Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “I call him to mind. How then, Sir Denis? What say you in this matter?”

  “He gave himself to me, fair lord. He had fallen in the press, and I came upon him and seized him. I told him that I was a knight from Artois, and he gave me his glove. See here, I bear it in my hand.”

  “It is true, fair lord! It is true!” cried a dozen French voices.

  “Nay, sir, judge not too soon!” shouted an English squire, pushing his way to the front. “It was I who had him at my mercy, and he is my prisoner, for he spoke to this man only because he could tell by his tongue that he was his own countryman. I took him, and here are a score to prove it.”

  “It is true, fair lord. We saw it and it was even so,” cried a chorus of Englishmen.

  At all times there was growling and snapping betwixt the English and their allies of France. The Prince saw how easily this might set a light to such a flame as could not readily be quenched. It must be stamped out now ere it had time to mount.

  “Fair and honored lord,” he said to the King, “again I pray you for a moment of patience. It is your word and only yours which can tell us what is just and right. To whom were you graciously pleased to commit your royal person?”

  King John looked up from the flagon which had been brought to him and wiped his lips with the dawnings of a smile upon his ruddy face.

  “It was not this Englishman,” he said, and a cheer burst from the Gascons, “nor was it this bastard Frenchman,” he added. “To neither of them did I surrender.”

  There was a hush of surprise.

  “To whom then, sir?” asked the Prince.

  The King looked slowly round. “There was a devil of a yellow horse,” said he. “My poor palfrey went over like a skittle-pin before a ball. Of the rider I know nothing save that he bore red roses on a silver shield. Ah! by Saint Denis, there is the man himself, and there his thrice-accursed horse!”

  His head swimming, and moving as if in a dream, Nigel found himself the center of the circle of armed and angry men.

  The Prince laid his hand upon his shoulder. “It is the little cock of Tilford Bridge,” said he. “On my father’s soul, I have ever said that you would win your way. Did you receive the King’s surrender?”

  “Nay, fair lord, I did not receive it.”

  “Did you hear him give it?”

  “I heard, sir, but I did not know that it was the King. My master Lord Chandos had gone on, and I followed after.”

  “And left him lying. Then the surrender was not complete, and by the laws of war the ransom goes to Denis de Morbecque, if his story be true.”

  “It is true,” said the King. “He was the second.”

  “Then the ransom is yours, Denis. But for my part I swear by my father’s soul that I had rather have the honor this Squire has gathered than all the richest ransoms of France.”

  At these words spoken before that circle of noble warriors Nigel’s heart gave one great throb, and he dropped upon his knee before the Prince. “Fair lord, how can I thank you?” he murmured. “These words at least are more than any ransom.”

  “Rise up!” said the smiling Prince, and he smote with his sword upon his shoulder. “England has lost a brave Squire, and has gained a gallant knight. Nay, linger not, I pray! Rise up, Sir Nigel!”

  XXVII. HOW THE THIRD MESSENGER CAME TO COSFORD

  Two months have passed, and the long slopes of Hindhead are russet with the faded ferns — the fuzzy brown pelt which wraps the chilling earth. With whoop and scream the wild November wind sweeps over the great rolling downs, tossing the branches of the Cosford beeches, and rattling at the rude latticed windows. The stout old knight of Duplin, grown even a little stouter, with whiter beard to fringe an ever redder face, sits as of yore at the head of his own board. A well-heaped platter flanked by a foaming tankard stands before him. At his right sits the Lady Mary, her dark, plain, queenly face marked deep with those years of weary waiting, but bearing the gentle grace and dignity which only sorrow and restraint can give. On his left is Matthew, the old priest. Long ago the golden-haired beauty had passed from Cosford to Fernhurst, where the young and beautiful Lady Edith Brocas is the belle of all Sussex, a sunbeam of smiles and merriment, save perhaps when her thoughts for an instant fly back to that dread night when she was plucked from under the very talons of the foul hawk of Shalford.

  The old knight looked up as a fresh gust of wind with a dash of rain beat against the window behind him. “By Saint Hubert, it is a wild night!” said he. “I had hoped to-morrow to have a flight at a heron of the pool or a mallard in the brook. How fares it with little Katherine the peregrine, Mary?”

  “I have joined the wing, father, and I have imped the feathers; but I fear it will be Christmas ere she can fly again.”

  “This is a hard saying,” said Sir John; “for indeed I have seen no bolder better bird. Her wing was broken by a heron’s beak last Sabbath sennight, holy father, and Mary has the mending of it.”

  “I trust, my son, that you had heard mass ere you turned to worldly pleasure upon God’s holy day,” Father Matthew answered.

  “Tut, tut!” said the old knight, laughing. “Shall I make confession at the head of my own table? I can worship the good God amongst his own works, the woods and the fields, better than in yon pile of stone and wood. But I call to mind a charm for a wounded hawk which was taught me by the fowler of Gaston de Foix. How did it run? ‘The lion of the Tribe of Judah, the root of David, has conquered.’ Yes, those were the words to be said three times as you walk round the perch where the bird is mewed.”

  The old priest shook his head. “Nay, these charms are tricks of the Devil,” said he. “Holy Church lends them no countenance, for they are neither good nor fair. But how is it now with your tapestry, Lady Mary? When last I was beneath this roof you had half done in five fair colours the story of Theseus and Ariadne.”

  “It is half done still, holy father.”

  “How is this, my daughter? Have you then so many calls?”

  “Nay, holy father, her thoughts are otherwhere,” Sir John answered. “She will sit an hour at a time, the needle in her hand and her soul a hundred leagues from Cosford House. Ever since the Prince’s battle—”

  “Good father, I beg you—”

  “Nay, Mary, none can hear me, save your own confessor, Father Matthew. Ever since the Prince’s battle, I say, when we heard that young Nigel had won such honor she is brain-wode, and sits ever — well, even as you see her now.”

  An intent look had come into Mary’s eyes; her gaze was fixed upon the dark rain-splashed window. It was a face carved from ivory, white-lipped and rigid, on which the old priest looked.

  “What is it, my daughter? What do you see?”

  “I see nothing, father.”

  “What is it then that disturbs you?”

  “I hear, father.”

  “What do you hear?”

  “There are horsemen on the road.”

  The old knight laughed. “So it goes on, father. What day is there that a hundred horsemen do not pass our gate, and yet every clink of hoofs sets her poor heart a-trembling. So strong and steadfast she has ever been, my Mary, and now no sound too slight to shake her to the soul! Nay, daughter, nay, I pray you!”

  She had half-risen from her chair, her hands clenched and her dark, startled eyes still fixed upon the window. “I hear them, father! I hear them amid the wind and the rain! Yes, yes, they are turning — they have turned! My God, they are at our very door!”

  “By Saint Hubert, the girl is right!” cried old Sir John, beating his fist upon the board. “Ho, varlets, out with you to the yard! Set the mulled wine on the blaze once more! There are travelers at the gate, and it is no night to keep a dog waiting at our door. Hurry, Hannekin! Hurry, I say, or I will haste you with my cudgel!”

  Plainly to the ears of all men could be heard the stamping of the horses. Mary had stood up, quivering in every limb. An eager step at the threshold, the door was flung wide, and there in
the opening stood Nigel, the rain gleaming upon his smiling face, his cheeks flushed with the beating of the wind, his blue eyes shining with tenderness and love. Something held her by the throat, the light of the torches danced up and down; but her strong spirit rose at the thought that others should see that inner holy of holies of her soul. There is a heroism of women to which no valor of man can attain. Her eyes only carried him her message as she held out her hand.

  “Welcome, Nigel!” said she.

  He stooped and kissed it.

  “Saint Catharine has brought me home,” said he.

  A merry supper it was at Cosford Manor that night, with Nigel at the head betwixt the jovial old knight and the Lady Mary, whilst at the farther end Samkin Aylward, wedged between two servant maids, kept his neighbours in alternate laughter and terror as he told his tales of the French Wars. Nigel had to turn his doeskin heels and show his little golden spurs. As he spoke of what was passed Sir John clapped him on the shoulder, while Mary took his strong right hand in hers, and the good old priest smiling blessed them both. Nigel had drawn a little golden ring from his pocket, and it twinkled in the torchlight.

  “Did you say that you must go on your way to-morrow, father?” he asked the priest.

  “Indeed, fair son, the matter presses.”

  “But you may bide the morning?”

  “It will suffice if I start at noon.”

  “Much may be done in a morning.” He looked at Mary, who blushed and smiled. “By Saint Paul! I have waited long enough.”

  “Good, good!” chuckled the old knight, with wheezy laughter. “Even so I wooed your mother, Mary. Wooers were brisk in the olden time. To-morrow is Tuesday, and Tuesday is ever a lucky day. Alas! that the good Dame Ermyntrude is no longer with us to see it done! The old hound must run us down, Nigel, and I hear its bay upon my own heels; but my heart will rejoice that before the end I may call you son. Give me your hand, Mary, and yours, Nigel. Now, take an old man’s blessing, and may God keep and guard you both, and give you your desert, for I believe on my soul that in all this broad land there dwells no nobler man nor any woman more fitted to be his mate!”

  There let us leave them, their hearts full of gentle joy, the golden future of hope and promise stretching out before their youthful eyes. Alas for those green spring dreaming! How often do they fade and wither until they fall and rot, a dreary sight, by the wayside of life! But here, by God’s blessing, it was not so, for they burgeoned and they grew, ever fairer and more noble, until the whole wide world might marvel at the beauty of it.

  It has been told elsewhere how as the years passed Nigel’s name rose higher in honor; but still Mary’s would keep pace with it, each helping and sustaining the other upon an ever higher path. In many lands did Nigel carve his fame, and ever as he returned spent and weary from his work he drank fresh strength and fire and craving for honor from her who glorified his home. At Twynham Castle they dwelled for many years, beloved and honored by all. Then in the fullness of time they came back to the Tilford Manor-house and spent their happy, healthy age amid those heather downs where Nigel had passed his first lusty youth, ere ever he turned his face to the wars. Thither also came Aylward when he had left the “Pied Merlin” where for many a year he sold ale to the men of the forest.

  But the years pass; the old wheel turns and ever the thread runs out. The wise and the good, the noble and the brave, they come from the darkness, and into the darkness they go, whence, whither and why, who may say? Here is the slope of Hindhead. The fern still glows russet in November, the heather still burns red in July; but where now is the Manor of Cosford? Where is the old house of Tilford? Where, but for a few scattered gray stones, is the mighty pile of Waverley? And yet even gnawing Time has not eaten all things away. Walk with me toward Guildford, reader, upon the busy highway. Here, where the high green mound rises before us, mark yonder roofless shrine which still stands foursquare to the winds. It is St. Catharine’s, where Nigel and Mary plighted their faith. Below lies the winding river, and over yonder you still see the dark Chantry woods which mount up to the bare summit, on which, roofed and whole, stands that Chapel of the Martyr where the comrades beat off the archers of the crooked Lord of Shalford. Down yonder on the flanks of the long chalk hills one traces the road by which they made their journey to the wars. And now turn hither to the north, down this sunken winding path! It is all unchanged since Nigel’s day. Here is the Church of Compton. Pass under the aged and crumbling arch. Before the steps of that ancient altar, unrecorded and unbrassed, lies the dust of Nigel and of Mary. Near them is that of Maude their daughter, and of Alleyne Edricson, whose spouse she was; their children and children’s children are lying by their side. Here too, near the old yew in the churchyard, is the little mound which marks where Samkin Aylward went back to that good soil from which he sprang.

  So lie the dead leaves; but they and such as they nourish forever that great old trunk of England, which still sheds forth another crop and another, each as strong and as fair as the last. The body may lie in moldering chancel, or in crumbling vault, but the rumor of noble lives, the record of valor and truth, can never die, but lives on in the soul of the people. Our own work lies ready to our hands; and yet our strength may be the greater and our faith the firmer if we spare an hour from present toils to look back upon the women who were gentle and strong, or the men who loved honor more than life, on this green stage of England where for a few short years we play our little part.

  Other Novels and Novellas

  Conan Doyle playing baseball on a visit to Jasper National Park, June 1914.

  THE MYSTERY OF CLOOMBER

  This novel is narrated by John Fothergill West, a Scot who has moved with his family from Edinburgh to Wigtownshire to care for the estate of his father’s half brother, William Farintosh. It was first published in 1889.

  Doyle, at the time of publication

  THE MYSTERY OF CLOOMBER

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. THE HEGIRA OF THE WESTS FROM EDINBURGH

  CHAPTER II. OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH A TENANT CAME TO CLOOMBER

  CHAPTER III. OF OUR FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE WITH MAJOR-GENERAL J. B. HEATHERSTONE

  CHAPTER IV. OF A YOUNG MAN WITH A GREY HEAD

  CHAPTER V. HOW FOUR OF US CAME TO BE UNDER THE SHADOW OF CLOOMBER

  CHAPTER VI. HOW I CAME TO BE ENLISTED AS ONE OF THE GARRISON OF CLOOMBER

  CHAPTER VII. OF CORPORAL RUFUS SMITH AND HIS COMING TO CLOOMBER

  CHAPTER VIII. STATEMENT OF ISRAEL STAKES

  CHAPTER IX. NARRATIVE OF JOHN EASTERLING, F.R.C.P.EDIN.

  CHAPTER X. OF THE LETTER WHICH CAME FROM THE HALL

  CHAPTER XI. OF THE CASTING AWAY OF THE BARQUE “BELINDA”

  CHAPTER XII. OF THE THREE FOREIGN MEN UPON THE COAST

  CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH I SEE THAT WHICH HAS BEEN SEEN BY FEW

  CHAPTER XIV. OF THE VISITOR WHO RAN DOWN THE ROAD IN THE NIGHT-TIME

  CHAPTER XV. THE DAY-BOOK OF JOHN BERTHIER HEATHERSTONE

  CHAPTER XVI. AT THE HOLE OF CREE

  CHAPTER I. THE HEGIRA OF THE WESTS FROM EDINBURGH

  I John Fothergill West, student of law in the University of St. Andrews, have endeavoured in the ensuing pages to lay my statement before the public in a concise and business-like fashion.

  It is not my wish to achieve literary success, nor have I any desire by the graces of my style, or by the artistic ordering of my incidents, to throw a deeper shadow over the strange passages of which I shall have to speak. My highest ambition is that those who know something of the matter should, after reading my account, be able to conscientiously indorse it without finding a single paragraph in which I have either added to or detracted from the truth.

  Should I attain this result, I shall rest amply satisfied with the outcome of my first, and probably my last, venture in literature.

  It was my intention to write out the sequence of events in due order, depending on trustworthy hearsay when I was describing that which was beyond
my own personal knowledge. I have now, however, through the kind cooperation of friends, hit upon a plan which promises to be less onerous to me and more satisfactory to the reader. This is nothing less than to make use of the various manuscripts which I have by me bearing upon the subject, and to add to them the first-hand evidence contributed by those who had the best opportunities of knowing Major-General J. B. Heatherstone.

  In pursuance of this design I shall lay before the public the testimony of Israel Stakes, formerly coachman at Cloomber Hall, and of John Easterling, F.R.C.P. Edin., now practising at Stranraer, in Wigtownshire. To these I shall add a verbatim account extracted from the journal of the late John Berthier Heatherstone, of the events which occurred in the Thul Valley in the autumn of ‘41 towards the end of the first Afghan War, with a description of the skirmish in the Terada defile, and of the death of the man Ghoolab Shah.

  To myself I reserve the duty of filling up all the gaps and chinks which may be left in the narrative. By this arrangement I have sunk from the position of an author to that of a compiler, but on the other hand my work has ceased to be a story and has expanded into a series of affidavits.

  My Father, John Hunter West, was a well known Oriental and Sanskrit scholar, and his name is still of weight with those who are interested in such matters. He it was who first after Sir William Jones called attention to the great value of early Persian literature, and his translations from the Hafiz and from Ferideddin Atar have earned the warmest commendations from the Baron von Hammer-Purgstall, of Vienna, and other distinguished Continental critics.

  In the issue of the Orientalisches Scienzblatt for January, 1861, he is described as “Der beruhmte und sehr gelhernte Hunter West von Edinburgh” — a passage which I well remember that he cut out and stowed away, with a pardonable vanity, among the most revered family archives.