Hetty Wesley | Page 4

to step in a shade too closely. It was but a shade. Wesley,
watching his eye, caught an instant's warning, flung his head far back
and sprang away--not quickly enough to avoid a thud on the ribs. It
rattled him, but did no damage, and it taught him his lesson.
Round 3. Tempted in turn by his slight success, Randall shammed slow
again. But once bitten is twice shy, and this time he overreached
himself, in two senses. His lunge, falling short, let in the little one, who
dealt him a double knock--rap, rap, on either side of the jaw--before
breaking away. Stung out of caution he rushed and managed to close,
but took a third rap which cut his upper lip. First blood to Wesley. The
pair went to grass together, Randall on top. But it was the Tories who
cheered.
Round 4. Randall, having bought his experience, went back to sound
tactics. This and the next two rounds were uninteresting and quite
indecisive, though at the end of them Wesley had a promising black
eye and Randall was bleeding at mouth and nose. The old gentleman
rubbed his chin and took snuff. This Fabian fighting was all against the
lighter weight, who must tire in time.
Yet he did not look like tiring, but stepped out for Round 7 with the
same inscrutable smile. Randall met it with a shame-faced grin-- really
a highly creditable, good-natured grin, though the blood about his
mouth did its meaning some injustice. And with this there happened
that which dismayed many and puzzled all. Wesley's fists went up, but
hung, as it were impotent for the moment, while his eyes glanced aside
from his adversary's and rested, with a stiffening of surprise, on the
corner of the ring where the old gentleman stood. A cry went up from
the King's Scholars--a groan and a warning. At the sound he flung back
his head instinctively--as Randall's left shot out, caught him on the
apple of the throat, and drove him staggering back across the green.

The old gentleman snapped down the lid of his snuffbox, and at the
same moment felt a hand gripping him by the elbow. "Now, how the--"
he began, turning as he supposed to address a Westminster boy, and
found himself staring into the face of a lady.
He had no time to take stock of her. And although her fingers pinched
his arm, her eyes were all for the fight.
It had been almost a knock-down; but young Wesley just saved himself
by touching the turf with his fingertips and, resting so, crouched for a
spring. What is more, he timed it beautifully; helped by Randall
himself, who followed up at random, demoralised by the happy fluke
and encouraged by the shouts of Hutton's to "finish him off." In the fall
Wesley had most of his remaining breath thumped out of him; but this
did not matter. He had saved the round.
The old gentleman nodded. "Well recovered: very pretty--very pretty
indeed!" He turned to the lady. "I beg your pardon, madam--"
"I beg yours, sir." She withdrew her hand from his arm.
"If he can swallow that down, he may win yet."
"Please God!"
She stood almost a head taller than he, and he gazed up into a
singularly noble face, proud and strong, somewhat pinched about the
lips, but having such eyes and brows as belong to the few accustomed
to confront great thoughts. It gave her the ineffable touch of greatness
which more than redeemed her shabby black gown and antique bonnet;
and, on an afterthought, the old gentleman decided that it must have
been beautiful in its day. Just now it was pale, and one hand clutched
the silk shawl crossed upon her bosom. He noted, too, that the hand
was shapely, though roughened with housework where the mitten did
not hide it.
She had scarcely glanced at him, and after a while he dropped his
scrutiny and gazed with her across the ring.

"H'm," said he, "dander up, this time!"
"Yes," the lady answered, "I know that look, sir, though I have never
seen it on him. And I trust to see him wear it, one day, in a better
cause."
"Tut, madam, the cause is good enough. You don't tell me I'm talking
to a Whig?--not that I'd dispute with a lady, Whig or Tory."
"A Whig?" She fetched up a smile: she had evidently a reserve of mirth.
"Indeed, no: but I was thinking, sir, of the cause of Christ."
"Oh!" said the old gentleman shortly, and took snuff.
They were right. Young Wesley stepped out this time with a honeyed
smile, but with a new-born light in his hazel eyes--a demoniac light,
lambent and almost playful. Master Randall, caressed by them, read