The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (57 page)

Here Jem Bottles’s voice arose in tones of incredulity.

“And these be the papers of the great Earl!” he cried.

Then the truth flashed across my vision like the lightning. My two madmen had robbed the carriage of the Earl of Westport, and had taken, among other things, the Earl’s papers — my papers — Lady Mary’s papers. I strode around the haycock.

“Wretches!” I shouted. “Miserable wretches!”

For a time they were speechless. Paddy found his tongue first.

“Aye, ’tis him! ’Tis nothing but little black men and papers with him, and when we get them for him he calls us out of our names in a foreign tongue. ’Tis no service for a bright man,” he concluded mournfully.

“Give me the papers,” said I.

Paddy obediently handed them. I knew them. They were my papers — Lady Mary’s papers.

“And now,” said I, eyeing the pair, “what mischief have you two been compassing?”

Paddy only mumbled sulkily. It was something on the difficulties of satisfying me on the subjects of little black men and papers. Jem Bottles was also sulky, but he grumbled out the beginning of an explanation.

“Well, master, I bided under the tree till him here came, and then we together bided. And at last we thought, with the time so heavy, we might better work to handle a purse or two. Thinking,” he said delicately, “our gentleman might have need of a little gold. Well, and as we were riding, a good lad from the — your worship knows where — tells us the Earl’s carriage is halting there for a time, but will go on later without its escort of two gentlemen; only with servants. And, thinking to do our gentleman a good deed, I brought them to stand on the highway, and then he—”

“And then I,” broke in Paddy proudly, “walks up to the carriage-door looking like a king’s cruiser, and says I, ‘Pray excuse the manners of a self-opinionated man, but I consider your purses would look better in my pocket.’ And then there was a great trouble. An old owl of a woman screeched, and was for killing me with a bottle which she had been holding against her nose. But she never dared. And with that an old sick man lifted himself from hundreds of cushions and says he, ‘What do you want? You can’t have them,’ says he, and he keeps clasping his breast. ‘First of all,’ says I, ‘I want what you have there. What I want else I’ll tell you at my leisure.’ And he was all for mouthing and fuming, but he was that scared he gave me these papers — bad luck to them.” Paddy cast an evil eye upon the papers in my hand.

“And then?” said I.

“The driver he tried for to whip up,” interpolated Jem Bottles. “He was a game one, but the others were like wet cats.”

“And says I,” continued Paddy, “‘now we will have the gold, if it please you.’ And out it came. ‘I bid ye a good journey,’ says I, and I thought it was over, and how easy it was highwaying, and I liked it well, until the lady on the front seat opens her hood and shows me a prettier face than we have in all Ireland. She clasps two white hands. ‘Oh, please Mister Highwayman, my father’s papers—’ And with that I backs away. ‘Let them go,’ says I to Jem Bottles, and sick I was of it, and I would be buying masses to-night if I might find a Christian church. The poor lady!”

I was no longer angry with Paddy.

“Aye,” said Jem Bottles, “the poor lady was that forlorn!”

I was no longer angry with Jem Bottles.

But I now had to do a deal of thinking. It was plain that the papers were of supreme importance to the Earl. Although I had given them to Lady Mary, they had returned to me. It was fate. My father had taught me to respect these papers, but I now saw them as a sign in the sky.

However, it was hard to decide what to do. I had given the papers to Lady Mary, and they had fled back to me swifter than cormorants. Perhaps it was willed that I should keep them. And then there would be tears in the eyes of Lady Mary, who suffered through the suffering of her father. No; come good, come bad for me, for Jem Bottles, for Paddy, I would stake our fortunes on the act of returning the papers to Lady Mary.

It is the way of Irishmen. We are all of us true philanthropists. That is why we have nothing, although in other countries I have seen philanthropists who had a great deal. My own interest in the papers I staked, mentally, with a glad mind; the minor interests of Jem Bottles and Paddy I staked, mentally, without thinking of them at all. But surely it would be a tribute to fate to give anything to Lady Mary.

I resolved on a course of action. When I aroused to look at my companions I found them seated face to face on the ground like players of draughts. Between them was spread a handkerchief, and on that handkerchief was a heap of guineas. Jem Bottles was saying, “Here be my fingers five times over again.” He separated a smaller heap. “Here be my fingers five times over again.” He separated another little stack. “And here be my fingers five times over again and two more yet. Now can ye understand?”

“By dad,” said Paddy admiringly, “you have the learning this time, Master Bottles. My uncle the sexton could not have done it better.”

“What is all this?” said I.

They both looked at me deprecatingly. “’Tis, your honour,” began Paddy; “’tis only some little small sum — nothing to be talked of — belonging to the old sick man in the carriage.”

“Paddy and Jem Bottles,” said I, “I forgive you the taking of the papers. Ye are good men and true. Now we will do great deeds.”

My plans were formed quickly. “We now have a treasure chest of no small dimensions,” said I, very complacent, naturally. “We can conquer London with this. Everything is before us. I have already established myself as the grandest swordsman in the whole continent of England. Lately we have gained much treasure. And also I have the papers. Paddy, do you take care of this poor horse. Then follow me into Bath. Jem Bottles, do you mount and ride around the town, for I fear your balladists. Meet me on the London road. Ride slowly on the highway to London, and in due time I will overtake you. I shall pocket a few of those guineas, but you yourself shall be the main treasury. Hold! what of Paddy’s hair? Did he rob the Earl with that great flame showing? He dare not appear in Bath.”

“’Tis small tribute to my wit, sir,” answered Jem Bottles. “I would as soon go poaching in company with a lighthouse as to call a stand on the road with him uncovered. I tied him in cloth until he looked no more like himself than he now does look like a parson.”

“Aye,” said Paddy in some bad humour, “my head was tied in a bag. My mother would not have known me from a pig going to market. And I would not be for liking it every day. My hair is what the blessed Saints sent me, and I see no such fine hair around me that people are free to throw the laugh at me.”

“Peace!” said I.

Their horses were tied in an adjacent thicket. I sent Paddy off with my lame mount, giving him full instructions as to his lies. I and Jem Bottles took the other horses and rode toward Bath.

Where a certain lane turned off from the highway I parted with Jem Bottles, and he rode away between the hedges. I cantered into Bath.

The best-known inn was ablaze with fleeting lights, and people were shouting within. It was some time before I could gain a man to look after my horse. Of him I demanded the reason of the disturbance. “The Earl of Westport’s carriage has been robbed on the Bristol road, sir,” he cried excitedly. “There be parties starting out. I pray they catch him.”

“And who would they be catching, my lad,” said I.

“Jem Bottles, damn him, sir,” answered the man. “But ’tis a fierce time they will have, for he stands no less than eight feet in his boots, and his eyes are no human eyes, but burn blood-red always. His hands are adrip with blood, and ’tis said that he eats human flesh, sir. He surely is a devil, sir.”

“From the description I would be willing to believe it,” said I. “However, he will be easy to mark. Such a monster can hardly be mistaken for an honest man.”

I entered the inn, while a boy staggered under my valises. I had difficulty in finding the landlord. But in the corridor were a number of travellers, and evidently one had come that day from Bristol, for he suddenly nudged another and hurriedly whispered:

“’Tis him! The great Irish swordsman!”

Then the news spread like the wind, apparently, that the man who had beaten the great Forister was arrived in good health at the inn. There were murmurs, and a great deal of attention, and many eyes. I suddenly caught myself swaggering somewhat. It is hard to be a famous person and not show a great swollen chicken-breast to the people. They are disappointed if you do not strut and step high. “Show me to a chamber,” said I splendidly. The servants bowed their foreheads to the floor.

But the great hubbub over the Earl’s loss continued without abatement. Gentlemen clanked down in their spurs; there was much talk of dragoons; the tumult was extraordinary. Upstairs the landlord led me past the door of a kind of drawing-room. I glanced within and saw the Earl of Westport gesturing and declaiming to a company of gentlemen. He was propped up in a great arm-chair.

“And why would he be waving his hands that way?” said I to two servants who stood without.

“His lordship has lost many valuable papers at the hands of a miscreant, sir,” answered one.

“Is it so?” said I. “Well, then, I would see his lordship.”

But here this valet stiffened. “No doubt but what his lordship would be happy to see you, sir,” he answered slowly. “Unfortunately, however, he has forbidden me to present strangers to his presence.”

“I have very important news. Do not be an idiot,” said I. “Announce me. The O’Ruddy.”

“The O’Ruggy?” said he.

“The O’Ruddy,” said I.

“The O’Rudgy?” said he.

“No,” said I, and I told him again. Finally he took two paces within the room and sung out in a loud voice:

“The O’Rubby.”

I heard the voice of the sick old Earl calling out from his great chair. “Why, ’tis the Irishman. Bid him enter. I am glad — I am always very glad — ahem!—”

As I strode into the room I was aware of another buzz of talk. Apparently here, too, were plenty of people who knew me as the famous swordsman. The Earl moved his jaw and mumbled.

“Aye,” said he at last, “here is The O’Ruddy. And, do you know, Mr. O’Ruddy, I have been foully robbed, and, among other things, have lost your worthless papers?”

“I heard that you had lost them,” I answered composedly. “But I refuse to take your word that they are worthless.”

Many people stared, and the Earl gave me a firm scowl. But after consideration he spoke as if he thought it well to dissemble a great dislike of me. The many candles burned very brightly, and we could all see each other. I thought it better to back casually toward the wall.

“You never accomplish anything,” coughed the sick Earl. “Yet you are for ever prating of yourself. I wish my son were here. My papers are gone. I shall never recover them.”

“The papers are in the breast of my coat at this moment,” said I coolly.

There was a great tumult. The Earl lost his head and cried:

“Seize him!” Two or three young men took steps toward me. I was back to the wall, and in a leisurely and contemptuous way I drew my sword.

“The first gentleman who advances is a dead man,” said I pleasantly.

Some drew away quickly; some hesitated, and then withdrew subtilely. In the mean time the screeches of the Earl mocked them all.

“Aye, the wild Irishman brings you up to a stand, he does! Now who will have at him? In all Bath I have no friend with a stout heart?”

After looking them over I said:

“No, my Lord, you have none.”

At this insult the aged peer arose from his chair. “Bring me my sword,” he cried to his valet. A hush fell upon us all. We were rendered immovable by the solemn dignity of this proceeding.

It was some time before I could find my tongue.

“And if you design to cross blades with me, you will find me a sad renegade,” said I. “I am holding the papers for the hands of their true owner.”

“And their true owner?” he demanded.

“Lady Mary Strepp,” said I.

He sank back into his seat. “This Irishman’s impudence is beyond measuring,” he exclaimed. The hurrying valet arrived at that moment with a sword. “Take it away! Take it away!” he cried. “Do I wish valets to be handing swords to me at any time of the day or night?”

Here a belligerent red-faced man disengaged himself abruptly from the group of gentlemen and addressed the Earl. “Westport,” said he flatly, “I can ill bear your taunt concerning your Bath friends, and this is not to speak of the insolence of the person yonder.”

“Oh, ho!” said I. “Well, and the person yonder remains serene in his insolence.”

The Earl, smiling slightly, regarded the new speaker.

“Sir Edmund Flixton was ever a dainty swordsman, picking and choosing like a lady in a flower-bed. Perchance he is anxious to fight the gentleman who has just given Reginald Forister something he will not forget?”

At this Flixton actually turned pale and drew back. Evidently he had not yet heard the news. And, mind you, I could see that he would fight me the next moment. He would come up and be killed like a gentleman. But the name of a great conqueror had simply appalled him and smitten him back.

The Earl was gazing at me with an entirely new expression. He had cleverly eliminated all dislike from his eyes. He covered me with a friendly regard.

“O’Ruddy,” he said softly, “I would have some private speech with you. Come into my chamber.”

The Earl leaned on the shoulder of his valet and a little fat doctor, and walked painfully into another room. I followed, knowing that I was now to withstand a subtle, wheedling, gentle attempt to gain the papers without the name of Lady Mary being mentioned.

The Earl was slowly lowered into a great chair. After a gasp of relief he devoted a brightening attention to me. “You are not a bad fellow, O’Ruddy,” he observed. “You remind me greatly of your father. Aye, he was a rare dog, a rare dog!”

“I’ve heard him say so, many is the day, sir,” I answered.

“Aye, a rare dog!” chuckled the old man. “I have in my memory some brisk pictures of your father with his ready tongue, his what-the-devil-does-it-matter-sir, and that extraordinary swordsmanship which you seem to have inherited.”

“My father told me you were great friends in France,” I answered civilly, “but from some words you let drop in Bristol I judged that he was mistaken.”

“Tut,” said the Earl. “You are not out of temper with me, are you, O’Ruddy?”

“With me happily in possession of the papers,” I rejoined, “I am in good temper with everybody. ’Tis not for me to lose my good nature when I hold all the cards.”

The Earl’s mouth quickly dropped to a sour expression, but almost as quickly he put on a pleasant smile. “Aye,” he said, nodding his sick head. “Always jovial, always jovial. Precisely like his father. In fact it brings back an old affection.”

“If the old affection had been brought back a little earlier, sir,” said I, “we all would have had less bother. ’Twas you who in the beginning drew a long face and set a square chin over the business. I am now in the mood to be rather airy.”

Our glances blazed across each other.

“But,” said the Earl in the gentlest of voices, “you have my papers, O’Ruddy, papers entrusted to you by your dying father to give into the hands of his old comrade. Would you betray such a sacred trust? Could you wanton yourself to the base practices of mere thievery?”

“’Tis not I who has betrayed any trust,” I cried boldly. “I brought the papers and wished to offer them. They arrived in your possession, and you cried ‘Straw, straw!’ Did you not?”