Rodney Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (i love reading books txt) 📖

see their companion walk into such a trap.  They roared with delight, and bellowed out scraps of advice to him.

“Knock some of the soot off him, Lord Frederick!” they shouted.  “Give the Johnny Raw his breakfast.  Chuck him in among his own cinders!  Sharp’s the word, or you’ll see the back of him.”

Encouraged by these cries, the young aristocrat advanced upon his man.  The smith never moved, but his mouth set grim and hard, while his tufted brows came down over his keen, grey eyes.  The tongs had fallen, and his hands were hanging free.

“Have a care, master,” said he.  “You’ll get pepper if you don’t.”

Something in the assured voice, and something also in the quiet pose, warned the young lord of his danger.  I saw him look hard at his antagonist, and as he did so, his hands and his jaw dropped together.

“By Gad!” he cried, “it’s Jack Harrison!”

“My name, master!”

“And I thought you were some Essex chaw-bacon!  Why, man, I haven’t seen you since the day you nearly killed Black Baruk, and cost me a cool hundred by doing it.”

How they roared on the coach.

“Smoked!  Smoked, by Gad!” they yelled.  “It’s Jack Harrison the bruiser!  Lord Frederick was going to take on the ex-champion.  Give him one on the apron, Fred, and see what happens.”

But the driver had already climbed back into his perch, laughing as loudly as any of his companions.

“We’ll let you off this time, Harrison,” said he.  “Are those your sons down there?”

“This is my nephew, master.”

“Here’s a guinea for him!  He shall never say I robbed him of his uncle.”  And so, having turned the laugh in his favour by his merry way of taking it, he cracked his whip, and away they flew to make London under the five hours; while Jack Harrison, with his half-fullered shoe in his hand, went whistling back to the forge.

p. 18CHAPTER II.
THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL.

So much for Champion Harrison!  Now, I wish to say something more about Boy Jim, not only because he was the comrade of my youth, but because you will find as you go on that this book is his story rather than mine, and that there came a time when his name and his fame were in the mouths of all England.  You will bear with me, therefore, while I tell you of his character as it was in those days, and especially of one very singular adventure which neither of us are likely to forget.

It was strange to see Jim with his uncle and his aunt, for he seemed to be of another race and breed to them.  Often I have watched them come up the aisle upon a Sunday, first the square, thick-set man, and then the little, worn, anxious-eyed woman, and last this glorious lad with his clear-cut face, his black curls, and his step so springy and light that it seemed as if he were bound to earth by some lesser tie than the heavy-footed villagers round him.  He had not yet attained his full six foot of stature, but no judge of a man (and every woman, at least, is one) could look at his perfect shoulders, his narrow loins, and his proud head that sat upon his neck like an eagle upon its perch, without feeling that sober joy which all that is beautiful in Nature gives to us—a vague self-content, as though in some way we also had a hand in the making of it.

But we are used to associate beauty with softness in a man.  I do not know why they should be so coupled, and they never were with Jim.  Of all men that I have known, he was the most iron-hard in body and in mind.  Who was there among us who could walk with him, or run with him, or swim with him?  Who on all the country side, save only Boy Jim, would have swung himself over Wolstonbury Cliff, and clambered down a hundred feet with the mother hawk flapping at his ears in the vain struggle to hold him from her nest?  He was but sixteen, with his gristle not yet all set into bone, when he fought and beat Gipsy Lee, of Burgess Hill, who called himself the “Cock of the South Downs.”  It was after this that Champion Harrison took his training as a boxer in hand.

“I’d rather you left millin’ alone, Boy Jim,” said he, “and so had the missus; but if mill you must, it will not be my fault if you cannot hold up your hands to anything in the south country.”

And it was not long before he made good his promise.

I have said already that Boy Jim had no love for his books, but by that I meant school-books, for when it came to the reading of romances or of anything which had a touch of gallantry or adventure, there was no tearing him away from it until it was finished.  When such a book came into his hands, Friar’s Oak and the smithy became a dream to him, and his life was spent out upon the ocean or wandering over the broad continents with his heroes.  And he would draw me into his enthusiasms also, so that I was glad to play Friday to his Crusoe when he proclaimed that the Clump at Clayton was a desert island, and that we were cast upon it for a week.  But when I found that we were actually to sleep out there without covering every night, and that he proposed that our food should be the sheep of the Downs (wild goats he called them) cooked upon a fire, which was to be made by the rubbing together of two sticks, my heart failed me, and on the very first night I crept away to my mother.  But Jim stayed out there for the whole weary week—a wet week it was, too!—and came back at the end of it looking a deal wilder and dirtier than his hero does in the picture-books.  It is well that he had only promised to stay a week, for, if it had been a month, he would have died of cold and hunger before his pride would have let him come home.

His pride!—that was the deepest thing in all Jim’s nature.  It is a mixed quality to my mind, half a virtue and half a vice: a virtue in holding a man out of the dirt; a vice in making it hard for him to rise when once he has fallen.  Jim was proud down to the very marrow of his bones.  You remember the guinea that the young lord had thrown him from the box of the coach?  Two days later somebody picked it from the roadside mud.  Jim only had seen where it had fallen, and he would not deign even to point it out to a beggar.  Nor would he stoop to give a reason in such a case, but would answer all remonstrances with a curl of his lip and a flash of his dark eyes.  Even at school he was the same, with such a sense of his own dignity, that other folk had to think of it too.  He might say, as he did say, that a right angle was a proper sort of angle, or put Panama in Sicily, but old Joshua Allen would as soon have thought of raising his cane against him as he would of letting me off if I had said as much.  And so it was that, although Jim was the son of nobody, and I of a King’s officer, it always seemed to me to have been a condescension on his part that he should have chosen me as his friend.

It was this pride of Boy Jim’s which led to an adventure which makes me shiver now when I think of it.

It happened in the August of ’99, or it may have been in the early days of September; but I remember that we heard the cuckoo in Patcham Wood, and that Jim said that perhaps it was the last of him.  I was still at school, but Jim had left, he being nigh sixteen and I thirteen.  It was my Saturday half-holiday, and we spent it, as we often did, out upon the Downs.  Our favourite place was beyond Wolstonbury, where we could stretch ourselves upon the soft, springy, chalk grass among the plump little Southdown sheep, chatting with the shepherds, as they leaned upon their queer old Pyecombe crooks, made in the days when Sussex turned out more iron than all the counties of England.

It was there that we lay upon that glorious afternoon.  If we chose to roll upon our right sides, the whole weald lay in front of us, with the North Downs curving away in olive-green folds, with here and there the snow-white rift of a chalk-pit; if we turned upon our left, we overlooked the huge blue stretch of the Channel.  A convoy, as I can well remember, was coming up it that day, the timid flock of merchantmen in front; the frigates, like well-trained dogs, upon the skirts; and two burly drover line-of-battle ships rolling along behind them.  My fancy was soaring out to my father upon the waters, when a word from Jim brought it back on to the grass like a broken-winged gull.

“Roddy,” said he, “have you heard that Cliffe Royal is haunted?”

Had I heard it?  Of course I had heard it.  Who was there in all the Down country who had not heard of the Walker of Cliffe Royal?

“Do you know the story of it, Roddy?”

“Why,” said I, with some pride, “I ought to know it, seeing that my mother’s brother, Sir Charles Tregellis, was the nearest friend of Lord Avon, and was at this card-party when the thing happened.  I heard the vicar and my mother talking about it last week, and it was all so clear to me that I might have been there when the murder was done.”

“It is a strange story,” said Jim, thoughtfully; “but when I asked my aunt about it, she would give me no answer; and as to my uncle, he cut me short at the very mention of it.”

“There is a good reason for that,” said I, “for Lord Avon was, as I have heard, your uncle’s best friend; and it is but natural that he would not wish to speak of his disgrace.”

“Tell me the story, Roddy.”

“It is an old one now—fourteen years old—and yet they have not got to the end of it.  There were four of them who had come down from London to spend a few days in Lord Avon’s old house.  One was his own young brother, Captain Barrington; another was his cousin, Sir Lothian Hume; Sir Charles Tregellis, my uncle, was the third; and Lord Avon the fourth.  They are fond of playing cards for money, these great people, and they played and played for two days and a night.  Lord Avon lost, and Sir Lothian lost, and my uncle lost, and Captain Barrington won until he could win no more.  He won their money, but above all he won papers from his elder brother which meant a great deal to him.  It was late on a Monday night that they stopped playing.  On the Tuesday morning Captain Barrington was found dead beside his bed with his throat cut.

“And Lord Avon did it?”

“His papers were found burned in the grate, his wristband was clutched in the dead man’s hand, and his knife lay beside the body.”

“Did they hang him, then?”

“They were too slow in laying hands upon him.  He waited until he saw that they had brought it home to him, and then he fled.  He has never been seen since, but it is said that he reached America.”

“And the ghost walks?”

“There are many who have seen it.”

“Why is the house still empty?”

“Because it is in the keeping of the law.  Lord Avon had no children, and Sir Lothian Hume—the same who was at the card-party—is his nephew and heir.  But he can touch nothing until he can prove Lord Avon to be dead.”

Jim lay silent for a bit, plucking at the short grass with his fingers.

“Roddy,” said he at last, “will you come with me to-night and look for the ghost?”

It turned me cold, the very thought of it.

“My mother would not let me.”

“Slip out when she’s abed.  I’ll wait for you at the smithy.”

“Cliffe Royal is locked.”

“I’ll open a window easy enough.”

“I’m afraid, Jim.”

“But you are not afraid if you are with me, Roddy.  I’ll promise you that no ghost shall hurt you.”

So I gave him my word that I would come, and then all the rest of the day I went about the most sad-faced lad in Sussex.  It was all very well for Boy Jim!  It was that pride of his which was taking him there.  He would go because there was no one else on the country