Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  And the old fellow turned again, swaggered up and down his beat once more, twirling his cudgel in the same singular fashion.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  LUSSHA SINFIELD.

  RICHARD HOGGEN had grinned with much interest over this brief dialogue, and accompanied William with right goodwill, as he made his search for the man with the horses.

  Coming round the corner of a booth suddenly, a tall bony slender fellow, riding a chestnut horse and leading a gray, was before them.

  He was a handsome young man, very swarthy, with oval face, lowering forehead, black eyes, and black hair; about his neck, in a single tie, so that its ends hung loose and long, was that green-and-red handkerchief which he had noted in the description. He wore a wideawake hat, a gray coat with gilt buttons, a good deal worn at the seams, a red waistcoat, white corduroy knee-breeches, and brown leather gaiters.

  William made a step forward and raised his hand; the man pulled up.

  “Selling that gray?” asked William.

  “Ay — d’ye like him?” said the man. “Can’t say till I look at him. Old Cowper told me I should find you about here. You’re Lussha Sinfield, ain’t you?”

  “Ay,” said the man, boldly, but he eyed them suspiciously. “I’m the man. All the world’s welcome to look at me, and the horse too. Nothing to hide: he’s a beauty!”

  “Has he been hunted?”

  “Half last season; a lamb to handle — a devil to run. Jumps all slick — bar, ditch, or stonewall, all one to Faa; takes all sweet; beautiful trained. Look at his hoofs — just like a marble. Never made a mistake since he was dropped. Pedigree, points, action, training — not another’s been on this turf this six year like him. Try him yourself — you know a horse. Will ye come a bit this way? — and Mister Cowper will hold the chestnut.”

  It was really a nice horse, William thought, with fine action. But he was not troubling his head much about horses. His business was of another sort.

  “Well, come on, it’s close by,” said William, pointing toward the spot where he had left the old swarthy savage twirling his cudgel.

  As they walked on, William Haworth’s companion jogged him under his ribs, and mumbled his critical remarks on the horse, into his ear: a caution upon this point, a hint upon that, but a general admission that “the beast was no’ that bad.” And all the time the horseman, with his lids dropped, as if he was looking at the grass at his horse’s hoof, was reading, through the long fringe of his eyelashes, with a practised skill, the countenances and bearing of these two friends, and he truly saw in William’s that which dissatisfied and even alarmed him.

  But Lussha Sinfield knew very well how he stood. “He need not care a curse for any one.” He had little secrets, of course, of his own — something more than most men, but they were secrets. There was nothing that could turn up about him. “He did not care a d — n.”

  Cowper was now in sight, and he beckoned to him.

  “Take the halter,” said he quietly, and Cowper — than whom, as I have said, no fitter representative for the forest-demon in “Der Freyschütz” ever strode on earth — took the rope in his hand.

  William Haworth was standing a little away, so as to take in the whole figure of the horse.

  “He stands over his knees,” says William.

  “A good judge would think that a perfection, rather than otherwise,” answered Sinfield, coolly.

  “I take leave to think differently,” says William, sharply.

  “Every man to his taste,” says the dealer, coolly.

  “And, besides that, I think his shoulder too straight for a hunter, and his hindlegs too far away from him.”

  “If those points were better than they are,” answers the man, with a scornful smile, “I’d be asking a hatful more than ninety pounds for him. But never mind that — the proof of the pudding is in the eating. You’d better see him over a few fences.”

  “I don’t mind,” says the Squire.

  “Hollo, Jonnie!” cries the man, raising his arm, and a slight boy, blackeyed and blackhaired, with dark-brown skin, runs up to his side.

  “That’s a gypsy lad,” says Dick Hoggen, struck by the peculiar physique of the boy.

  “By my soul, he’s not!” answers Sinfield, fiercely. “That’s a clever boy, though. Now, Jonnie, take him over that bar.”

  A few steps brought them to the bar. The little fellow sits light as a fly on the horse’s back, and, without fuss or excitement, the horse goes over.

  “That will do; and what do you say to that double ditch?” says William, pointing to the fence of the fair-green close by them.

  “Take him over that,” says Lussha Sinfield to the boy, and the horse goes over the fence.

  “What do you say to that? You saw how he changes his legs,” said the dealer.

  “He goes out of his tracks,” says William.

  The man answers with a derisive laugh.

  “Take him over that again,” he says, and over goes the horse.

  “Bring the horse down here a bit, to the wall,” says Sinfield. “Now take him over the wall for the Squire.”

  And over the wall he goes.

  “See that!” cries Sinfield.

  “What?” says the Squire.

  “What!” echoes Sinfield. “Why, how he stands out, and sails over it. What! Ha — ha!”

  “I say it’s bad jumping,” says William, coolly; “why, he runs under and bucks over. A hunter, you say!”

  “That gentleman there,” says Sinfield, pointing to Dick, and beginning to lose temper, “has an eye in his head, and knows what belongs to a horse. What do you say, sir?”

  Dick screwed one eye close, and looked hard at the horse with the other. The dealer was on the point of citing the old distich: “Who winks with one eye and looks with the other, I would not trust him though he were my brother.”

  He did not quite know what to make of them, so, on the whole, he chose to try a little longer.

  “Take him over the wall again,” said Sinfield. And over went the gray, as before.

  “Will ye try him?”

  “I don’t mind,” answered William.

  He mounts, and excited the horse with whip and spur, and gallops him round the empty upper end of the green, and pulls him up suddenly before the seller, who is growing angry.

  “What the d — l do you mean by bucketing my horse about that way?”

  “D — n it! you asked me to try him, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t tell you to drive him mad, and knock him about that lick — did I? And what do you say to him, after all that? — what do you say now?”

  CHAPTER XVII.

  MEASURE WEAPONS.

  “WELL, what do you say? What will you take?” said William Haworth.

  “He’s dog-cheap at a hundred guineas. I’ll say ninety, and not a penny under.”

  The man was holding the horse’s head; horse and man were fine types of their several species.

  William laughed, quietly and scornfully.

  The man fixed a fiery stare on him. “Ay, and what do you say?” he asked.

  Digitized by “What do I say? I’ve a good deal to say. You are Lussha Sinfield, and I’ve heard enough about you to help me to value your horse. I’ve no doubt he’s a cheat, and five pounds is too much for him;” and William laughed again contemptuously.

  Sinfield turned pale under his swarthy skin; his brow lowered darker, and fire gleamed from his black eyes on William. He stands without motion for some seconds, like the statue of an evil spirit.

  “You d — d gorgio!” he yelled, “you haven’t five pounds in the world.”

  And, stamping, he broke into an extravagance of fury, of shrieking curses and abuse, gesticulating as if he was hurling handfuls of dust at William into the air. The effect of this frantic exhibition was increased by the rearing and plunging of the startled horse, which he held with his left hand by the bridle, which forced him to caper and spring, this way and that, by its struggles.


  “Take the horse, and give me the cudgel!” he shouted to Cowper.

  “Lend me your cudgel, Dick,” said William to his companion, who was utterly puzzled by the mad scene; and at the same time he grasped the weapon.

  “A ring — a ring!” shouted the crowd, that had already begun to collect.

  “Ay, a ring,” cries William Haworth, sternly. “I’ll fight that fellow, if he dares; I’ll drive him out of our county.”

  “Will ye try the cudgel, ye d — d thief?” screamed the horse-dealer.

  “Ay, I don’t care.”

  Sinfield made a spring into the air, and twirled the heavy stick he held by the middle; then off went his coat and his waistcoat, and old Cowper rolled them tight together, and strapped them to the saddle; off went Sinfield’s hat, and off went his green-and crimson handkerchief, which he tied instead tight about his small black head. There stands the handsome athlete, with this bright headgear, in his shirt and “shorts” and gaiters, looking so lowing and malignant.

  He made his stick spin in the air as his black eyes gleamed on William. Light, long of limb, all bone and sinew, a very formidable adversary looked this champion, who had killed his man in fair fight with the selfsame tough bit of ash, and left his mark scarred on many a valorous youth — being, in fact, a highly skilled master of that weapon.

  Every fellow who has not seen a good single-stick play fancies he can guard himself and hit another well enough to hold his own in a fight, and feels safe enough if he has a good stick in his hand. A little experience will open his eyes, if it does not close them.

  “I back myself to win — five pounds,” said Lussha Sinfield.

  “Done!” cried William.

  “I’ll make it ten,” rejoined Sinfield.

  “Done, again!” said William. “We’ll stake the money with Mr. Hoggen, here — Mr. Richard Hoggen; every one knows Mr. Hoggen.”

  “Aye, he’ll do: I’ve heard tell of Mr. Hoggen.”

  “You’ll hold the stakes, won’t you, Dick?” asked William.

  “I don’t mind,” said Dick; “but canst play? Have a care what you’re doing,” he whispered, with a wink.

  “Well, I ought to know something about it; I was the best man at school at it, and, so far as I know, the best at Cambridge. I was worth something, I can tell you, in the town-and-gown rows; I used to knock them over like ninepins.”

  “Well. I’ll take the money,” said Dick; “and we’ll keep a ring clear. Hollo! Dobbs! — Heyward! — Clewson! Come, lads, ye must keep a ring; get half-a-dozen more, and keep fair play. Here be the squire o’ Haworth goin’ to play a bout for the honor o’ the old county.”

  Sinfield said a word to his comrade, taking the horses himself by their heads; and Cowper strode up to Dick Hoggen, and, with extended arm, held forth a £10 note, which honest Dick took with a careful scrutiny, folded, and, with ten sovereigns which William Haworth handed him, placed in his purse, and stuck into the lowest depth of his breastpocket.

  “Now, mind ye don’t press in,” said Richard Hoggen, addressing the crowd. “If you don’t keep the ring you’ll spoil the fun, and stop the sport; and see, lads, the two foremost rows mun sit a t’ ground.”

  William Haworth now threw off his coat, handed his watch to honest Dick Hoggen, and put off his waistcoat and hat; and instead of it, like his antagonist, tied a handkerchief tight about his head.

  “Now we mun mezzur t’ sapplins,” said Dick; and on being placed together there was scarcely, as it turned out, a quarter of an inch difference in the length of the two sticks; and having satisfied himself that there was no loading in Sinfield’s, he pronounced the cudgels fair, and restored each to its owner for the occasion.

  The ring was already formed; an ample area of smooth short turf awaited their tread, and the North-country folk who were lucky enough to be on Willarden Fair Green that day were about to see some very pretty play.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  LOST AND WON.

  “Now, mind ye,” said Dick, in a loud voice, “I’m goin’ to tell ye how the play mun be. It shan’t last o’er an hour; and, won or drawn, it ends then. Every ten minutes I cry “Over,” unless the play ‘s hot at the time, and then the players take five minutes’ rest An’ if one tak’s a skelp o’ the other, and when time’s ca’d he can’t be up and to’t, he’s bet; but an’ if it’s a banger over f head, en he’s floor’d, he has ten minutes’ rest, in place of five, to cum till himseF. En noo, is beath pleased?”

  “Ay!” cried Sinfield.

  “All right!” said William.

  “Weel, then, blitely lads, lig intul to’t, noo!” shouted the yeoman, lifting his hand for a sign.

  And, each eyeing his adversary closely, the two combatants stepped cautiously from opposite sides, with cudgels well-poised, towards one another.

  And now the cudgels cross, and now come a few quick feints, and each player shows something more of caution. Each has formed, I suspect, a higher estimate of his antagonist.

  William Haworth’s face is stem; he is heart and soul in the battle. Victory is more to him than any one dreams; it is everything to him; he would sell Haworth, I am sure, to secure it. Pale with an intense anxiety, and stem, looks the blue-eyed Saxon Squire. His swarthy adversary, on the contrary, grins merrily, showing under his lowering brow and fiery eyes white rows of small teeth.

  That fellow has the tricks of a prizefighter — this smiling or grinning for the groundlings, a trick to maintain confidence, and ape good-humor. He has often played for money, one would conclude. The odds are awfully against the amateur.

  Now comes a sudden break in this cautious play, and with beautiful rapidity cuts and parries whistle and rattle; and a heavy blow takes the horse-dealer across the leg, another at his head is parried, and he replies swiftly, and is met, in return, by a parry. They draw back a little, and the swarthy fellow laughs with all his glittering teeth.

  Dick Hoggen looks at his watch, which is nestled snugly in his hand; it wants two minutes and a half still of the time at which he is to cry “Over!” His confidence in William has revived; and, judge of the lists though he be, he would like to call the five minutes’ rest during which that resounding cut across the dark fellow’s leg, just above the knee, would possibly stiffen and spoil his action.

  But there remain two minutes still, and suddenly the dark fellow advances, and a very pretty and fierce bit of play follows instantly. “Click-dack — click-clack,” with sightless speed and force the strokes and guards fly and meet. The ten minutes are up, but the play is at the moment too “hot” to be interrupted, in accordance with the articles.

  The two minutes have passed, and on a sudden, with the sound of a stroke on a well-stretched sail, a single blow ended the “round.”

  You could hardly have seen who gave it or where it fell — all was so quick. But instantly William Haworth lay stretched on his back, looking up to the sky with a white sad face, and blood was trickling over his cheek and ear.

  Well was it for William that his fall was so instantaneous, for his adversary followed it with a swinging swoop, that might have cut him across the temple, and ended his dream of love and glory.

  Thus, by a few inches and a small fraction of a second he escaped, and folly and passion lived on; though, looking on the young fellow’s face, some of the spectators feared he was dead. The cudgels with which they played were quite heavy enough for such a feat It was soon evident, however, that the Squire was not in that predicament.

  A broken head, pure and simple, is a trifle where the cudgel is a pastime — is no more matter than a broken pipe. William Haworth sat up. His friends stanched the blood as well as they could; and as he was still giddy, “daddled” him, in Dick Hoggen’s phrase, one at each side, across the arena.

  Ten minutes rallying-time, according to agreement, was allowed William Haworth. He needed every second of it.

  As William showed signs of recovery, his adversary frequently called to Dick Hoggen, “How’s time?
”

  William was now on his legs, and his friend quietly advised his withdrawing from the contest, and so escaping the “bevellin’” that awaited him.

  “I’m all right again — thank you, old fellow. You quite mistake. He’s a better man than I thought him, and I was too rash; but Ï know him now. The lesson was worth a knock, and I go in now to win, you’ll see.”

  Sinfield, on the other hand, talked in an undertone, laughing, as he passed to and fro, to his companion; and the old fellow, fired by the combat and the sight of blood, jabbered fiercely in reply, and looked more horribly ugly than ever.

  The fellows who had been sitting round on the grass stood up now, and a loud gabble was going on all round. When order was called, the ring was reformed; and, after a minute’s hurry and hustle, all was right again, and the battle recommenced.

  There is evidently more caution on each side. It is plain, after the first slight skirmish, that the Squire of Haworth had suffered nothing in hand or eye by his disaster. It is also plain that the dark fencer, who has drawn first blood, is resolved not to throw away his advantage, but to await his opportunity, and make his victory sure.

  The Squire’s hurt, oddly enough, proved in the end the cause of his safety. Thus it happened. Sinfield having trifled, and “dodged,” and worried, with the intention of tiring a man who had lost some blood and sustained a shock, on a sudden makes a determined and formidable attack, and the Squire of Haworth is sorely pressed — is in danger — five to one, it seems, against him; and Sinfield’s smile has vanished, and an atrocious glare and dark pallor unconsciously betray the animus with which he fights.

  The people hold their breath; some in the first ranks stand up. Any instant may see the catastrophe, and at this moment Sinfield’s foot slips: he has placed it in the little patch of blood which flowed from his adversary’s wound. The slight derangement that attends this accident William Haworth avails himself of; and instantly a resounding “skelp,” as they term such a blow in the North-country, proclaims to the world that Sinfield’s skull has “caught it” this time, and, as he reels, quick almost as you can clap your hands, two others follows, and tall lithe Lussha Sinfield lies, face downward, on the short grass, his small black head and green-and-scarlet handkerchief on his doubled arm, and the cudgel in which he trusted a yard away from his open hand. — , The crowd had now closed in about the fallen man; and foremost among the gabbling faces were the silent heads of the gray and the chestnut, pulled over by the powerful old gipsy, who had picked up the cudgel on his way in a trice, and who is violently roaring, stamping, and gesticulating, with the stick and the bridle clenched in his right hand, and the halter in his left; so that the horses are frightened, throwing up their heads and snorting in the air, and in danger of trampling on the feet of the crowd, who are shoving and hustling with them, and bawling to Cowper to mind his horses.