Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  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?”

  “’Twas an expedient, O’Ruddy,” said the Earl.

  “There is more than one expedient in the world,” said I. “I am now using the expedient of keeping the papers.”

  And in the glance which he gave me I saw that I had been admitted behind a certain barrier. He was angry, but he would never more attempt to overbear me with grand threats. And he would never more attempt to undermine me with cheap flattery. We had measured one against the other, and he had not come away thinking out of his proportion. After a time he said:

  “What do you propose to do, Mr. O’Ruddy?”

  I could not help but grin at him. “I propose nothing,” said I. “I am not a man for meaning two things when I say one.”

  “You’ve said one thing, I suppose?” he said slowly.

  “I have,” said I.

  “And the one thing?” said he.

  “Your memory is as good as mine,” said I.

  He mused deeply and at great length. “You have the papers?” he asked finally.

  “I still have them,” said I.

  “Then,” he cried with sudden vehemence, “why didn’t you read the papers and find out the truth?”

  I almost ran away.

  “Your — your lordship,” I stammered, “I thought perhaps in London — in London perhaps — I might get a — I would try to get a tutor.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  “So that is the way of it, is it?” said the Earl, grinning. “And why did you not take it to some clerk?”

  “My lord,” said I with dignity, “the papers were with me in trust for you. A man may be a gentleman and yet not know how to read and write.”

  “’Tis quite true,” answered he.

  “And when I spoke of the tutor in London I did not mean to say that I would use what knowledge he imparted to read your papers. I was merely blushing for the defects in my education, although Father Donovan often said that I knew half as much as he did, poor man, and him a holy father. If you care to so direct me, I can go even now to my chamber and make shift to read the papers.”

  “The Irish possess a keen sense of honour,” said he admiringly.

  “We do,” said I. “We possess more integrity and perfect sense of honour than any other country in the world, although they all say the same of themselves, and it was my own father who often said that he would trust an Irishman as far as he could see him and no more, but for a foreigner he had only the length of an eyelash.”

  “And what do you intend with the papers now, O’Ruddy?” said he.

  “I intend as I intended,” I replied. “There is no change in me.”

  “And your intentions?” said he.

  “To give them into the hands of Lady Mary Strepp and no other,” said I boldly.

  I looked at him. He looked at me.

  “Lady Mary Strepp, my daughter,” he said in ironic musing. “Would not her mother do, O’Ruddy?” he asked softly.

  I gave a start.

  “She is not near?” I demanded, looking from here to there.

  He laughed.

  “Aye, she is. I can have her here to take the papers in one short moment.”

  I held up my hands.

  “No — no—”

  “Peace,” said he with a satanic chuckle. “I was only testing your courage.”

  “My lord,” said I gravely, “seeing a bare blade come at your breast is one thing, and running around a table is another, and besides you have no suitable table in this chamber.”

  The old villain laughed again.

  “O’Ruddy,” he cried, “I would be a well man if you were always near me. Will I have a table fetched up from below?—’twould be easy.”

  Here I stiffened.

  “My lord, this is frivolity,” I declared. “I came here to give the papers. If you do not care to take them in the only way in which I will give them, let us have it said quickly.”

  “They seem to be safe in your hands at present,” he remarked. “Of course after you go to London and get a tutor — ahem!—”

  “I will be starting at once,” said I, “although Father Donovan always told me that he was a good tutor as tutors went at the time in Ireland. And I want to be saying now, my lord, that I cannot understand you. At one moment you are crying one thing of the papers; at the next moment you are crying another. At this time you are having a laugh with me over them. What do you mean? I’ll not stand this shiver-shavering any longer, I’ll have you to know. What do you mean?”

  He raised himself among his cushions and fixed me with a bony finger.

  “What do I mean? I’ll tell you, O’Ruddy,” said he, while his eyes shone brightly. “I mean that I can be contemptuous of your plot. You will not show these papers to any breathing creature because you are in love with my daughter. Fool, to match your lies against an ex-minister of the King.”

  My eyes must have almost dropped from my head, but as soon as I recovered from my dumfounderment I grew amazed at the great intellect of this man. I had told nobody, and yet he knew all about it. Yes, I was in love with Lady Mary, and he was as well informed of it as if he had had spies to watch my dreams. And I saw that in many cases a lover was a kind of an ostrich, the bird which buries its head in the sands and thinks it is secure from detection. I wished that my father had told me more about love, for I have no doubt he knew everything of it, he had lived so many years in Paris. Father Donovan, of course, could not have helped me in such instruction. I resolved, any how, to be more cautious in the future, although I did not exactly see how I could improve myself. The Earl’s insight was pure mystery to me. I would not be for saying that he practised black magic, but any how, if he had been at Glandore, I would have had him chased through three parishes.

  However, the Earl was grinning victoriously, and I saw that I must harden my face to a brave exterior.

  “And is it so?” said I. “Is it so?”

  “Yes,” he said, with his grin.

  “And what then?” said I bluntly.

  In his enjoyment he had been back again
among his cushions.

  “‘What then? What then?’” he snarled, rearing up swiftly. “Why, then you are an insolent fool: Begone from me! begone! be—” Here some spasm overtook him, a spasm more from rage than from the sickness. He fell back breathless, although his eyes continued to burn at me.

  “My lord,” said I, bowing, “I will go no poorer than when I came, save that I have lost part of the respect I once had for you.”

  I turned and left his chamber. Some few gentlemen yet remained in the drawing-room as I passed out into the public part of the inn. I went quietly to a chamber and sat down to think. I was for ever going to chambers and sitting down to think after these talks with the Earl, during which he was for ever rearing up in his chair and then falling back among the cushions.

  But here was another tumble over the cliffs, if you like! Here was genuine disaster. I laid my head in my hands and mused before my lonely fire, drinking much and visioning my ruin. What the Earl said was true. There was trouble in the papers for the old nobleman. That he knew. That I knew. And he knew with his devilish wisdom that I would lose my head rather than see her in sorrow. Well, I could bide a time. I would go to London in company with Paddy and Jem Bottles, since they owned all the money, and if three such rogues could not devise something, then I would go away and bury myself in a war in foreign parts, occupying myself in scaling fortresses and capturing guns. These things I know I could have performed magnificently, but from the Earl I had learned that I was an ill man to conduct an affair of the heart.

  I do not know how long I meditated, but suddenly there was a great tumult on the stairs near my door. There were the shouts and heavy breathings of men, struggling, and over all rang a screech as from some wild bird. I ran to the door and poked my head discreetly out; for my coat and waistcoat were off as well as my sword, and I wished to see the manner of tumult at a distance before I saw it close. As I thrust forth my head I heard a familiar voice:

  “And if ye come closer, ye old hell-cat, ’tis me will be forgetting respect to my four great-grandmothers and braining you. Keep off! Am I not giving ye the word? Keep off!”

  Then another familiar voice answered him in a fine high fury. “And you gallows-bird, you gallows-bird, you gallows-bird! You answer me, do you! They’re coming, all, even to the hangman! You’ll soon know how to dance without a fiddler! Ah, would you? Would you?”

  If I had been afflicted with that strange malady of the body which sometimes causes men to fall to the ground and die in a moment without a word, my doom would have been sealed. It was Paddy and Hoity-Toity engaged in animated discussion.

  “And if ye don’t mind your eye, ye old cormorant—” began Paddy.

  “And you would be a highwayman, would you, gallows-bird—” began the Countess.

  “Cow—” began Paddy.

  Here for many reasons I thought it time to interfere. “Paddy!” I cried. He gave a glance at my door, recognized my face, and, turning quickly, ran through into my chamber. I barred the door even as Hoity-Toity’s fist thundered on the oak.

  “It’s a she-wolf,” gasped Paddy, his chest pressing in and out.

  “And what did you do to her?” I demanded.

  “Nothing but try to run away, sure,” said Paddy.

  “And why would she be scratching you?”

  “She saw me for one of the highwaymen robbing the coach, and there was I, devil knowing what to do, and all the people of the inn trying to put peace upon her, and me dodging, and then—”

  “Man,” said I, grabbing his arm, “’tis a game that ends on the—”

  “Never a bit,” he interrupted composedly. “Wasn’t the old witch drunk, claws and all, and didn’t even the great English lord, or whatever, send his servant to bring her in, and didn’t he, the big man, stand in the door and spit on the floor and go in when he saw she was for battering all the servants and using worse talk than the sailors I heard in Bristol? It would not be me they were after, those men running. It would be her. And small power to them, but they were no good at it. I am for taking a stool in my hand—”

  “Whist!” said I. “In England they would not be hitting great ladies with stools. Let us hearken to the brawl. She is fighting them finely.”

  For I had seen that Paddy spoke truth. The noble lady was engaged in battling with servants who had been in pursuit of her when she was in pursuit of Paddy. Never had I seen even my own father so drunk as she was then. But the heart-rending thing was the humble protests of the servants. “Your ladyship! Oh, your ladyship!” — as they came up one by one, or two by two, obeying orders of the Earl, to be incontinently boxed on the ears by a member of a profligate aristocracy. Probably any one of them was strong enough to throw the beldame out at a window. But such was not the manner of the time. One would think they would retreat upon the Earl and ask to be dismissed from his service. But this also was not the manner of the time. No; they marched up heroically and took their cuffs on the head and cried: “Oh, your ladyship! Please, your ladyship!” They were only pretenders in their attacks; all they could do was to wait until she was tired, and then humbly escort her to where she belonged, meanwhile pulling gently at her arms.

  “She was after recognizing you then?” said I to Paddy.

  “Indeed and she was,” said he. He had dropped into a chair and was looking as if he needed a doctor to cure him of exhaustion. “She would be after having eyes like a sea-gull. And Jem Bottles was all for declaring that my disguise was complete, bad luck to the little man.”

  “Your disguise complete?” said I. “You couldn’t disguise yourself unless you stood your head in a barrel. What talk is this?”

  “Sure an’ I looked no more like myself than I looked like a wild man with eight rows of teeth in his head,” said Paddy mournfully. “My own mother would have been after taking me for a horse. ’Tis that old creature with her evil eye who would be seeing me when all the others were blind as bats. I could have walked down the big street in Cork without a man knowing me.”

  “That you could at any time,” said I. The Countess had for some moments ceased to hammer on my door. “Hearken! I think they are managing her.”

  Either Hoity-Toity had lost heart, or the servants had gained some courage, for we heard them dragging her delicately down the staircase. Presently there was a silence.

  After I had waited until this silence grew into the higher silence which seems like perfect safety, I rang the bell and ordered food and drink. Paddy had a royal meal, sitting on the floor by the fireplace and holding a platter on his knee. From time to time I tossed him something for which I did not care. He was very grateful for my generosity. He ate in a barbaric fashion, crunching bones of fowls between his great white teeth and swallowing everything.

  I had a mind to discourse upon manners in order that Paddy might not shame me when we came to London; for a gentleman is known by the ways of his servants. If people of quality should see me attended by such a savage they would put me down small. “Paddy,” said I, “mend your ways of eating.”

  “‘My ways of eating,’ your honour?” said he. “And am I not eating all that I can hold? I was known to be a good man at platter always. Sure I’ve seen no man in England eat more than me. But thank you kindly, sir.”

  “You misunderstand me,” said I. “I wish to improve your manner of eating. It would not be fine enough for the sight of great people. You eat, without taking breath, pieces as big as a block of turf.”

  “’Tis the custom in my part of Ireland,” answered Paddy.

  “I understand,” said I. “But over here ’tis only very low people who fall upon their meat from a window above.”

  “I am not in the way of understanding your honour,” said he. “But any how a man may be respectable and yet have a good hunger on him.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  It had been said that the unexpected often happens, although I do not know what learned man of the time succeeded in thus succinctly expressing a great law and any how it matte
rs little, for I have since discovered that these learned men make one headful of brains go a long way by dint of poaching on each other’s knowledge. But the unexpected happened in this case, all true enough whatever.

  I was giving my man a bit of a warning.

  “Paddy,” said I, “you are big, and you are red, and you are Irish; but by the same token you are not the great Fingal, son of lightning. I would strongly give you the word. When you see that old woman you start for the open moors.”

  “Devil fear me, sir,” answered Paddy promptly. “I’ll not be stopping. I would be swimming to Ireland before she lays a claw on me.”

  “And mind you exchange no words with her,” said I, “for ’tis that which seems to work most wrongfully upon her.”

  “Never a word out of me,” said he. “I’ll be that busy getting up the road.”

  There was another tumult in the corridor, with the same screeches by one and the same humble protests by a multitude. The disturbance neared us with surprising speed. Suddenly I recalled that when the servant had retired after bringing food and drink I had neglected to again bar the door. I rushed for it, but I was all too late. I saw the latch raise. “Paddy!” I shouted wildly. “Mind yourself!” And with that I dropped to the floor and slid under the bed.

  Paddy howled, and I lifted a corner of the valance to see what was transpiring. The door had been opened, and the Countess stood looking into the room. She was no longer in a fiery rage; she was cool, deadly determined, her glittering eye fixed on Paddy. She took a step forward.

  Paddy, in his anguish, chanted to himself an Irish wail in which he described his unhappiness. “Oh, mother of me, and here I am caught again by the old hell-cat, and sure the way she creeps toward me is enough to put the fear of God in the heart of a hedge-robber, the murdering old witch. And it was me was living so fine and grand in England and greatly pleased with myself. Sorrow the day I left Ireland; it is, indeed.”