CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH THE BRIDE FROM FOREIGN PARTS IS GIVEN A TASTE OF

OLD ENGLAND

Cheers at an open gate of a field saluted the familiar scarlet of the

Earl of Fleetwood’s coach in Kentish land. They were chorister cheers,

the spontaneous ringing out of English country hearts in homage to the

nobleman who brightened the heaviness of life on English land with a

spectacle of the noble art distinguishing their fathers. He drove along

over muffling turf; ploughboys and blue butcher-boys, and smocked old

men, with an approach to a hundred-weight on their heels, at the trot to

right and left; all hoping for an occasional sight of the jewel called

Kitty, that he carried inside. Kitty was there.

Kitty’s eyes are shut. Think of that: cradled innocence and angels’

dreams and the whole of the hymn just before ding-dong-bang on noses and

jaws! That means confidence? Looks like it. But Kitty’s not asleep you

try him. He’s only quiet because he has got to undergo great exertion.

Last fight he was knocked out of time, because he went into it honest

drunk, they tell. And the earl took him up, to give him a chance of

recovering his good name, and that’s Christian. But the earl, he knows

a man as well as a horse. He’s one to follow. Go to a fayte down at

Esslemont, you won’t forget your day. See there, he’s brought a lady

on the top o’ the coach. That seems for to signify he don’t expect

it’s going to be much of a bloody business. But there’s no accounting.

Anyhow, Broadfield ‘ll have a name in the papers for Sunday reading. In

comes t’ other lord’s coach. They’ve timed it together closes they have.

They were pronounced to be both the right sort of noblemen for the

country. Lord Brailstone’s blue coach rattled through an eastern gate to

the corner of the thirty-acre meadow, where Lord Fleetwood had drawn up,

a toss from the ring. The meeting of the blue and scarlet coaches drew

forth Old England’s thunders; and when the costly treasures contained in

them popped out heads, the moment was delirious. Kit Ines came after his

head on a bound. Ben Todds was ostentatiously deliberate: his party said

he was no dancing-master. He stepped out, grave as a barge emerging from

a lock, though alive to the hurrahs of supporters and punctilious in

returning the formal portion of his rival’s too roguish nod. Their look

was sharp into the eyes, just an instant.

Brailstone and Fleetwood jumped to the grass and met, talking

and laughing, precise upon points of business, otherwise cordial:

plenipotentiaries of great powers, whom they have set in motion and bind

to the ceremonial opening steps, according to the rules of civilized

warfare. They had a short colloquy with newspaper reporters;--an

absolutely fair, square, upright fight of Britons was to be chronicled.

Captain Abrane, a tower in the crowd, registered bets whenever he could.

Curricles, gigs, carts, pony-traps, boys on ponies, a swarm on legs,

flowed to the central point and huddled there.

Was either champion born in Kent? An audacious boy proclaimed Kit Ines

a man of Kent. Why, of course he was! and that was why the Earl of

Fleetwood backed our cocky Kitty, and means to land him on the top of

his profession. Ben Todds was shuffled aside; as one of their Londoners,

destitute of county savour.

All very well, but have a spy at Benny Todds. Who looks the square

man? And hear what that big gentleman of the other lord’s party says.

A gentleman of his height and weight has a right to his opinion. He ‘s

dead against Kit Ines: it’s fists, not feet, he says, ‘ll do it to-day;

stamina, he says. Benny has got the stamina.

Todds’ possession of the stamina, and the grand voice of Captain Abrane,

and the Father Christmas, roast-beef-of-Old England face of the umpire

declared to be on the side of Lord Brailstone’s colour blue, darkened

the star of Kit Ines till a characteristic piece of behaviour was

espied. He dashed his cap into the ring and followed it, with the

lightest of vaults across the ropes. There he was, the first in the

ring: and that stands for promise of first blow, first blood, first flat

knock-down, and last to cry for quarter. His pair of seconds were soon

after him. Fleetwood mounted his box.

‘Is it to fight?’ said Carinthia.

‘To see which is the master.’

‘They fight to see?’

‘Generally until one or the other can’t see. You are not obliged to see

it; you can be driven away if you wish.’

‘I will be here, if you are here.’

‘You choose it.’

Fleetwood leaned over to Chumley Potts on the turf. ‘Abrane’s ruining

himself.’

Potts frankly hoped that his friend might be doing so. ‘Todds is jolly

well backed. He’s in prime condition. He’s the favourite of the knowing

ones.’

‘You wouldn’t have the odds, if he weren’t.’

‘No; but the odds are like ten per cent.: they conjure the gale, and be

hanged,’ said Potts; he swore at his betting mania, which destroyed the

pleasure of the show he loved.

All in the ring were shaking hands. Shots of a desire to question and

comment sped through Carinthia’s veins and hurt her. She had gathered

that she spoke foolishly to her husband’s ear, so she kept her mouth

shut, though the unanswered of her inquisitive ignorance in the strange

land pricked painfully at her bosom. She heard the girl behind her say:

‘Our colours!’ when the colour scarlet unwound with Lord Brailstone’s

blue was tied to the stake: and her husband nodded; he smiled; he liked

to hear the girl.

Potts climbed up, crying: ‘Toilets complete! Now for paws out, and then

at it, my hearties!’

Choice of corners under the leaden low cloud counted for little. A

signal was given; a man outside the ring eyed a watch, raised a hand;

the two umpires were on foot in their places; the pair of opposing

seconds hurried out cheery or bolt-business words to their men; and the

champions advanced to the scratch. Todds first, by the courtesy of Ines,

whose decorous control of his legs at a weighty moment was rightly read

by his party.

Their hands grasped firmly: thereupon becoming fists of a hostile couple

in position. And simply to learn which of us two is the better man!

Or in other words, with four simple fists to compass a patent fact and

stand it on the historic pedestal, with a little red writing underneath:

you never can patent a fact without it. But mark the differences of this

kind of contention from all other--especially the Parliamentary: this

is positive, it has a beginning and an end; and it is good-humoured from

beginning to end; trial of skill, trial of stamina; Nature and Art;

Old English; which made us what we are; and no rancours, no vows of

vengeance; the beaten man of the two bowing to the bit of history he has

helped to make.

Kittites had need to be confident in the skill of their lither lad. His

facer looked granite. Fronting that mass, Kit you might--not to lash

about for comparisons--call a bundle of bamboo. Ay, but well knitted,

springy, alive every inch of him; crafty, too, as you will soon bear

witness. He knows he has got his task, and he’s the man to do it.

There was wary sparring, and mirrors watched them.

‘Bigger fellow: but have no fear,’ the earl said over his shoulder to

Madge.

She said in return: ‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m praying.’

Kit was now on his toes, all himself, like one who has found the key. He

feinted. Quick as lightning, he landed a bolt on Ben’s jib, just at the

toll-bar of the bridge, between the eyes, and was off, out of reach,

elastic; Ben’s counter fell short by a couple of inches. Cheers for

first blow.

The earl clucked to Madge. Her gaze at the ring was a sullen intensity.

Will you believe it?--Ben received a second spanking cracker on the

spectacles-seat: neat indeed; and, poor payment for the compliment, he

managed to dig a drive at the ribs. As much of that game as may suit

you, sturdy Ben! But hear the shout, and behold!

First blood to Kit Ines! That tell-tale nose of old Ben’s has mounted

the Earl of Fleetwood’s colours, and all his party are looking

Brailstone-blue.

‘So far!’ said Fleetwood. His grooms took an indication: the hamper was

unfastened; sandwiches were handed. Carinthia held one; she tried to

nibble, in obedience to her husband’s example. Madge refused a bite of

food.

Hearing Carinthia say to her: ‘I hope he will not be beaten, I hope, I

hope,’ she made answer: ‘You are very good, Miss’; and the young lady

flushed.

Gentlemen below were talking up to the earl. A Kentish squire of an

estate neighbouring Esslemont introduced a Welsh squire he had driven to

see the fun, by the name of Mr. Owain Wythan, a neighbour of the earl’s

down in Wales. Refreshments were offered. Carinthia submissively sipped

the sparkling wine, which stings the lips when they are indisposed to

it. The voice of the girl Madge rang on the tightened chords of her

breast. Madge had said she was praying: and to pray was all that could

be done by two women. Her husband could laugh loudly with Mr. Potts

and the other gentlemen and the strangers. He was quite sure the man he

supported would win; he might have means of knowing. Carinthia clung to

his bare words, for the sake of the girl.

A roaring peal went up from the circle of combat. Kit had it this time.

Attacking Ben’s peepers, he was bent on defending his own, and he caught

a bodyblow that sent him hopping back to his pair of seconds, five

clear hops to the rear, like a smashed surge-wave off the rock. He was

respectful for the remainder of the round. But hammering at the system

he had formed, in the very next round he dropped from a tremendous

repetition of the blow, and lay flat as a turbot. The bets against him

had simultaneously a see-saw rise.

‘Bellows, he appears to have none,’ was the comment of Chumley Potts.

‘Now for training, Chummy!’ said Lord Fleetwood.

‘Chummy!’ signifying a crow over Potts, rang out of the hollows of

Captain Abrane on Lord Brailstone’s coach.

Carinthia put a hand behind her to Madge. It was grasped, in gratitude

for sympathy or in feminine politeness. The girl murmured: ‘I’ve seen

worse.’ She was not speaking to ears.

Lord Fleetwood sat watch in hand. ‘Up,’ he said; and, as if hearing him,

Kit rose from the ministering second’s knee. He walked stiffly, squared

after the fashion of a man taught caution. Ben made play. They rounded

the ring, giving and taking. Ben rushed, and had an emollient; spouted

again and was corked; again, and received a neat red-waxen stopper. He

would not be denied at Kit’s door, found him at home and hugged him. Kit

got himself to grass, after a spell of heavy fibbing, Ben’s game.

It did him no great harm; it might be taken for an enlivener; he was

dead on his favourite spot the ensuing round, played postman on it.

So cleverly, easily, dancingly did he perform the double knock and the

retreat, that Chumley Potts was moved to forget his wagers and exclaim:

‘Racket-ball, by Jove!’

‘If he doesn’t let the fellow fib the wind out of him,’ Mallard

addressed his own crab eyeballs.

Lord Fleetwood heard and said coolly: ‘Tightstrung. I kept him fasting

since he earned his breakfast. You don’t wind an empty rascal fit for

action. A sword through the lungs won’t kill when there’s no air in

them.’

That was printed in the ‘Few Words before the Encounter’, in the Book

Of MAXIMS FOR MEN. Carinthia, hearing everything her husband uttered,

burned to remind him of the similarity between his opinions and her

father’s.

She was learning, that for some reason, allusions to her father were not

acceptable. She squeezed the hand of Madge, and felt a pressure, like

a scream, telling her the girl’s heart was with the fight beneath them.

She thought it natural for her. She wished she could continue looking

as intently. She looked because her husband looked. The dark hills and

clouds curtaining the run of the stretch of fields relieved her sight.

The clouds went their way; the hills were solid, but like a blue smoke;

the scene here made them very distant and strange. Those two men were

still hitting, not hating one another; only to gratify a number of

unintelligible people and win a success. But the earth and sky seemed

to say, What is the glory? They were insensible to it, as they are

not--they are never insensible to noble grounds of strife. They bless

the spot, they light lamps on it; they put it into books of history,

make it holy, if the cause was a noble one or a good one.

Or supposing both those men loved the girl, who loved one of them! Then

would Carinthia be less reluctantly interested in their blows.

Her infant logic stumbled on for a reason while she repressed the

torture the scene was becoming, as though a reason could be found by

her submissive observation of it. And she was right in believing that a

reason for the scene must or should exist. Only, like other bewildered

instinctive believers, she could not summon the great universe or a

life’s experience to unfold it. Her one consolation was in squeezing the

hand of the girl from time to time.

Not stealthily done, it was not objected to by the husband whose eye was

on all. But the persistence in doing it sank her from the benignity of

her station to the girl’s level: it was conduct much too raw, and grated

on the deed of the man who had given her his name.

Madge pleased him better. She had the right to be excited, and she was

very little demonstrative. She had--well, in justice, the couple of them

had, only she had it more--the tone of the women who can be screwed to

witness a spill of blood, peculiarly catching to hear;--a tone of every

string in them snapped except the silver string. Catching to hear? It

is worth a stretching of them on the rack to hear that low buzz-hum of

their inner breast... By heaven! we have them at their best when they

sing that note.

His watch was near an hour of the contest, and Brailstone’s man had

scored first knock-down blow, a particularly clean floorer. Thinking

of that, he was cheered by hearing Chummy Potts, whose opinions he

despised, cry out to Abrane:--

‘Yeast to him!’ For the face of Todds was visibly swelling to the ripest

of plums from Kit’s deliveries.

Down he went. He had the sturdy legs which are no legs to a clean blow.

Odds were offered against him.

‘Oh! pretty play with your right, Kit!’ exclaimed Mallard, as Kit

fetched his man an ugly stroke on the round of the waist behind, and

the crowd sent up the name of the great organs affected: a sickener of

a stroke, if dealt soundly. It meant more than 4 showed. Kit was now for

taking liberties. Light as ever on his pins, he now and then varied

his attentions to the yeasty part, delivering a wakener in unexpected

quarters: masterly as the skilled cook’s carving of a joint with hungry

guests for admirers.

‘Eh, Madge?’ the earl said.

She kept her sight fixed, replying: ‘Yes, I think...’ Carinthia joined

with her: ‘I must believe it that he will: but will the other man, poor

man, submit? I entreat him to put away his pride. It is his--oh, poor

man!’

Ben was having it hot and fast on a torso physiognomy.

The voices of these alien women thrilled the fray and were a Bardic harp

to Lord Fleetwood.

He dropped a pleasant word on the heads in the curricle.

Mr. Owain Wythan looked up. ‘Worthy of Theocritus. It’s the Boxing Twin

and the Bembrycian giant. The style of each. To the letter!’

‘Kit is assiduously fastening Ben’s blinkers,’ Potts remarked.

He explained to the incomprehensible lady he fancied he had somewhere

seen, that the battle might be known as near the finish by the behaviour

on board Lord Brailstone’s coach.

‘It’s like Foreign Affairs and the Stock Exchange,’ he said to the more

intelligent males. ‘If I want to know exactly how the country stands,

I turn to the Money Article in the papers. That’s a barometrical

certainty. No use inquiring abroad. Look at old Rufus Abrane. I see

the state of the fight on the old fellow’s mug. He hasn’t a bet left in

him!’

‘Captain Mountain--Rufus Mus!’ cried Lord Fleetwood, and laughed at the

penetrative portrait Woodseer’s epigram sketched; he had a desire for

the presence of the singular vagabond.

The Rufus Mus in the Captain Mountain exposed his view of the encounter,

by growing stiller, apparently growing smaller, without a squeak, like

the entrapped; and profoundly contemplative, after the style of the

absolutely detached, who foresee the fatal crash, and are calculating,

far ahead of events, the means for meeting their personal losses.

The close of the battle was on the visage of Rufus Abrane fifteen

minutes before that Elgin marble under red paint in the ring sat on

the knee of a succouring seconder, mopped, rubbed, dram-primed,

puppy-peeping, inconsolably comforted, preparatory to the resumption of

the great-coat he had so hopefully cast from his shoulders. Not downcast

by any means. Like an old Roman, the man of the sheer hulk with purple

eyemounds found his legs to do the manful thing, show that there was

no bad blood, stand equal to all forms. Ben Todds, if ever man in Old

England, looked the picture you might label ‘Bellyful,’ it was remarked.

Kit Ines had an appearance of springy readiness to lead off again. So

they faced on the opening step of their march into English History.

Vanquisher and vanquished shook hands, engaged in a parting rally of

good-humoured banter; the beaten man said his handsome word; the best

man capped it with a compliment to him. They drink of different cups

to-day. Both will drink of one cup in the day to come. But the day went

too clearly to crown the light and the tight and the right man of the

two, for moralizing to wag its tail at the end. Oldsters and youngsters

agreed to that. Science had done it: happy the backers of Science! Not

one of them alluded to the philosophical ‘hundred years hence.’ For when

England, thanks to a spirited pair of our young noblemen, has exhibited

one of her characteristic performances consummately, Philosophy is

bidden fly; she is a foreign bird.