Harker had found himself up against a second feudal precept that seemed curiously opposed to the first, yet ran with it amicably enough. “Hate Crump, but leave it alone!” was the second article of the family creed. The old coachman’s inbred respect for “quality” suffered a rude shock at the news that his son had laid violent hands upon a Lyndesay. Worldly diplomacy, too, had its say, and very much to the point. This might mean the stopping of the pension and other disasters. Everybody knew—everybody, that was, but a daft lumphead—that Rishwald had been much at Crump of late, bent on friendly terms and even more, and he was hardly likely to look favourably on the affair. It might mean that the young man would have to leave the farm, and serve him right an’ all, that it would! Nobody but a fool would have got himself into the mess—this to an accompaniment of lady’s maid’s tears and a lament like a soughing wind—“Poor Mr. Christian! Poor, dear lad!”
All this struck Harker as distinctly unfair, which was scarcely surprising, and when, after a public reproof from Rishwald, he found himself shunned not only in his own and the opposing village but also at Witham market, the bitterness in his heart strengthened like a fed flame. He hadn’t been given the belt, either, though, to do him justice, that was not by any means his first grievance. Still, he had won it. Taken altogether, it was an unrewarding world.
With Christian’s first move towards recovery, however, had come a curt groom riding to the door with a shortly-delivered note, equally shortly received. The address was in Callander’s hand, but the faintly-pencilled words within were Christian’s own. Harker stared at them sullenly, fiercely-drawn brows shading miserable eyes.
“Your match,” said the straggling letters—“not to blame—going strong,”—the painful effort of them carrying to his hard wretchedness a frank kindliness that was like the touch of a tender hand upon aching eyes. He said nothing about the letter, but after that, he was found time and again at Crump for news, the signed “C. de L.” in his pocket giving him courage to face each hostile reception. And to-day he had gone boldly to Gaskarth, and begged him to procure him an interview. Lakin’ Lyndesay’s star pupil, adamant at first, had at last eyed him with gradually relaxing hauteur.
“Of course, if you’re wanting to do the right thing, it’s not for me to stand in your way!” he observed kindly. “I’m a sportsman myself. And of course I can get you in to see Mr. Christian, if I choose. Mr. Christian, he says—‘Geordie,’ says he, ‘you’re heartily welcome, night or day!’ Happen you could creep in along behind. I hope this here mix-up will learn you not to go about getting yourself disliked in future.”
He had engineered the introduction quite successfully, and now Harker found himself stuttering unready, half-sullen apologies, desperately wishing himself out of it, and cursing Gaskarth for his well-meaning murmurs from the door.
“There’s no need for apology,” Christian stopped him quickly. “It was a fair enough fight, and I’ve no complaint to make. Of course you didn’t mean to throw me off the mat! Who but an idiot would think you did?” He looked round sharply at Callander. “Has anything been said to him? Has he been blamed?” and frowned at his agent’s lifted eyebrows. “If there is any show of feeling, you can tell the offenders I’ll deal with them myself. I’m not dead or likely to be, and I’ll have no more ill-will grow out of this affair, so please let that be generally understood!”
“He has the belt, of course?” he added suddenly, and stared coldly as Callander shrugged his shoulders, and Gaskarth, red to the roots of his hair, glared at the carpet. “No? I’ll have something to say to the committee about this! If it was forgotten on the night, it should have been sent to him later. He won it, of course. Our match was merely an exhibition. You must have known what my wishes would be; you should have seen they were carried out. Where is the belt, by the way?”
“Here, I believe,” Callander answered gruffly, opening a cupboard and showing the prize within. The eternal Lyndesay revulsion had left him staggered, as usual. This was not by any means the doubting boy he had so casually despised. “Some of the committee turned up with it, next day. Might have been a snake by the way they handled it! They wouldn’t hear of anything being done until you could deal with the matter yourself.”
“The apology is undoubtedly owed to you.” Christian addressed the wrestler, standing up, but when he would have handed him the belt, Harker shook his head again as he had shaken it before.