with his left, but was short, and he only just avoided a dangerous right-hander which whistled in at his ribs.  “Bravo, old ’un, one of those will be a dose of laudanum if you get it home,” cried Belcher.  There was a pause of shuffling feet and hard breathing, broken by the thud of a tremendous body blow from Wilson, which the smith stopped with the utmost coolness.  Then again a few seconds of silent tension, when Wilson led viciously at the head, but Harrison took it on his forearm, smiling and nodding at his opponent.  “Get the pepper-box open!” yelled Mendoza, and Wilson sprang in to carry out his instructions, but was hit out again by a heavy drive on the chest.  “Now’s the time!  Follow it up!” cried Belcher, and in rushed the smith, pelting in his half-arm blows, and taking the returns without a wince, until Crab Wilson went down exhausted in the corner.  Both men had their marks to show, but Harrison had all the best of the rally, so it was our turn to throw our hats into the air and to shout ourselves hoarse, whilst the seconds clapped their man upon his broad back as they hurried him to his corner.

“What think you now?” shouted all the neighbours of the west-countryman, repeating his own refrain.

“Why, Dutch Sam never put in a better rally,” cried Sir John Lade.  “What’s the betting now, Sir Lothian?”

“I have laid all that I intend; but I don’t think my man can lose it.”  For all that, the smile had faded from his face, and I observed that he glanced continually over his shoulder into the crowd behind him.

A sullen purple cloud had been drifting slowly up from the south-west—though I dare say that out of thirty thousand folk there were very few who had spared the time or attention to mark it.  Now it suddenly made its presence apparent by a few heavy drops of rain, thickening rapidly into a sharp shower, which filled the air with its hiss, and rattled noisily upon the high, hard hats of the Corinthians.  Coat-collars were turned up and handkerchiefs tied round necks, whilst the skins of the two men glistened with the moisture as they stood up to each other once more.  I noticed that Belcher whispered very earnestly into Harrison’s ear as he rose from his knee, and that the smith nodded his head curtly, with the air of a man who understands and approves of his orders.

And what those orders were was instantly apparent.  Harrison was to be turned from the defender into the attacker.  The result of the rally in the last round had convinced his seconds that when it came to give-and-take hitting, their hardy and powerful man was likely to have the better of it.  And then on the top of this came the rain.  With the slippery grass the superior activity of Wilson would be neutralized, and he would find it harder to avoid the rushes of his opponent.  It was in taking advantage of such circumstances that the art of ringcraft lay, and many a shrewd and vigilant second had won a losing battle for his man.  “Go in, then!  Go in!” whooped the two prize-fighters, while every backer in the crowd took up the roar.

And Harrison went in, in such fashion that no man who saw him do it will ever forget it.  Crab Wilson, as game as a pebble, met him with a flush hit every time, but no human strength or human science seemed capable of stopping the terrible onslaught of this iron man.  Round after round he scrambled his way in, slap-bang, right and left, every hit tremendously sent home.  Sometimes he covered his own face with his left, and sometimes he disdained to use any guard at all, but his springing hits were irresistible.  The rain lashed down upon them, pouring from their faces and running in crimson trickles over their bodies, but neither gave any heed to it save to manœuvre always with the view of bringing it in to each other’s eyes.  But round after round the west-countryman fell, and round after round the betting rose, until the odds were higher in our favour than ever they had been against us.  With a sinking heart, filled with pity and admiration for these two gallant men, I longed that every bout might be the last, and yet the “Time!” was hardly out of Jackson’s mouth before they had both sprung from their second’s knees, with laughter upon their mutilated faces and chaffing words upon their bleeding lips.  It may have been a humble object-lesson, but I give you my word that many a time in my life I have braced myself to a hard task by the remembrance of that morning upon Crawley Downs, asking myself if my manhood were so weak that I would not do for my country, or for those whom I loved, as much as these two would endure for a paltry stake and for their own credit amongst their fellows.  Such a spectacle may brutalize those who are brutal, but I say that there is a spiritual side to it also, and that the sight of the utmost human limit of endurance and courage is one which bears a lesson of its own.

But if the ring can breed bright virtues, it is but a partisan who can deny that it can be the mother of black vices also, and we were destined that morning to have a sight of each.  It so chanced that, as the battle went against his man, my eyes stole round very often to note the expression upon Sir Lothian Hume’s face, for I knew how fearlessly he had laid the odds, and I understood that his fortunes as well as his champion were going down before the smashing blows of the old bruiser.  The confident smile with which he had watched the opening rounds had long vanished from his lips, and his cheeks had turned of a sallow pallor, whilst his small, fierce grey eyes looked furtively from under his craggy brows, and more than once he burst into savage imprecations when Wilson was beaten to the ground.  But especially I noticed that his chin was always coming round to his shoulder, and that at the end of every round he sent keen little glances flying backwards into the crowd.  For some time, amidst the immense hillside of faces which banked themselves up on the slope behind us, I was unable to pick out the exact point at which his gaze was directed.  But at last I succeeded in following it.  A very tall man, who showed a pair of broad, bottle-green shoulders high above his neighbours, was looking very hard in our direction, and I assured myself that a quick exchange of almost imperceptible signals was going on between him and the Corinthian baronet.  I became conscious, also, as I watched this stranger, that the cluster of men around him were the roughest elements of the whole assembly: fierce, vicious-looking fellows, with cruel, debauched faces, who howled like a pack of wolves at every blow, and yelled execrations at Harrison whenever he walked across to his corner.  So turbulent were they that I saw the ringkeepers whisper together and glance up in their direction, as if preparing for trouble in store, but none of them had realized how near it was to breaking out, or how dangerous it might prove.

Thirty rounds had been fought in an hour and twenty-five minutes, and the rain was pelting down harder than ever.  A thick steam rose from the two fighters, and the ring was a pool of mud.  Repeated falls had turned the men brown, with a horrible mottling of crimson blotches.  Round after round had ended by Crab Wilson going down, and it was evident, even to my inexperienced eyes, that he was weakening rapidly.  He leaned heavily upon the two Jews when they led him to his corner, and he reeled when their support was withdrawn.  Yet his science had, through long practice, become an automatic thing with him, so that he stopped and hit with less power, but with as great accuracy as ever.  Even now a casual observer might have thought that he had the best of the battle, for the smith was far the more terribly marked, but there was a wild stare in the west-countryman’s eyes, and a strange catch in his breathing, which told us that it is not the most dangerous blow which shows upon the surface.  A heavy cross-buttock at the end of the thirty-first round shook the breath from his body, and he came up for the thirty-second with the same jaunty gallantry as ever, but with the dazed expression of a man whose wind has been utterly smashed.

“He’s got the roly-polies,” cried Belcher.  “You have it your own way now!”

“I’ll vight for a week yet,” gasped Wilson.

“Damme, I like his style,” cried Sir John Lade.  “No shifting, nothing shy, no hugging nor hauling.  It’s a shame to let him fight.  Take the brave fellow away!”

“Take him away!  Take him away!” echoed a hundred voices.

“I won’t be taken away!  Who dares say so?” cried Wilson, who was back, after another fall, upon his second’s knee.

“His heart won’t suffer him to cry enough,” said General Fitzpatrick.  “As his patron, Sir Lothian, you should direct the sponge to be thrown up.”

“You think he can’t win it?”

“He is hopelessly beat, sir.”

“You don’t know him.  He’s a glutton of the first water.”

“A gamer man never pulled his shirt off; but the other is too strong for him.”

“Well, sir, I believe that he can fight another ten rounds.”  He half turned as he spoke, and I saw him throw up his left arm with a singular gesture into the air.

“Cut the ropes!  Fair play!  Wait till the rain stops!” roared a stentorian voice behind me, and I saw that it came from the big man with the bottle-green coat.  His cry was a signal, for, like a thunderclap, there came a hundred hoarse voices shouting together: “Fair play for Gloucester!  Break the ring!  Break the ring!”

Jackson had called “Time,” and the two mud-plastered men were already upon their feet, but the interest had suddenly changed from the fight to the audience.  A succession of heaves from the back of the crowd had sent a series of long ripples running through it, all the heads swaying rhythmically in the one direction like a wheatfield in a squall.  With every impulsion the oscillation increased, those in front trying vainly to steady themselves against the rushes from behind, until suddenly there came a sharp snap, two white stakes with earth clinging to their points flew into the outer ring, and a spray of people, dashed from the solid wave behind, were thrown against the line of the beaters-out.  Down came the long horse-whips, swayed by the most vigorous arms in England; but the wincing and shouting victims had no sooner scrambled back a few yards from the merciless cuts, before a fresh charge from the rear hurled them once more into the arms of the prize-fighters.  Many threw themselves down upon the turf and allowed successive waves to pass over their bodies, whilst others, driven wild by the blows, returned them with their hunting-crops and walking-canes.  And then, as half the crowd strained to the left and half to the right to avoid the pressure from behind, the vast mass was suddenly reft in twain, and through the gap surged the rough fellows from behind, all armed with loaded sticks and yelling for “Fair play and Gloucester!”  Their determined rush carried the prize-fighters before them, the inner ropes snapped like threads, and in an instant the ring was a swirling,’ seething mass of figures, whips and sticks falling and clattering, whilst, face to face, in the middle of it all, so wedged that they could neither advance nor retreat, the smith and the west-countryman continued their long-drawn battle as oblivious of the chaos raging round them as two bulldogs would have been who had got each other by the throat.  The driving rain, the cursing and screams of pain, the swish of the blows, the yelling of orders and advice, the heavy smell of the damp cloth—every incident of that scene of my early youth comes back to me now in my old age as clearly as if it had been but yesterday.

It was not easy for us to observe anything at the time, however, for we were ourselves in the midst of the frantic crowd, swaying about and carried occasionally quite off our feet, but endeavouring to keep our places behind Jackson and Berkeley Craven, who, with sticks and whips meeting over their heads, were still calling the rounds and superintending the fight.

“The ring’s broken!” shouted Sir Lothian Hume.  “I appeal to the referee!  The fight is null and void.”

“You villain!” cried my uncle, hotly; “this is your doing.”

“You have already an account to answer for with me,” said Hume, with his sinister sneer, and as he spoke he was swept by the rush of the crowd into my uncle’s very arms.  The two men’s faces were not more than a few inches apart, and Sir Lothian’s bold eyes had to sink before the imperious scorn which gleamed coldly in those of my uncle.

“We will settle our accounts, never fear, though I degrade myself in meeting such a blackleg.  What is it, Craven?”

“We shall have to declare a draw, Tregellis.”

“My man has the fight in hand.”

“I cannot help it.  I cannot attend to my duties when every moment I am cut over with a whip or a stick.”

Jackson suddenly made a wild dash into the crowd, but returned with empty hands and a rueful face.

“They’ve stolen my timekeeper’s watch,” he cried.  “A little cove snatched it out of my hand.”

My uncle clapped his hand to his fob.

“Mine has gone also!” he cried.

“Draw it at once, or your man will get hurt,” said Jackson, and we saw that as the undaunted smith stood up to Wilson for another round, a dozen rough fellows were clustering round him with bludgeons.

“Do you consent to a draw, Sir Lothian Hume?”

“I do.”

“And you, Sir Charles?”

“Certainly not.”

“The ring is gone.”

“That is no fault of mine.”

“Well, I see no help for it.  As referee I order that the men be withdrawn, and that the stakes be returned to their owners.”

“A draw!  A draw!” shrieked every one, and the crowd in an instant dispersed in every direction, the pedestrians running to get a good lead upon the London road, and the Corinthians in search of their horses and carriages.  Harrison ran over to Wilson’s corner and shook him by the hand.

“I hope I have not hurt you much.”

“I’m hard put to it to stand.  How are you?”

“My head’s singin’ like a kettle.  It was the rain that helped me.”

“Yes, I thought I had you beat one time.  I never wish a better battle.”

“Nor me either.  Good-bye.”

And so those two brave-hearted fellows made their way amidst the yelping roughs, like two wounded lions amidst a pack of wolves and jackals.  I say again that, if the ring has fallen low, it is not in the main the fault of the men who have done the fighting, but it lies at the door of the vile crew of ring-side parasites and ruffians, who are as far below the honest pugilist as the welsher and the blackleg are below the noble racehorse which serves them as a pretext for their villainies.

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.

My uncle was an impassive man by nature and had become more so by the tradition of the society in which he lived.  He could have turned a card upon which his fortune depended without the twitch of a muscle, and I had seen him myself driving to imminent death on the Godstone Road with as calm a face as if he were out for his daily airing in the Mall.  But now the shock which had come upon him was so great that he could only stand with white cheeks and staring, incredulous eyes.  Twice I saw him open his lips, and twice he put his hand up to his throat, as though a barrier had risen betwixt himself and his utterance.  Finally, he took a sudden little run forward with both his hands thrown out in greeting.

“Ned!” he cried.

But the strange man who stood before him folded his arms over his breast.

“No Charles,” said he.

My uncle stopped and looked at him in amazement.

“Surely, Ned, you have a greeting for me after all these years?”

“You believed me to have done this deed, Charles.  I read it in your eyes and in your manner on that terrible morning.  You never asked me for an explanation.  You never considered how impossible such a crime must be for a man of my character.  At the first breath of suspicion you, my intimate friend, the man who knew me best, set me down as a thief and a murderer.”

“No, no, Ned.”

“You did, Charles; I read it in your eyes.  And so it was that when I wished to leave that which was most precious to me in safe hands I had to pass you over and to place him in the charge of the one man who from the first never doubted my innocence.  Better a thousand times that my son should be brought up in a humble station and in ignorance of his unfortunate father, than that he should learn to share the doubts and suspicions of his equals.”

“Then he is really your son!” cried my uncle, staring at Jim in amazement.

For answer the man stretched out his long withered arm, and placed a gaunt hand upon the shoulder of the actress, whilst she looked up at him with love in her eyes.

“I married, Charles, and I kept it secret from my friends, for I had chosen my wife outside our own circles.  You know the foolish pride which has always been the strongest part of my nature.  I could not bear to avow that which I had done.  It was this neglect upon my part which led to an estrangement between us, and drove her into habits for which it is I who am to blame and not she.  Yet on account of these same habits I took the child from her and gave her an allowance on condition that she did not interfere with it.  I had feared that the boy might receive evil from her, and had never dreamed in my blindness that she might get good from him.  But I have learned in my miserable life, Charles, that there is a power which fashions things for us, though we may strive to thwart it, and that we are in truth driven by an unseen current towards a certain goal, however much we may deceive ourselves into thinking that it is our own sails and oars which are speeding us upon our way.”

My eyes had been upon the face of my uncle as he listened, but now as I turned them from him they fell once more upon the thin, wolfish face of Sir Lothian Hume.  He stood near the window, his grey silhouette thrown up against the square of dusty glass; and I have never seen such a play of evil passions, of anger, of jealousy, of disappointed greed upon a human face before.

“Am I to understand,” said he, in a loud, harsh voice, “that this young man claims to be the heir of the peerage of Avon?”

“He is my lawful son.”

“I knew you fairly well, sir, in our youth; but you will allow me to observe that neither I nor any friend of yours ever heard of a wife or a son.  I defy Sir Charles Tregellis to say that he ever dreamed that there was any heir except myself.”

“I have already explained, Sir Lothian, why I kept my marriage secret.”

“You have explained, sir; but it is for others in another place to say if that explanation is satisfactory.”

Two blazing dark eyes flashed out of the pale haggard face with as strange and sudden an effect as if a stream of light were to beat through the windows of a shattered and ruined house.

“You dare to doubt my word?”

“I demand a proof.”

“My word is proof to those who know me.”

“Excuse me, Lord Avon; but I know you, and I see no reason why I should accept your statement.”

It was a brutal speech, and brutally delivered.  Lord Avon staggered forward, and it was only his son on one side and his wife on the other who kept his quivering hands from the throat of his insulter.  Sir Lothian recoiled from the pale fierce face with the black brows, but he still glared angrily about the room.

“A very pretty conspiracy this,” he cried, “with a criminal, an actress, and a prize-fighter all playing their parts.  Sir Charles Tregellis, you shall hear from me again!  And you also, my lord!”  He turned upon his heel and strode from the room.

“He has gone to denounce me,” said Lord Avon, a spasm of wounded pride distorting his features.

“Shall I bring him back?” cried Boy Jim.

“No, no, let him go.  It is as well, for I have already made up my mind that my duty to you, my son, outweighs that which I owe, and have at such bitter cost fulfilled, to my brother and my family.”

“You did me an injustice, Ned,” said my uncle, “if you thought that I had forgotten you, or that I had judged you unkindly.  If ever I have thought that you had done this deed—and how could I doubt the evidence of my own eyes—I have always believed that it was at a time when your mind was unhinged, and when you knew no more of what you were about than the man who is walking in his sleep.”

“What do you mean when you talk about the evidence of your own eyes?” asked Lord Avon, looking hard at my uncle.

“I saw you, Ned, upon that accursed night.”

“Saw me?  Where?”

“In the passage.”

“And doing what?”

“You were coming from your brother’s room.  I had heard his voice raised in anger and pain only an instant before.  You carried in your hand a bag full of money, and your face betrayed the utmost agitation.  If you can but explain to me, Ned, how you came to be there, you will take from my heart a weight which has pressed upon it for all these years.”

No one now would have recognized in my uncle the man who was the leader of all the fops of London.  In the presence of this old friend and of the tragedy which girt him round, the veil of triviality and affectation had been rent, and I felt all my gratitude towards him deepening for the first time into affection whilst I watched his pale, anxious face, and the eager hope which shone in his eyes as he awaited his friend’s explanation.  Lord Avon sank his face in his hands, and for a few moments there was silence in the dim grey room.

“I do not wonder now that you were shaken,” said he at last.  “My God, what a net was cast round me!  Had this vile charge been brought against me, you, my dearest friend, would have been compelled to tear away the last doubt as to my guilt.  And yet, in spite of what you have seen, Charles, I am as innocent in the matter as you are.”

“I thank God that I hear you say so.”

“But you are not satisfied, Charles.  I can read it on your face.  You wish to know why an innocent man should conceal himself for all these years.”

“Your word is enough for me, Ned; but the world will wish this other question answered also.”

“It was to save the family honour, Charles.  You know how dear it was to me.  I could not clear myself without proving my brother to have been guilty of the foulest crime which a gentleman could commit.  For eighteen years I have screened him at the expense of everything which a man could sacrifice.  I have lived a living death which has left me an old and shattered man when I am but in my fortieth year.  But now when I am faced with the alternative of telling the facts about my brother, or of wronging my son, I can only act in one fashion, and the more so since I have reason to hope that a way may be found by which what I am now about to disclose to you need never come to the public ear.”

He rose from his chair, and leaning heavily upon his two supporters, he tottered across the room to the dust-covered sideboard.  There, in the centre of it, was lying that ill-boding pile of time-stained, mildewed cards, just as Boy Jim and I had seen them years before.  Lord Avon turned them over with trembling fingers, and then picking up half a dozen, he brought them to my uncle.

“Place your finger and thumb upon the left-hand bottom corner of this card, Charles,” said he.  “Pass them lightly backwards and forwards, and tell me what you feel.”

“It has been pricked with a pin.”

“Precisely.  What is the card?”

My uncle turned it over.

“It is the king of clubs.”

“Try the bottom corner of this one.”

“It is quite smooth.”

“And the card is?”

“The three of spades.”

“And this one?”

“It has been pricked.  It is the ace of hearts.”  Lord Avon hurled them down upon the floor.

“There you have the whole accursed story!” he cried.  “Need I go further where every word is an agony?”

“I see something, but not all.  You must continue, Ned.”

The frail figure stiffened itself, as though he were visibly bracing himself for an effort.

“I will tell it you, then, once and for ever.  Never again, I trust, will it be necessary for me to open my lips about the miserable business.  You remember our game.  You remember how we lost.  You remember how you all retired, and left me sitting in this very room, and at that very table.  Far from being tired, I was exceedingly wakeful, and I remained here for an hour or more thinking over the incidents of the game and the changes which it promised to bring about in my fortunes.  I had, as you will recollect, lost heavily, and my only consolation was that my own brother had won.  I knew that, owing to his reckless mode of life, he was firmly in the clutches of the Jews, and I hoped that that which had shaken my position might have the effect of restoring his.  As I sat there, fingering the cards in an abstracted way, some chance led me to observe the small needle-pricks which you have just felt.  I went over the packs, and found, to my unspeakable horror, that any one who was in the secret could hold them in dealing in such a way as to be able to count the exact number of high cards which fell to each of his opponents.  And then, with such a flush of shame and disgust as I had never known, I remembered how my attention had been drawn to my brother’s mode of dealing, its slowness, and the way in which he held each card by the lower corner.

“I did not condemn him precipitately.  I sat for a long time calling to mind every incident which could tell one way or the other.  Alas! it all went to confirm me in my first horrible suspicion, and to turn it into a certainty.  My brother had ordered the packs from Ledbury’s, in Bond Street.  They had been for some hours in his chambers.  He had played throughout with a decision which had surprised us at the time.  Above all, I could not conceal from myself that his past life was not such as to make even so abominable a crime as this impossible to him.  Tingling with anger and shame, I went straight up that stair, the cards in my hand, and I taxed him with this lowest and meanest of all the crimes to which a villain could descend.

“He had not retired to rest, and his ill-gotten gains were spread out upon the dressing-table.  I hardly know what I said to him, but the facts were so deadly that he did not attempt to deny his guilt.  You will remember, as the only mitigation of his crime, that he was not yet one and twenty years of age.  My words overwhelmed him.  He went on his knees to me, imploring me to spare him.  I told him that out of consideration for our family I should make no public exposure of him, but that he must never again in his life lay his hand upon a card, and that the money which he had won must be returned next morning with an explanation.  It would be social ruin, he protested.  I answered that he must take the consequence of his own deed.  Then and there I burned the papers which he had won from me, and I replaced in a canvas bag which lay upon the table all the gold pieces.  I would have left the room without another word, but he clung to me, and tore the ruffle from my wrist in his attempt to hold me back, and to prevail upon me to promise to say nothing to you or Sir Lothian Hume.  It was his despairing cry, when he found that I was proof against all his entreaties, which reached your ears, Charles, and caused you to open your chamber door and to see me as I returned to my room.”

My uncle drew a long sigh of relief.

“Nothing could be clearer!” he murmured.

“In the morning I came, as you remember, to your room, and I returned your money.  I did the same to Sir Lothian Hume.  I said nothing of my reasons for doing so, for I found that I could not bring myself to confess our disgrace to you.  Then came the horrible discovery which has darkened my life, and which was as great a mystery to me as it has been to you.  I saw that I was suspected, and I saw, also, that even if I were to clear myself, it could only be done by a public confession of the infamy of my brother.  I shrank from it, Charles.  Any personal suffering seemed to me to be better than to bring public shame upon a family which has held an untarnished record through so many centuries.  I fled from my trial, therefore, and disappeared from the world.

“But, first of all, it was necessary that I should make arrangements for the wife and the son, of whose existence you and my other friends were ignorant.  It is with shame, Mary, that I confess it, and I acknowledge to you that the blame of all the consequences rests with me rather than with you.  At the time there were reasons, now happily long gone past, which made me determine that the son was better apart from the mother, whose absence at that age he would not miss.  I would have taken you into my confidence, Charles, had it not been that your suspicions had wounded me deeply—for I did not at that time understand how strong the reasons were which had prejudiced you against me.

“On the evening after the tragedy I fled to London, and arranged that my wife should have a fitting allowance on condition that she did not interfere with the child.  I had, as you remember, had much to do with Harrison, the prize-fighter, and I had often had occasion to admire his simple and honest nature.  I took my boy to him now, and I found him, as I expected, incredulous as to my guilt, and ready to assist me in any way.  At his wife’s entreaty he had just retired from the ring, and was uncertain how he should employ himself.  I was able to fit him up as a smith, on condition that he should ply his trade at the village of Friar’s Oak.  My agreement was that James was to be brought up as their nephew, and that he should know nothing of his unhappy parents.

“You will ask me why I selected Friar’s Oak.  It was because I had already chosen my place of concealment; and if I could not see my boy, it was, at least, some consolation to know that he was near me.  You are aware that this mansion is one of the oldest in England; but you are not aware that it has been built with a very special eye to concealment, that there are no less than two habitable secret chambers, and that the outer or thicker walls are tunnelled into passages.  The existence of these rooms has always been a family secret, though it was one which I valued so little that it was only the chance of my seldom using the house which had prevented me from pointing them out to some friend.  Now I found that a secure retreat was provided for me in my extremity.  I stole down to my own mansion, entered it at night, and, leaving all that was dear to me behind, I crept like a rat behind the wainscot, to live out the remainder of my weary life in solitude and misery.  In this worn face, Charles, and in this grizzled hair, you may read the diary of my most miserable existence.

“Once a week Harrison used to bring me up provisions, passing them through the pantry window, which I left open for the purpose.  Sometimes I would steal out at night and walk under the stars once more, with the cool breeze upon my forehead; but this I had at last to stop, for I was seen by the rustics, and rumours of a spirit at Cliffe Royal began to get about.  One night two ghost-hunters—”

“It was I, father,” cried Boy Jim; “I and my friend, Rodney Stone.”

“I know it was.  Harrison told me so the same night.  I was proud, James, to see that you had the spirit of the Barringtons, and that I had an heir whose gallantry might redeem the family blot which I have striven so hard to cover over.  Then came the day when your mother’s kindness—her mistaken kindness—gave you the means of escaping to London.”

“Ah, Edward,” cried his wife, “if you had seen our boy, like a caged eagle, beating against the bars, you would have helped to give him even so short a flight as this.”

“I do not blame you, Mary.  It is possible that I should have done so.  He went to London, and he tried to open a career for himself by his own strength and courage.  How many of our ancestors have done the same, save only that a sword-hilt lay in their closed hands; but of them all I do not know that any have carried themselves more gallantly!”

“That I dare swear,” said my uncle, heartily.

“And then, when Harrison at last returned, I learned that my son was actually matched to fight in a public prize-battle.  That would not do, Charles!  It was one thing to fight as you and I have fought in our youth, and it was another to compete for a purse of gold.”

“My dear friend, I would not for the world—”

“Of course you would not, Charles.  You chose the best man, and how could you do otherwise?  But it would not do!  I determined that the time had come when I should reveal myself to my son, the more so as there were many signs that my most unnatural existence had seriously weakened my health.  Chance, or shall I not rather say Providence, had at last made clear all that had been dark, and given me the means of establishing my innocence.  My wife went yesterday to bring my boy at last to the side of his unfortunate father.”

There was silence for some time, and then it was my uncle’s voice which broke it.

“You’ve been the most ill-used man in the world, Ned,” said he.  “Please God we shall have many years yet in which to make up to you for it.  But, after all, it seems to me that we are as far as ever from learning how your unfortunate brother met his death.”

“For eighteen years it was as much a mystery to me as to you, Charles.  But now at last the guilt is manifest.  Stand forward, Ambrose, and tell your story as frankly and as fully as you have told it to me.”