Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (948 page)

This was a man with a broad, florid face and brown side-whiskers.  He was of a stout build and had rounded shoulders, with a small mole of a reddish colour over his left eyebrow.  His jacket was of velveteen, and he had large, iron-shod boots, which were perched upon the splashboard in front of him.  He pulled up the van as he came up to the stile near which I was standing with the maiden who had come from the dingle, and in a civil fashion he asked me if
I could oblige him with a light for his pipe.  Then, as I drew a matchbox from my pocket, he threw his reins over the splashboard, and removing his large, iron-shod boots he descended on to the road.  He was a burly man, but inclined to fat and scant of breath.  It seemed to me that it was a chance for one of those wayside boxing adventures which were so common in the olden times.  It was my intention that I should fight the man, and that the maiden from the dingle standing by me should tell me when to use my right or my left, as the case might be, picking me up also in case I should be so unfortunate as to be knocked down by the man with the iron-shod boots and the small mole of a reddish colour over his left eyebrow.

“Do you use Long Melford?” I asked.

He looked at me in some surprise, and said that any mixture was good enough for him.

“By Long Melford,” said I, “I do not mean, as you seem to think, some form of tobacco, but I mean that art and science of boxing which was held in such high esteem by our ancestors, that some famous professors of it, such as the great Gully, have been elected to the highest offices of the State.  There were men of the highest character amongst the bruisers of England, of whom I would particularly mention Tom of Hereford, better known as Tom Spring,
though his father’s name, as I have been given to understand, was Winter.  This, however, has nothing to do with the matter in hand, which is that you must fight me.”

The man with the florid face seemed very much surprised at my words, so that I cannot think that adventures of this sort were as common as I had been led by the master to expect.

“Fight!” said he.  “What about?”

“It is a good old English custom,” said I, “by which we may determine which is the better man.”

“I’ve nothing against you,” said he.

“Nor I against you,” I answered.  “So that we will fight for love, which was an expression much used in olden days.  It is narrated by Harold Sygvynson that among the Danes it was usual to do so even with battle-axes, as is told in his second set of runes.  Therefore you will take off your coat and fight.”  As I spoke, I stripped off my own.

The man’s face was less florid than before.  “I’m not going to fight,” said he.

“Indeed you are,” I answered, “and this young woman will doubtless do you the service to hold your coat.”

“You’re clean balmy,” said Henrietta.

“Besides,” said I, “if you will not fight me for love, perhaps you will fight me for this,”
and I held out a sovereign.  “Will you hold his coat?” I said to Henrietta.

“I’ll hold the thick ‘un,” said she.

“No, you don’t,” said the man, and put the sovereign into the pocket of his trousers, which were of a corduroy material.  “Now,” said he, “what am I to do to earn this?”

“Fight,” said I.

“How do you do it?” he asked.

“Put up your hands,” I answered.

He put them up as I had said, and stood there in a sheepish manner with no idea of anything further.  It seemed to me that if I could make him angry he would do better, so I knocked off his hat, which was black and hard, of the kind which is called billy-cock.

“Heh, guv’nor!” he cried, “what are you up to?”

“That was to make you angry,” said I.

“Well, I am angry,” said he.

“Then here is your hat,” said I, “and afterwards we shall fight.”

I turned as I spoke to pick up his hat, which had rolled behind where I was standing.  As I stooped to reach it, I received such a blow that I could neither rise erect nor yet sit down.  This blow which I received as I stooped for his billy-cock hat was not from his fist, but from his iron-shod boot, the same which I had observed upon the splashboard.  Being unable either to
rise erect or yet to sit down, I leaned upon the oaken bar of the stile and groaned loudly on account of the pain of the blow which I had received.  Even the screaming horror had given me less pain than this blow from the iron-shod boot.  When at last I was able to stand erect, I found that the florid-faced man had driven away with his cart, which could no longer be seen.  The maiden from the dingle was standing at the other side of the stile, and a ragged man was running across the field from the direction of the fire.

“Why did you not warn me, Henrietta?” I asked.

“I hadn’t time,” said she.  “Why were you such a chump as to turn your back on him like that?”

The ragged man had reached us, where I stood talking to Henrietta by the stile.  I will not try to write his conversation as he said it, because I have observed that the master never condescends to dialect, but prefers by a word introduced here and there to show the fashion of a man’s speech.  I will only say that the man from the dingle spoke as did the Anglo-Saxons, who were wont, as is clearly shown by the venerable Bede, to call their leaders ‘Enjist and ‘Orsa, two words which in their proper meaning signify a horse and a mare.

“What did he hit you for?” asked the man
from the dingle.  He was exceedingly ragged, with a powerful frame, a lean brown face, and an oaken cudgel in his hand.  His voice was very hoarse and rough, as is the case with those who live in the open air.  “The bloke hit you,” said he.  “What did the bloke hit you for?”

“He asked him to,” said Henrietta.

“Asked him to — asked him what?”

“Why, he asked him to hit him.  Gave him a thick ‘un to do it.”

The ragged man seemed surprised.  “See here, gov’nor,” said he.  “If you’re collectin’, I could let you have one half-price.”

“He took me unawares,” said I.

“What else would the bloke do when you bashed his hat?” said the maiden from the dingle.

By this time I was able to straighten myself up by the aid of the oaken bar which formed the top of the stile.  Having quoted a few lines of the Chinese poet Lo-tun-an to the effect that, however hard a knock might be, it might always conceivably be harder, I looked about for my coat, but could by no means find it.

“Henrietta,” I said, “what have you done with my coat?”

“Look here, gov’nor,” said the man from the dingle, “not so much Henrietta, if it’s the same to you.  This woman’s my wife.  Who are you to call her Henrietta?”

I assured the man from the dingle that I had meant no disrespect to his wife.  “I had thought she was a mort,” said I; “but the ria of a Romany chal is always sacred to me.”

“Clean balmy,” said the woman.

“Some other day,” said I, “I may visit you in your camp in the dingle and read you the master’s book about the Romanys.”

“What’s Romanys?” asked the man.

Myself
.  Romanys are gipsies.

The Man
.  We ain’t gipsies.

Myself
.  What are you then?

The Man
.  We are hoppers.

Myself
(to Henrietta).  Then how did you understand all I have said to you about gipsies?

Henrietta
.  I didn’t.

I again asked for my coat, but it was clear now that before offering to fight the florid-faced man with the mole over his left eyebrow I must have hung my coat upon the splashboard of his van.  I therefore recited a verse from Ferideddin-Atar, the Persian poet, which signifies that it is more important to preserve your skin than your clothes, and bidding farewell to the man from the dingle and his wife I returned into the old English village of Swinehurst, where I was able to buy a second-hand coat, which enabled me to make my way to the station, where I should start for London.  I could not but remark with some surprise that I was followed to the station
by many of the villagers, together with the man with the shiny coat, and that other, the strange man, he who had slunk behind the clock-case.  From time to time I turned and approached them, hoping to fall into conversation with them; but as I did so they would break and hasten down the road.  Only the village constable came on, and he walked by my side and listened while I told him the history of Hunyadi Janos and the events which occurred during the wars between that hero, known also as Corvinus or the crow-like, and Mahommed the second, he who captured Constantinople, better known as Byzantium, before the Christian epoch.  Together with the constable I entered the station, and seating myself in a carriage I took paper from my pocket and I began to write upon the paper all that had occurred to me, in order that I might show that it was not easy in these days to follow the example of the master.  As I wrote, I heard the constable talk to the station-master, a stout, middle-sized man with a red neck-tie, and tell him of my own adventures in the old English village of Swinehurst.

“He is a gentleman too,” said the constable, “and I doubt not that he lives in a big house in London town.”

“A very big house if every man had his rights,” said the station-master, and waving his hand he signalled that the train should proceed.

DANGER STORY VII.  THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL

I — HOW THE WOMAN CAME TO KIRKBY-MALHOUSE

Bleak and wind-swept is the little town of Kirkby-Malhouse, harsh and forbidding are the fells upon which it stands.  It stretches in a single line of grey-stone, slate-roofed houses, dotted down the furze-clad slope of the rolling moor.

In this lonely and secluded village, I, James Upperton, found myself in the summer of ‘85.  Little as the hamlet had to offer, it contained that for which I yearned above all things — seclusion and freedom from all which might distract my mind from the high and weighty subjects which engaged it.  But the inquisitiveness of my landlady made my lodgings undesirable and I determined to seek new quarters.

As it chanced, I had in one of my rambles come upon an isolated dwelling in the very heart of these lonely moors, which I at once determined should be my own.  It was a two-roomed cottage, which had once belonged to some shepherd, but
had long been deserted, and was crumbling rapidly to ruin.  In the winter floods, the Gaster Beck, which runs down Gaster Fell, where the little dwelling stood, had overswept its banks and torn away a part of the wall.  The roof was in ill case, and the scattered slates lay thick amongst the grass.  Yet the main shell of the house stood firm and true; and it was no great task for me to have all that was amiss set right.

The two rooms I laid out in a widely different manner — my own tastes are of a Spartan turn, and the outer chamber was so planned as to accord with them.  An oil-stove by Rippingille of Birmingham furnished me with the means of cooking; while two great bags, the one of flour, and the other of potatoes, made me independent of all supplies from without.  In diet I had long been a Pythagorean, so that the scraggy, long-limbed sheep which browsed upon the wiry grass by the Gaster Beck had little to fear from their new companion.  A nine-gallon cask of oil served me as a sideboard; while a square table, a deal chair and a truckle-bed completed the list of my domestic fittings.  At the head of my couch hung two unpainted shelves — the lower for my dishes and cooking utensils, the upper for the few portraits which took me back to the little that was pleasant in the long, wearisome toiling for wealth and for pleasure which had marked the life I had left behind.

If this dwelling-room of mine were plain even to squalor, its poverty was more than atoned for by the luxury of the chamber which was destined to serve me as my study.  I had ever held that it was best for my mind to be surrounded by such objects as would be in harmony with the studies which occupied it, and that the loftiest and most ethereal conditions of thought are only possible amid surroundings which please the eye and gratify the senses.  The room which I had set apart for my mystic studies was set forth in a style as gloomy and majestic as the thoughts and aspirations with which it was to harmonise.  Both walls and ceilings were covered with a paper of the richest and glossiest black, on which was traced a lurid and arabesque pattern of dead gold.  A black velvet curtain covered the single diamond-paned window; while a thick, yielding carpet of the same material prevented the sound of my own footfalls, as I paced backward and forward, from breaking the current of my thought.  Along the cornices ran gold rods, from which depended six pictures, all of the sombre and imaginative caste, which chimed best with my fancy.

And yet it was destined that ere ever I reached this quiet harbour I should learn that I was still one of humankind, and that it is an ill thing to strive to break the bond which binds us to our fellows.  It was but two nights before the date
I had fixed upon for my change of dwelling, when I was conscious of a bustle in the house beneath, with the bearing of heavy burdens up the creaking stair, and the harsh voice of my landlady, loud in welcome and protestations of joy.  From time to time, amid the whirl of words, I could hear a gentle and softly modulated voice, which struck pleasantly upon my ear after the long weeks during which I had listened only to the rude dialect of the dalesmen.  For an hour I could hear the dialogue beneath — the high voice and the low, with clatter of cup and clink of spoon, until at last a light, quick step passed my study door, and I knew that my new fellow lodger had sought her room.

On the morning after this incident I was up betimes, as is my wont; but I was surprised, on glancing from my window, to see that our new inmate was earlier still.  She was walking down the narrow pathway, which zigzags over the fell — a tall woman, slender, her head sunk upon her breast, her arms filled with a bristle of wild flowers, which she had gathered in her morning rambles.  The white and pink of her dress, and the touch of deep red ribbon in her broad drooping hat, formed a pleasant dash of colour against the dun-tinted landscape.  She was some distance off when I first set eyes upon her, yet I knew that this wandering woman could be none other than our arrival of last night, for there was a grace
and refinement in her bearing which marked her from the dwellers of the fells.  Even as I watched, she passed swiftly and lightly down the pathway, and turning through the wicket gate, at the further end of our cottage garden, she seated herself upon the green bank which faced my window, and strewing her flowers in front of her, set herself to arrange them.

As she sat there, with the rising sun at her back, and the glow of the morning spreading like an aureole around her stately and well-poised head, I could see that she was a woman of extraordinary personal beauty.  Her face was Spanish rather than English in its type — oval, olive, with black, sparkling eyes, and a sweetly sensitive mouth.  From under the broad straw hat two thick coils of blue-black hair curved down on either side of her graceful, queenly neck.  I was surprised, as I watched her, to see that her shoes and skirt bore witness to a journey rather than to a mere morning ramble.  Her light dress was stained, wet and bedraggled; while her boots were thick with the yellow soil of the fells.  Her face, too, wore a weary expression, and her young beauty seemed to be clouded over by the shadow of inward trouble.  Even as I watched her, she burst suddenly into wild weeping, and throwing down her bundle of flowers ran swiftly into the house.

Distrait as I was and weary of the ways of the
world, I was conscious of a sudden pang of sympathy and grief as I looked upon the spasm of despair which, seemed to convulse this strange and beautiful woman.  I bent to my books, and yet my thoughts would ever turn to her proud clear-cut face, her weather-stained dress, her drooping head, and the sorrow which lay in each line and feature of her pensive face.

Mrs. Adams, my landlady, was wont to carry up my frugal breakfast; yet it was very rarely that I allowed her to break the current of my thoughts, or to draw my mind by her idle chatter from weightier things.  This morning, however, for once, she found me in a listening mood, and with little prompting, proceeded to pour into my ears all that she knew of our beautiful visitor.

“Miss Eva Cameron be her name, sir,” she said: “but who she be, or where she came fra, I know little more than yoursel’.  Maybe it was the same reason that brought her to Kirkby-Malhouse as fetched you there yoursel’, sir.”

“Possibly,” said I, ignoring the covert question; “but I should hardly have thought that Kirkby-Malhouse was a place which offered any great attractions to a young lady.”

“Heh, sir!” she cried, “there’s the wonder of it.  The leddy has just come fra France; and how her folk come to learn of me is just a wonder.  A week ago, up comes a man to my door — a fine man, sir, and a gentleman, as one
could see with half an eye.  ‘You are Mrs. Adams,’ says he.  ‘I engage your rooms for Miss Cameron,’ says he.  ‘She will be here in a week,’ says he; and then off without a word of terms.  Last night there comes the young leddy hersel’ — soft-spoken and downcast, with a touch of the French in her speech.  But my sakes, sir!  I must away and mak’ her some tea, for she’ll feel lonesome-like, poor lamb, when she wakes under a strange roof.”