XVIII. — TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.
General Davenant leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in his hand, and said in a deep, measured voice:—
“My story need not be a long one, colonel. Those who relate gay adventures and joyous experiences, indulge in endless details—memory is charming to them at such moments—they go back to the past, with a smile on the lips, recalling every little detail, every color of the bright picture.
“My own narrative will be brief, because it is a gloomy one. It is far from pleasant to return to the scenes I propose to describe. I only do so to erase a stigma which seems to attach to my family and myself; to show you that, in spite of Judge Conway, I deserve your good opinion. Assuredly I do not propose any pleasure to myself in relating these events. Alas! one of the bitterest things to a proud man—and I am proud—is to even seem to defend his good name from imputed dishonor!”
Knitting his brows as he spoke, the old soldier looked gloomily into the blaze before us. In a moment, he went on:—
“I was born in the county of Dinwiddie, colonel, where my family had lived from the time of the first settlement of Virginia. My father was a large landholder, and his most intimate friend was Mr. Conway, the father of the present judge. The family friendship was inherited by the young people of the two families—and my two most intimate friends were George and William Conway. One is dead, the other is Judge William Conway, member of Congress. We had played together as children, been companions at school. When our fathers died, and we in turn became the representatives of the two families, our friendship became even more close. I was half my time at ‘Five Forks’—they paid long visits to me at ‘The Pines’—we hunted together, went to entertainments together, drank wine together, and were inseparable.
“George was especially my favorite. He was the soul of amiability; everybody loved him; and I entertained for him the most tender friendship. His brother William was equally estimable, but did not attract you as strongly. Although a person of the highest sense of honor, and universally respected for talents of the first order, he was irascible, bitter, and, when once aroused, allowed nothing to restrain him. At such moments his best friends avoided him, for he was dangerous. He brooked no opposition. His anger was like a consuming fire; and a friendship which he had formed with that gentleman of splendid powers, but venomous antipathies, John Randolph of Roanoke, served still more to encourage him in the indulgence of the natural acerbity of his disposition. More than once, I have seen him almost foam at the mouth as he denounced some political adversary from the stump, and when one of these fits of passion seized him, he became as ungovernable as a wild animal. You can scarcely realize that, now. Sorrow has chastened him; trouble has softened him; I have nothing to say against the Judge William Conway of to-day. He is a self-sacrificing patriot, a gentleman of irreproachable courtesy, and sweetness of character; but, as a young man, he was a firebrand, and I think the fire is still unquenched beneath the gray hairs of the man of seventy.
“Such were George and William Conway, when I knew them as young men—the one mild, amiable, the soul of kindness and good-nature; the other proud, honorable, but subject to fits of stormy passion, which made all avoid him when the paroxysm was upon him.
“From this hasty description, you will understand why George was a greater favorite with me than his brother. Our friendship was, indeed, as close and tender as possible, and we passed our majority and approached the age of twenty-five, without ever having had a moment’s interruption of our intimacy.
“Then, all at once, there appeared upon the stage, that cause of so much happiness, woe, joy, grief, to mankind—a woman. To make a long story short, George Conway and myself were so unfortunate as to become attached to the same young lady, and very soon this sentiment amounted, both on his part and on my own, to a wild and consuming passion. The young lady—it is unnecessary to mention her name—was a person of rare beauty, and mistress of all the wiles which bring young men to the feet of women. She used these unsparingly, too, for nothing delighted her so much as to attract admiration and inspire love. Perceiving the effect which her grace and loveliness had produced upon myself and George, she made every exertion to increase our infatuation—encouraged first one, then the other; and, in the end, succeeded in breaking those close ties of friendship which had bound us from the time when we had played together as children.
“That is a sad confession, colonel, but it is the truth. The bright eyes and smiles of a girl had terminated a life-long friendship. The mere love of admiration in the heart of a young girl had interrupted the affection of years—making George and myself cold and distrait toward each other. Soon things became still worse. From friends we had become mere acquaintances—from acquaintances we became strangers, and finally foes. Busy-bodies whispered, tale-bearers blew the flames. If the young lady smiled on me at a party where George was present, the good people around us looked at him with satirical meaning. If she smiled on George, their eyes were turned toward me, and they giggled and whispered.
“That is all tedious—is it not? An old story, which every country neighborhood knows. You laugh, perhaps, at hearing it told of A and B,—but you do not laugh when you are one of the actors. Well, not to lengthen my history unduly, an open rivalry and enmity at last arose between myself and poor George. We had been spurred on to hate each other, and narrowly escaped having an ‘affair’ together—appealing to the pistol as the arbiter.
“It never came to that, however. I saw, ere long, that the young lady had made up her mind. George was in every way a more attractive and lovable person than myself; and after drawing me on, encouraging me, and inducing me to offer her my hand, she turned her back on me, and married George!
“Such was the result of the campaign. George had won,—and I am obliged to say that I hated him cordially. I should never have done so, from the simple fact of his success. I am not so ignoble as that, my dear colonel. Bitter as was my disappointment, I could have bowed to the fiat—pardoned the young lady—and offered my hand to dear George; but there were our ‘friends,’ the busy-bodies and talebearers. They were unresting in their exertions—took the whole affair under their personal supervision, and invented a hundred fables to sting and arouse me. You would have said that they were bloody minded—the busy-bodies—and bent on trouble; that their aim was to profoundly enrage me, and cause bloodshed. George had laughed at me, they said; never had had a moment’s doubt of the young lady’s sentiments; had often jested about me, and expressed his pity for my ‘silly presumption;’ had even amused himself and the young lady, by mimicking my peculiarities, and raising a laugh at my expense.
“These reports were persistently and regularly repeated for my information: I was baited, and worried, and driven nearly mad by them—finally a duel nearly resulted; but that last step was not taken. I simply made my bow to the happy pair, left them without a word, and returned home, determined to drop the whole matter—but none the less enraged and embittered.
“From that moment George and myself rarely met, and never as friends. I had been brought to hate him—he knew the fact—and although he was innocent of all wrong to me, as I know to-day, made no effort to win my regard again. He was as proud as myself—he said nothing—and our paths here separated forever.
“Such is the necessary introduction, colonel,” said General Davenant, “to the events which I propose to relate.”