CHAPTER XXVII — THE DUEL
“The sun begins to gild the western sky,
And now it is about the very hour.
They will not fail,
Unless it be to come before their time;
So much they spur their expedition.”
—Shakspeare.
“Now go thy way: faintness constraineth me
To measure out my length on this cold bed.”
—Shakspeare.
“And me they bore.....
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due
To languid limbs and sickness.”
—Tennyson's Princess.
I DID not return to the cottage until the usual hour for going to bed, as I did not dare subject myself to Fanny's penetrating glance in my present state of excitement. The moment family prayers were concluded I took my candle, and, pleading fatigue, retired to my room. Knowing that sleep was out of the question in my then frame of mind, I merely substituted the clothes I intended to wear in the morning for those I had on, and, wrapping my dressing-gown round me, flung myself on the bed. Here I lay, tossing about, and unable to compose myself for an hour or two, the one idea constantly recurring to me, “What if Coleman should fail!” At length, feverish and excited, I sprang up, and throwing open the window which was near the ground, enjoyed the fresh breeze as it played around my heated temples. It was a lovely night; the stars, those calm eyes of heaven, gazed down in their brightness on this world of sin and sorrow, seeming to reproach the stormy passions and restless strife of men by contrast with their own impassive grandeur. After remaining motionless for several minutes, I was about to close the window when the sound of a footstep on the turf beneath caught my ear, and a form, which I recognised in the moonlight as that of Archer, approached.
“Up and dressed already, Fairlegh?” he commenced in a low tone as he perceived me; “may I come in?”
In silence I held out my hand to him, and assisted him to enter.
“Like me,” he resumed, “I suppose, you could not sleep.”
“Utterly impossible,” replied I; “but what brings you here—has anything occurred?”
“Nothing,” returned Archer; “Oaklands retired early, as he said he wished to be alone, and I followed his example, but could not contrive to sleep. I don't know how it is, I was engaged in an affair of this nature once before, and never cared a pin about the matter; but somehow I have got what they call a presentiment that harm will come of to-morrow's business. I saw that man, Wilford, for a minute yesterday, and I know by the expression of his eye that he means mischief; there was such a look of fiendish triumph in his face when he found the challenge was accepted—if ever there was a devil incarnate, he is one.”
A sigh was my only answer, for his words were but the echo of my forebodings.
“Now I will tell you what brought me here,” he continued; “don't you think that we ought to have a surgeon on the ground, in case of anything going wrong?”
“To be sure,” replied I; “I must have been mad to have forgotten that it was necessary—what can be done?—it is not every man that would choose to be mixed up with such an affair. Where is it that William Ellis's brother (Ellis of Trinity Hall, you know) has settled?—he told me he had purchased a practice somewhere in our neighbourhood.”
“The very man, if we could but get him,” replied Archer; “the name of the village is Harley End; do you know such a place?”
“Yes,” returned I, “I know it well; it is a favourite meet of the hounds, about twelve miles hence. I'll find him, and bring him here—what time is it? just two—if I could get a horse I would do it easily.”
“My tilbury and horse are up at the village,” said Archer; “now Harry's horses are at home, they could not take mine in at the hall.”
“The very thing,” said I, “we shall not lose a moment in that case. Is your horse fast? I shall have to try his mettle.”
“He'll not fail you,” was the reply, “but don't spare him—I would rather you should ruin fifty horses than arrive too late.”
On reaching the inn we had to rouse a drowsy hostler in order to procure the key of the stables, and it was half-past two before I was able, to start.
The road to Harley End was somewhat intricate, more than once I took a wrong turning, and was forced to retrace my steps; being aware also of the distance I had to perform, I did not dare to hurry the horse too much, so that it only wanted a quarter to four when I reached my destination. Here, however, fortune favoured me. Mr. Ellis, it appeared, being an ardent disciple of Isaac Walton, had resolved to rise at day-break in order to beguile sundry trout, and, at the entrance of the village, I met him strolling along, rod in hand. Two minutes sufficed to make him acquainted with the object of my mission, and in less than five minutes more (a space of time which I employed in washing out the horse's mouth at an opportune horse-trough, with which I took the liberty of making free) he had provided himself with a case of instruments and other necessary horrors, all of which he described to me seriatim, as we returned, with an affectionate minuteness for which I could have strangled him.
We started at a rattling pace on our homeward drive, hedgerow and fence gliding by us like slides in a magic lantern. Archer's horse did not belie the character he had given of him. With head erect, and expanded nostril, he threw his legs forward in a long slashing trot, whirling the light tilbury along at the rate of at least eleven miles an hour; and fortunate it was that he did not flinch from his work, for we had between thirteen and fourteen miles to perform in an hour and ten minutes in order to reach the appointed spot by five o'clock. In our way we had to pass within a quarter of a mile of Heathfield Hall; all seemed quiet as we did so, and I heard the old clock over the stables strike a quarter to five.
“We shall be in capital time,” said I, drawing a long breath, as I felt relieved from an anxious dread of being too late. “It was a near thing though, and if I had not met you as I did, we should scarcely have done it.”
“Famous horse,” replied Ellis; “but you've rather over-driven him the last two or three miles; if I were Archer, I should have a little blood taken from him—nothing like venesection; it's safe practice in such cases as the present. You've a remarkably clear head, Fairlegh, I know; now I'll just explain to you the common sense of the thing: the increased action of the heart forces the blood so rapidly through the lungs, that proper time is not allowed for oxygenisation——”
“We shall be in sight of the place when we have advanced another hundred yards,” interrupted I, as we turned down a green lane.
“Shall we?” replied my companion, standing up in the gig, and shading his eyes with his hand. “Yes, I see them, they're on the ground already, and, by Jove, they are placing their men; they must have altered the time, for it wants full ten minutes of five now.”
“If they have,” replied I, lashing the horse into a gallop, as I remembered that this unhappy change would probably frustrate Coleman's scheme, “if they have, all is lost.”
My companion gazed upon me with a look of surprise, but had no time to ask for an explanation, for at that moment we reached the gate leading into the field, around which was collected a group, consisting of a gig and a dog-cart (which had conveyed the respective parties, and a servant attendant upon each, to the ground), and two or three labouring men, whom the unusual occurrence had caused to leave their work, and who were eagerly watching the proceedings—whilst, just inside the gate, a boy, whom I recognised as Wilford's tiger, was leading about a couple of saddle-horses, one of them being the magnificent black thorough-bred mare, of which mention has been already made.
Pulling up the horse with a jerk which threw him on his haunches, I sprang out, and, placing my hand on the top rail of the gate, leaped over it, gaining, as I did so, a full view of the antagonist parties, who were stationed at about two hundred yards from the spot where I alighted. Scarcely, however, had I taken a step or two towards the scene of action when one of the seconds, Wentworth, I believe, dropped a white handkerchief, and immediately the sharp report of a pistol rang in my ear, followed instantaneously by a second. From the first moment I caught sight of them my eyes had become riveted by a species of fascination, which rendered it impossible to withdraw them, upon Oaklands. As the handkerchief dropped I beheld him raise his arm, and discharge his pistol in the air, at the same moment he gave a violent start, pressed his hand to his side, staggered blindly forward a pace or two, then fell heavily to the ground (rolling partially over as he did so), where he lay perfectly motionless, and to all appearance dead.
On finding all my worst forebodings thus apparently realised, I stood for a moment horror-stricken by the fearful sight I had witnessed. I was first roused to a sense of the necessity for action by Ellis, the surgeon, who shouted as he ran past me:—
“Come on, for God's sake, though I believe he's a dead man!”'
In another moment I was kneeling on the turf, assisting Archer (who trembled so violently that he could scarcely retain his grasp) to raise and support Oaklands' head.
“Leave him to me,” said I; “I can hold him without assistance; you will be of more use helping Ellis.”
“Oh! he's dead—I tell you he is dead!” exclaimed Archer in a tone of the most bitter anguish.
“He is no such thing, sir,” returned Ellis angrily; “hand me that lint, and don't make such a fuss; you're as bad as a woman.”
Though slightly reassured by Ellis's speech, I confess that, as I looked upon the motionless form I was supporting, I felt half inclined to fear Archer might be correct in his supposition. Oaklands' head, as it rested against me, seemed to lie a perfectly dead weight upon my shoulder; the eyes were closed, the lips, partly separated, were rapidly assuming a blue, livid tint, whilst from a small circular orifice on the left side of the chest the life-blood was gushing with fearful rapidity.
“Open that case of instruments, and take out the tenaculum. No, no! not that; here, give them to me, sir; the man will bleed to death while you are fumbling,” continued Ellis, snatching his instruments from the trembling hands of Archer. “You are only in the way where you are,” he added; “fetch some cold water, and sprinkle his face; it will help to revive him.”
At this moment Wilford joined the group which was beginning to form round us. He was dressed as usual in a closely-fitting suit of black, the single-breasted frockcoat buttoned up to the neck, so as not to show a single speck of white which might serve to direct his antagonist's aim. He approached with his wonted air of haughty indifference, coolly fastening the button of his glove. On perceiving me he slightly raised his hat, saying:—
“You are resolved to see this matter to its conclusion, then, Mr. Fairlegh; no one can be better aware than you are how completely your friend brought his fate upon himself”.
He paused as if for an answer; but, as I remained silent, not being able to trust myself to speak, he added, gazing sternly at the prostrate form before him—“Thus perish all who dare to cross my path!” Then casting a withering glance around, as he marked the indignant looks of the by-standers, he turned on his heel and stalked slowly away.
“He'd best quicken his pace,” observed one of the countrymen who had joined the group, “for there's them a coming as may stop his getting away quite so easy.”
As he spoke the gate of the field was thrown open, and a couple of men on horseback rode hastily in. Wilford, however, as soon as he perceived their approach, made a sign to the boy to bring his horse, and, springing lightly into the saddle, waited quietly till they came near enough for him to recognise their faces, when, raising his voice, he said in a tone of the most cutting sarcasm:—
“As I expected, I perceive it is to Mr. Cumberland's disinterested attachment that I am indebted for this kind attempt to provide for my safety; it so happens you are a quarter of an hour too late, sir. I have the honour to wish you good-morning.”
Thus saying, he turned his horse's head, and cantered across the field. The man he had addressed, and in whom, though he was considerably altered, I recognised the well-remembered features of Richard Cumberland, paused, as if in doubt what to do; not so his companion, however, who, shouting, “Come on, sir, we may nab him yet,” drove the spurs into the stout roadster he bestrode and galloped furiously after him, an example which Cumberland, after a moment's hesitation, hastened to follow, though at a more moderate rate. Wilford suffered the foremost rider to come nearly up to him, and then, quickening his pace, led him round the two sides of the field; but perceiving the gate was closed, and that men had stationed themselves in front of it to prevent his egress, he doubled upon his pursuers, and, putting the mare for the first time to her full speed, galloped towards the opposite side of the field, which was enclosed by a strong fence, consisting of a bank with oak palings on the top and a wide ditch beyond. Slackening his pace as he approached this obstacle, he held his horse cleverly together, and, without a moment's hesitation, rode at it. The beautiful animal, gathering her legs well under her, faced it boldly, rose to the rail, and, clearing it with the greatest ease, bounded lightly over the ditch, and continued her course on the further side with unabated speed. Apparently determined not to be outdone, his pursuer, whipping and spurring with all his might, charged the fence at the same spot where Wilford had cleared it; the consequence was his horse rushed against the rail, striking his chest with so much violence as to throw himself down, pitching his rider over his head into the ditch beyond, whence he emerged, bespattered with mud, indeed, but otherwise uninjured. As he reappeared his companion rode up to him, and, after conversing with him earnestly for a minute or so, turned and left the field, without exchanging a word with any other person.
During this transaction, which did not occupy one-fourth of the time it has taken us to describe, Ellis had in a great measure succeeded in staunching the flow of blood, and a slight shade of colour became again visible in Oaklands' cheek.
“He will bear moving now,” said Ellis quickly, “but you must find something to lay him upon; take that gate off its hinges, some of you fellows—that will answer the purpose capitally. Come, bestir yourselves; every moment is of importance.”
Thus urged, five or six sturdy labourers, who had been standing round, gazing with countenances of rude but sincere commiseration on the wounded man (for Harry's kind-heartedness and liberality made him very popular amongst the tenantry), started off, and returned in an incredibly short space of time with the gate; upon this were spread our coats and waistcoats, so as to form a tolerably convenient couch, upon which, under Ellis's direction, we lifted with the greatest caution the still insensible form of Harry Oaklands.
“Now,” exclaimed Ellis, “raise him very slowly on your shoulders, and take care to step together, so as not to jolt him;—if the bleeding should break out again, the whole College of Surgeons could not save him. Where's the nearest house he can be taken to? He'll never last out till we reach the Hall.”
“Take him to our cottage,” said I eagerly; “it is more than half a mile nearer than the Hall.”
“But your mother and sister?” asked Archer.
“Of course it will be a great shock to them,” replied I; “but I know them both well enough to feel sure they would not hesitate a moment when Harry's life was in the balance. Do you want me for anything, or shall I go on and prepare them for your arrival?”
“Do so, by all means,” replied Ellis; “but stay—have you a bedroom on the ground-floor?”
“Yes,” returned I, “my own.”
“Get the bed-clothes open,” continued Ellis, “so that we can put him in at once; it will save me half an hour's time afterwards, and is a thing which should always be thought of on these occasions.”
“Anything else?” inquired I.
“Yes, send somebody for the nearest surgeon; two heads are better than one,” said Ellis.
Remembering, as I approached the cottage, that the window of my room by which Archer and I had quitted it the previous night would be unfastened, I determined I would enter there, and, proceeding to my mother's door, call her up, and break the news as gently as the exigency of the case would permit, leaving her to act by Fanny as she should think best. Accordingly, I flung up the window, sprang in, and, throwing myself on the nearest chair, sat for a moment, panting from the speed at which I had come. As I did so, a timid knock was heard at the door. I instinctively cried, “Come in!” and Fanny entered.
“I have been so anxious all night about what you told me yesterday, that I could not sleep, so I thought I would come to see if you were up,” she commenced; then, for the first time remarking my breathless condition and disordered dress, she exclaimed, “Good Heavens! are you ill? you pant for breath, and your hands and the sleeves of your coat are saturated with water—with—oh! it is blood; you are wounded!” she cried, sinking in a chair, and turning as pale as ashes.
“Indeed, darling, you are alarming yourself unnecessarily; I am perfectly uninjured,” replied I soothingly.
“Something dreadful has happened!” she continued, fixing her eyes upon me; “I read it in your face.”
“An accident has occurred,” I began; “Oaklands——”
“Stop!” she exclaimed, interrupting me, “the two shots I heard but now—his agitation—his strange manner yesterday—oh! I see it all; he has been fighting a duel.” She paused, pressed her hands upon her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful vision, and then asked, in a low, broken voice, “Is he killed?”
“No,” replied I, “on my word, on my honour, I assure you he is not; the bleeding had ceased when I left him, which is a very favourable symptom.”
Fanny sighed heavily, as if relieved from some unbearable weight, and, after remaining silent for about a minute, she removed her hands from her face, and said, in a calm tone of voice:—
“And now, what is to be done? can I be of any use?”
Astonished at the rapidity with which she had regained her self-control and presence of mind after the violent emotion she had so recently displayed, I replied:—
“Yes, love, you can, the Hall is too far off, and they are bringing him here”.
As I spoke these words she shuddered slightly, but seeing I was doubtful whether to proceed, she said, “Go on, pray”.
“Would you,” I continued, “break this to my mother, and tell her I believe—that is, I trust—there is no great danger—and—and—do that first.”
With a sad shake of the head, as if she mistrusted my attempt to reassure her, she quitted the room, whilst I obeyed Ellis's instructions by preparing the bed; after which I unclosed the hall-door, and, despatching the gardener's boy to fetch the surgeon, stood anxiously awaiting the arrival of the party. I had not done so many minutes when the measured tramp of feet gave notice of their approach, and in another instant they came in sight.