THE BIG FIGHT OPENS
I
There had been one years before that had cried, "You are Lord Burdon!" and one that had received it, first in light mock at its folly, then in bewilderment at its truth. There was one cried the same words at "Post Offic" on this night and one, groaning in torment of spirit, that put it aside as a jest untimely, then, convinced of it, got to his feet and heard as it were the world shattering to pieces in his ears.
The gathering storm had opened and was driving along the Ridge in its first onset of rain when at last Percival turned where Dora had left him, wrenched himself about as though his feet were rooted, and brought to Aunt Maggie the dark and working face that had stared down upon the Old Manor. Ima had told Aunt Maggie of his strange behaviour when he had stopped the cart. When he arrived she was up-stairs in her room, crying a little, wanting to be alone. Aunt Maggie, Ima's fears communicated to her, awaited him alone in the parlour. He opened the door fiercely and came in dripping from the streaming night. She gave a little cry at sight of his face and rose and stretched her hands towards him. The sudden peace in here, exchanged for the buffeting of the night, reacted on the tumult of his mind and forced him to discharge it.
"O Aunt Maggie! Aunt Maggie!" he said.
"My Percival! What is it?"
He took both her hands that were extended to him; then was acted upon anew by her loving eyes, and clasped her to him and she felt sobs shaking his strong frame.
"Percival! Percival! What has happened to you?"
He let her go and dropped into a chair against the table, put his hands to his head and while she saw his shoulders heaving she saw the raindrops running through his fingers from his hair. She went before him, and stretching her arms across the table encircled his wrists with her hands. They were burning to her touch. "Percival, it is torturing to me to see you like this. Tell me, tell me!"
He took her hands. "Oh, I am in torture," he said, and she saw the torture burning in his eyes. "Aunt Maggie, Aunt Maggie, I loved Dora. I never told you. I was to tell you to-night. I had come back for her."
She felt a sense go through her as of a sword turned within her.
"But Rollo!" she said.
His hands crushed hers so that she had pain. "Yes, Rollo!" he said. "I nearly went to him to-night. I shall go yet. Rollo! Rollo! Rollo!"
He ground the name between his teeth. The pressure of his hands on hers became almost insufferable. She felt it as nothing to what shook her brain. She was back at the bedside in the Holloway Road. She was spun through the years of her waiting, waiting. She was fronted with the torments when that for which she waited had seemed to be snatched from her. There filled the room and stooped towards her the figure that she envisaged as fate, that had stayed her hand, that she obeyed, that had tried her, that had fought for her, that now was come to prove itself fate indeed.
In one part she was dizzy and overcome with the shaking at her brain; in the other she was listening to Percival and worse beset at every word. "I have seen her," he said, "I have seen her to-night. They are forcing her to this. They have arranged it for years—arranged it! Bought her and sold her because he is what he is. Aunt Maggie, she loved me for myself. He comes in! he comes in! he comes in! and takes her because he is Lord Burdon."
The shaking at her brain pitched suddenly to a tensest balance like a machine that rattles up to action then tunes to a level spinning.
"He is not Lord Burdon!" she said.
He was silent but he did not heed her.
"He is not Lord Burdon!"
At her repetition he moved quickly in his seat and relaxed his hands. "Oh, why say that? Why say that?"
"You are Lord Burdon!"
He let her hands go and pressed his own again to his head. "Can you only talk like that when you see me suffering?"
She rose to her feet. "Percival! Percival, listen to me. It is true. It is what I have kept for you these years. It is what I have meant when I told you I had something for you. You are Lord Burdon!"
He also stood. "Are you mad, Aunt Maggie? Are you mad?"
She staggered back against the wall. While he stared at her as he questioned her sanity, while she saw the look in his eyes as he asked her, there came to her with a shock of sudden fear, as to one that has released a wild and mighty thing and shudders to have done it, the words Japhra had said: "Mistress, beware lest thou betrayest him!"
He came swiftly to her and roughly caught her. "Are you mad? What is this?"
She recovered herself. "Do you know that box in your room?"
The locked box was an old joke of his. "What has that to do with it?"
"The proofs are there. You shall see."
"Show me," he said, his voice not to be recognised for any he had spoken with. "Show me!"
She steadied herself against a chair, and steadying herself by all her hand came against as she walked, went across the room to the stairs, he following. There came at that moment a loud knock upon the outer door. He went dazedly to it and stared with unattending eyes at one who stood there, the light shining on his heavy waterproof coat that streamed with rain. It was the strange man whom they had overtaken as the cart came out of Great Letham.
"The convict Hunt's been seen near by," said the man abruptly. "Me and my mates thought it right to tell the village."
Percival closed the door upon him without a word. "Show me," he repeated to Aunt Maggie, and followed her to her room.
II
He sat on the edge of her bed while she told him his story. He sat motionless and with his face immobile. There was only one action that betrayed he was under any emotion. His chin was forward on his hand, elbow on knee. His fingers came across his mouth, and in the knuckle of one he set his teeth. Blood was there when he drew his hand away.
She finished: "It is all here, letters, certificates. Your mother's letters, Percival, and your father's. They are all in order from the first. There is one here to his grandmother and one to his lawyer telling them of his marriage. He left those with her when he went away. Then the letters from India."
He drew his hand from his mouth, the blood on his fist. "Leave me alone," he said. "Go away, Aunt Maggie, and leave me to look at them alone."
There was that in his voice which smote terribly across her spinning brain and caused her to obey him.
III
An hour he was occupied in reading the yellowed sheets whose heritage he was; for long thereafter sat and stared upon them. These devoted lines in that round hand were his mother's: his father's those ardent passions in those bold characters; he their son. He felt himself a shameless listener to penetrate these tender secrets; he felt himself a little child that hears his parents' voices. Sometimes, in that first mood, the blood ran hotly to his cheeks; sometimes, in that second, there came sobs to his throat and great trembling. Memories of thoughts, impulses, happenings that had been strange, returned to him, crowding upon him; here was their meaning, their interpretation here. In the library with Mr. Amber, "thinking without thinking as if I was in some one else who was thinking," shadows about the room and a moth thudding the window-pane—here the secret of it! In the library with Mr. Amber and the old man's cry: "Why do you stretch your hand so, my lord?"—here the answer! In presence of death with Mr. Amber, and "Hold my hand, my lord"—here what had opened Mr. Amber's eyes. In dreams in Burdon House, and searching, searching, and all the rooms familiar, and a voice that had cried, "My son, my son! Oh, we have waited for you!"—here, here, the key to it—here that voice in those yellowed sheets—here, here, what he had searched, streaming from those papers, tingling his skin, filling his throat as though from the faded lines strong essences rushed and pressed about him. His mother!—he spoke the word aloud, "Mother!" His father!—"Father!" Their son, "I am your son!..."
Of a sudden he was returned to the present. Of a sudden he was snatched up from realisation of what had been, and what was, and pitched into battle of what was now to be. Out of a churchyard, out of a graveside where gentle thoughts arise, into the street, into the business where the din goes up! So he was hurled, and as one that gasps on sudden immersion in icy water, as one gripped in panic's hold that comes out of sleep to sudden peril, so, as he faced the thing that was come to him, he cried out hoarsely, knew horror upon him, and shut his eyes and pressed his hands against them as though his lids alone could not blind what picture was before him. In one instant fierce, fierce, exultant triumph; in the next torment that reeled him where he stood. In one instant himself that an hour before had stood looking balefully down upon Burdon Old Manor; that had cried to Aunt Maggie: "Rollo! Rollo! Rollo!" and knew it for a thrice-repeated curse; that had cried: "I was going to him! I shall go to him yet!" and knew his hands tingle and his brain leap at the thought; in the next, nay, immediate with the flash and flame of it, Rollo that from childhood's days had leant upon him; that he had brothered, fathered, loved; that had cried to him—ah, God, God! how the words came back!—"Everything I've got is yours—you know that, don't you, old man?" That had cried, "I'm never really happy except when I'm with you;" that had said, "I want some one to look after me—the kind of chap I am; a shy ass and delicate."
He dropped on the bed in the tumult of his torment. He writhed to his knees and flung himself against the bed, his fingers twisting in the quilt, his face between his outstretched arms. He had burned with fury to face Rollo and crush him down. The weapon was in his hands. Ah, ah, too strong, too sharp, too cruel! New thoughts brought him to his feet. Strongly he arose and shook himself. What, was he weakening toward a sentiment? "Everything I've got is yours"—but Dora taken from him! "Everything I've got is yours!"—it was! it was! and Dora with it! Always arranged because he was Lord Burdon! His darling sold to Rollo and bought by Rollo because Rollo was what he was! And he was not it! He was not it! This night, this hour he should know it!
This night? There came to him the vision of Rollo he had had when they told him Rollo could not come to the station to meet him but begged he would go up to him directly he arrived. He had pictured old Rollo coming to him with eager, outstretched hands. Rollo was waiting for him now, expecting him every moment, would so come to him if he went, would so come to him if he waited till to-morrow; and how would look when he spoke and told? The years ran back and answered him. There came to him clearly as yesterday that first visit to Mr. Hannaford's when he had been flushed with excitement and praise at riding the little black horse and had turned to see Rollo shrinking as he stood away, distress and tears working in his face. So he would look now. Then he had encouraged Rollo—as all through life thereafter he had heartened him. Now? Now he was to strike the appealing face that then and ever had looked to him for aid....
How do it? How do it? Why hesitate? Why hesitate? How strike him? Why spare him? How break him? Why let him go? Like live wild things the questions came at him and tore him; as one in direst torment there broke from his lips "O God, my God!": as one pursued he burst from the room, through the parlour where Aunt Maggie stretched hands and cried to him, out into the night where tempest raged and blackness was—fierce as his own, black as the thoughts he sought to race.
Out, out, as one pursued! Away, away, to shake pursuit! And caught as he ran, screamed at as he stumbled on, by all the howling pack that gathered strength and fury as he fled. His feet took the Down; full the tempest struck him as he breasted it; ah, ah, more violent the furies fought within! Thunder broke sheer above him out of heaven with detonation like a thousand guns; he staggered at the immensity of it; on, on, for furious more what joined in shock of battle in his brain! A sword of lightning showed him the Ridge and seemed to shake it where it lay. He gained the crest and turned along it and knew in his ears old friend wind in howling mock of ha! ha! ha! to see this fruitless race.
ALWAYS VICTORY
I
He came over against Burdon Old Manor and stopped and knew himself where he had stood with Dora three hours before. His exertions had run him to the end of his physical strength. He sank to his knees, and there, like vultures swooping to their stricken prey, the torments he had raced from came at him in last assault; there had him writhing on the sodden ground....
In their stress, as a hand put down to touch him where he writhed, a sudden recollection came—himself with Japhra by the van by Fir-Tree pool; Japhra with a lighted match cupped against his face and Japhra's words: "Listen to me, master. Listen to me—thy type runneth hot through life till at last it cometh to the big fight. Send me news of that. Send only 'The Big Fight, Japhra.' I shall know the winner." Ah, here was the Big Fight, saved for him, growing for him through these years and now released upon him! "I shall know the winner." He crouched lower beneath the storm, and in his inward storm buried his fingers in the sodden turf. "I shall know the winner"—ah, God, God, which was victory and which defeat? To win Dora, to take all that was his and she, his darling, with it, but against Rollo to use this hideous thing: was that victory? To lose all, all, to let his darling go, but to spare Rollo: was victory there? Was that victory with such a prize? his Dora won? Yes, that was victory, victory! Was that victory at such a price, Rollo spared, his darling lost? Could he bear to see his darling go? Endure to live and know whose son he was? Watch Rollo with his darling and keep his secret sheathed? Was victory there? No, no, defeat—defeat unthinkable, impossible, not to be borne! He sprang to his feet and another thought came at him and gripped him. Japhra again: "Get at the littleness of it—get at the littleness of it. It will pass." Ah, easy, futile words; ah, damnable philosophy! Was littleness here? Was littleness in this? "Remember what endureth. Not man nor man's work—only the green things, only the brown earth that to-day humbly supports thee, to-morrow obscurely covers thee. Lay hold on that when aught vexeth thee; all else passeth."
The Big Fight had him; in its agony he cried aloud, threw up his arms and fell again to his knees.
II
So Ima found him.
When he had burst from the house, when Aunt Maggie had followed him and cried after him into the night, when she had returned and for a while wrestled with fear of what she had seen in his face, she went to the little room that was set apart for Ima and in sharp agony, in dreadful possession of that "Mistress, beware lest thou betrayest him," had cried "Ima, Ima, go to him! go to him!"
And Ima, taking Aunt Maggie's hands and staring in her face, "What has happened to him? What has happened to him? I heard him in his room alone. I knew something had happened to him."
The other could only say: "Go to him, Ima! Go! He must not be alone!"
She was at once obeyed; her voice and face, and nameless dread that had been with Ima since Percival had left the cart and while she heard him in his room, commanded it.
"How will you find him?" Aunt Maggie asked.
Hatless and without covering against the storm, Ima went to the outer door. "He will be on Plowman's Ridge," she said. "I shall find him."
Some instinct took her along the very path that he had followed. Some fear put her to speed. Her heart that he had silenced on Bracken Down and that never again she had permitted him to see, carried her to him. She ran with her skirts taken in her left hand, gipsy again in her free and tireless action, gipsy when at the summit of the Ridge instinct directed her without hesitancy to the right, gipsy when in the blackness she almost ran upon him and a second time revealed him what he was to her.
He cried, "Ima! Why are you here?" but carried his surprise no further.
"Percival, what has come to thee?"
"O Ima, leave me alone! leave me alone!"
"Ah, let me help thee!"
He cried, "None can—none can help me! Leave me! leave me!" Almost he struck her with his frantic arms that pressed her from him. She nothing cared, but caught them:
"Ah, suffer me to help thee. Look how I have come to thee. I healed thee once."
Her voice, and memories of her touch when he had lain sick, acted upon him. "Hold my hands, then. I must hold something. Hold them, hold them! O Ima, I am suffering, suffering!"
"That is why I am come. Your hands burn in mine and tremble."
"Kind Ima!" he said brokenly. "Kind Ima!" and put her hands to his face.
She caught at her breath. There came a sudden lull in the storm as though the wind paused for words she tried to make.
"Some one is running to us," Percival cried, and took his hands from her; stepped where approaching feet sounded and suddenly caught one that ran into his arms.
"Who are you?" Then peered and then cried, "Hunt!"
The figure that he held panted for breath. "I'm going to him—me lord," Hunt said, and laughed with the words.
Percival went back a step and there came to Ima's ears his breathing, heavy as Hunt's that laboured from his run. "What do you mean?"
Again the laugh. "I heard, me lord. Like as I heard that odd bit in the hall at the Manor years back and never forgot it that day to this."
"How did you hear?"
"I come to you. I come to you hiding, knowing you'd be kind as was the only one ever kind to me. Hid in your bedroom back of the screen, you not being there. Saw you come in and heard—"
His sentence was broken in the savage hands with which Percival caught his collar and shook him. "What did you hear? What? What?"
"Leave off of me! You're choking of me."
"What did you hear?"
"Y're Lord Burdon. Not him—not that—"
He was swung from his feet by Percival's grasp. "What now? What now, Hunt?"
"Leave off of me! Leave off! You're killing me."
The grip relaxed, and Hunt shook himself free, and tossed his arms. "What now?" he echoed, and had hate and dreadful laughter in the scream his words made. "What now! I come out for him! For him and 'er as put me away and as I told her in the dock I'd come. Straight for 'em I come. Straight for 'em with the police after me. Stole this for 'em and come to give it 'em." He drew from his jacket what gleamed in his hand as he shook it aloft. "Come to shoot 'em like dogs as used me like dogs, the bloody tyrangs. I've got better for 'em now. They can go free—free! turned out! turned out! chucked into the street! kicked out! Think of 'em! Think of 'em crying and howling and beggars and laughed at and pointed at! That's what I'm going to give 'em. Into my hand God Almighty what casts down the oppressors and the tyrangs has delivered 'em! That's what—ar-r-r!"
Percival was on him and threw him. His throat was in Percival's clutch and his hands tearing at the hands that throttled him.
"You are not!" Percival cried. "You are not. By God, you shall not!"
In those wild words of Hunt's and what they meant—the world's mockery; in that vile face and what it stood for—the world's cruelty, clearly there came to him the answer that vainly in his torment he had sought. Rollo face this? Rollo to this be subjected? Rollo suffer ejection from home and name? Ah, now he knew which in the big fight had been defeat and which was victory. "Rollo! Rollo! Rollo!" he had cried, and cried it as a curse. "Rollo! Rollo! Rollo!" now beat in his brain and in his grinding fingers and was pulse of the old protection throbbing for his friend that ever had been more than brother to him.
"Percival, you are killing him!"—Ima's fingers were on his, pulling his grip.
"Keep away! keep away!" he cried. "I'll have his life if need be!" and to Hunt, livid and at last gasp: "You damned devil! You damned devil! What are you going to promise me? How am I going to bind you? What am I going to do with you?"
There came gaspingly: "Promise—promise—oath to it."
He relaxed his fingers, and as Hunt drew gasping breaths, "You damned devil!" he cried again. "You damned fool. Did you not hear talk of proofs? Nothing in them! Nothing in them! Can you hear that?"
He was thrown on his side, he was grappled with by one whom fear of death gave strength, his clutch was eluded and Hunt sprang free.
"Nothing in them! What's your murder fingers for, then? Nothing in them—what you say 'Mother' for, then? Nothing in them—what—keep away! Keep off of me!" He whipped from his pocket what had gleamed in his hand. "Keep off of me! I'll fire. By God, I'll let you have it if you come at me!"
An' come at him, an' come at him, an' come at him, as of Percival in the fight the old men say.
Quick and straight as he had leapt at Pinsent, now quick and straight he leapt at Hunt. Quick and straight then to win victory, now quick and straight in victory already gained. Quick and straight he leapt; quicker the pistol spoke; without reel or stumble he pitched to earth.
There came a scream of hideous sound from Hunt, and screaming still he turned and fled, screaming was answered by a shout, and screaming ran to the hold of tall men come out of the night in his pursuit and close, yet very late, before he screamed.
From Ima no cry nor sound. She cast herself beside the figure that lay there, looked in its face and had no need for word or question; pressed her lips to his and then cried only, "Little master! ah, ah, Percival!"
She threw herself full length upon him where full length he lay. With her body she shielded him from the immense rain, with her arms enfolded him, put her mouth to his.
So she lay scarcely breathing; so she held him—hers, her own.
There is a hill that stands in a chain of hills where the west country stands towards the sea. A river streams below in a great mouth that opens to sea and a wide flood that winds along the vale. No more than a wide ribbon it looks from the hill, and the sea no more than the sky's reflection. Here on a day the van stood, the horse tethered, and Japhra with his pipe watching the remote valley. He turned his eyes to Ima, knew the thoughts that had her, and touched her where she sat beside him on the steps. All was known to them in these days and he spoke of it. "My daughter, art thou still questioning it? Why, this was the happy ending such as none could make it. How had he endured to live and overthrow his friend? How live in silence and carry those hot embers in his breast? Nay, nay, the fight came to him—that heart of ours—and he took up the prize. A fighter I marked him when a child he came to us. A fighter I knew him and a winner alway. Mark me what I told thee once when he lay with us: Though it be death, always victory. My daughter, what more happiness is there?"
THE END