LIONEL GRANBY.
CHAP. VII.
| He was too good for war, and ought to be As far from danger, as from fear he's free.—Cowley. |
"You are an accomplished Lovelace, Lionel!" said one of a merry throng, collected around a wine table. "Poor Miss Ellen Pilton is now fondly trusting to your mellow song of flattery and promise. Here's to her health! and to that of every pretty woman with a silly heart, and a credulous ear."
"'Tis pledged," cried I, forgetting every feeling of honor in the incense offered to my vanity, "and may each of you be equally successful."
The words were scarcely uttered by me, nor had the glass touched my lips, ere I received a violent blow in the face, which sent me reeling to the extremity of the room. Rising with shame from my debasing posture, I encountered the eye of Pilton, fixed on me with a firm, cool, and deliberate gaze, and in an instant, my dirk was pointed to his heart. I looked in his face with a stern, malignant, and merciless triumph, yet his color neither blanched—nor did his countenance quail. "Let him alone!" cried twenty voices, "he is unarmed, give him fair play;" and I thank God, that in the tempest of my rage I was sufficiently alive to this appeal to my manhood, suddenly to throw the vulgar weapon away.
"Base coward!" cried I, "I will not assassinate you—but remember that your blood alone, can cleanse this foul and dastardly assault."
"You have insulted my sister," he replied, "and I have punished your falsehood. I fear neither your attempt at assassination—nor the resentment of that baseness which can trample on unprotected innocence. Remember, Mr. Granby, that the blow which you received was from a brother's hand! and if you be a gentleman, your infamy will be deepened by the seething recollections of your own conscience."
"You have done wrong Lionel!" said many voices, "tell him, that you did not see him enter the room when the toast was offered, or you would not have wounded his feelings."
"Who dictates to me?" said I,—"who measures my honor? who controls my revenge? for whoever dare treat me with such impertinent freedom, I will hold as an enemy, whom I will pursue to the grave. As for you, Mr. Pilton—you will understand——to-morrow."
My couch that night was one of utter wretchedness, and my revenge was lashed into bitterness, by the whip of sleepless conscience. That I should in a moment of folly have committed an act disgraceful to a gentleman—that I should, under the excitement of puerile vanity, have offered myself to the just resentment of my enemy—that I should thus foolishly lose the "vantage ground," which I had long and anxiously sought—that I should be stung and tortured by a consciousness of impropriety—and that I should bear on my proud cheek, the scorching blush of a public insult, were feelings which conspired to humble and cheapen me to the lowest point of mental and personal degradation.
Where duelling is a passion—and where public opinion calls it chivalry, it is easy to procure a second, and I was saved the trouble of seeking one by the voluntary offer of the young man who had given the offensive toast to my vanity. Early on the next morning, the warlike missive, graced with the usual courtesies, was sent to Pilton, and in a short time I received the following answer—a brief, though comprehensive commentary on the truisms and philosophy of cowardice.
Sir—I cannot—I will not fight a duel. I owe duties to my country, my God, and my family, dependent on a life which none but a fool would idly risk. I am not sufficiently base to murder you—nor am I silly enough to offer my life to your malignant revenge. I have no right to kill you—therefore, I shall not attempt it. I chastised you, as I shall do every man, who acts in a similar manner, for an insult to the reputation of a sister. Sustained by an approving conscience—and a mind honestly alive to a sense of its own dignity, I am prepared to defend myself from every attack of brutality and malice.
Your ob't servant,
EDMUND PILTON.
Lionel Granby, Esq.
"Why did you suffer Pilton to refuse the challenge? Was it not delivered in proper form? and did you not assure him that there was no alternative?"
"It was with difficulty," replied my second, "that I could induce him to receive your note, and when he informed me of his refusal to fight, I called him a coward, and threw a glass of water into his face. Provoked to some spirit by the grossness of my insult, he struck me with a cane; I aimed a pistol at his bosom which unfortunately flashed; and he terminated my visit, by caning and kicking me down stairs. I am more deeply insulted than you are. What shall I do? How shall I act to obtain satisfaction?"
My second's reception added more gall to my wounded pride, and I resolved to coerce Pilton into a fight, by attacking him, whenever we should meet. I crushed his letter with my heel, and, throwing it into the fire, I watched it twisting and crackling amid the blaze. Ere it had wasted itself into ashes, Arthur Ludwell, almost breathless, entered my room.
"I feel deeply, dear Lionel," said he taking my hand, "for your situation, and regret that you have not sent for me, and demanded my assistance. I have waited on Pilton, who declares that he will make an apology for his blow, if you will say that you were ignorant of his presence in the room, when the toast was pledged. All who have heard of the affray know very well, that this was the fact; for you would not wantonly wound that exquisite sensibility which a brother alone can feel. It would be honorable on your part to express the truth, and it is magnanimous in Pilton to offer his reconciliation."
"And am I then so degraded, so contemptible, and so humble, that you can thus cruelly taunt me, and, with the harlotry of insidious friendship, counsel me to vilify my name, and commit a debasing suicide on my own character? Must I make an apology to a brute—one who is a disgrace to manhood's spirit—and who has rotted into life, on the dunghill of selfishness? Must I succumb to him, whom I have hated with long, unbroken, and relentless abhorrence? Must I be deaf to that fearful curse with which his malice blighted the freshness of my boyhood—which burnt on the tablet of memory, and graven in letters of blood, now agonizes my brain, and swells through my heart? Must I be recreant to my name, and family—forget that blow which will ever tingle on my cheek, and basely creep through life a reptile coward? Take back your treacherous friendship, if this be its infamy, and remember, Mr. Ludwell, that in one moment you have crushed every feeling of affection, and on its ruins, have arisen an eternal contempt for your duplicity, and a damning scorn for your character."
"Hear me, dear Lionel!" said he, bursting into tears, "and forgive that advice which sprung from a heart tenderly alive to every thing connected with your interest. Control your rage, and listen to the voice of that friend who will sacrifice life, and surrender every thing he has on earth, for your reputation. Pardon the intrusion of my counsel, and I will forgive your suspicions. Come, give me your hand, and let me not believe that you have a bad heart."
"What right sir! have you to allude to my heart, whatever it may be?—no imputation shall be cast on it, by a weeping coward. I shall hold you answerable," said I quitting the room—"for the baseness of your insinuation, and I can assure you that an ocean of hypocritical tears will not protect you."
So soon as I could procure a pen, I addressed a cruel and fiend-like letter to Arthur, demanding an humble apology—and an explicit disavowal of his insult, and in the event of his refusal, my second was authorised to make a speedy arrangement. "Let him not (concluded my letter) see your womanly accomplishments, for he is prepared to scorn the weakness, and loathe the duplicity of your tears."
The same second whom Pilton's attack had maddened into a demoniac rage for blood, bore my challenge to Arthur; and when he returned, I saw his eye kindled into animation at the hope of a certain fight. "Here is a letter for you! Ludwell is true game. You cannot retract your challenge, and he will be forced to meet you! I will clean the pistols, while you write family letters and starve; for the odds are against you, if you dine or eat any thing." While he busied himself in searching for the pistols, I opened and read with feelings of stern contempt, the letter of Arthur.
My dear Lionel,—Take back your challenge, and do not force me to meet you in combat. I cannot refuse it, for I have not firmness of mind to do an act which my reason suggests, and my heart approves. I am afraid of that public opinion which would execrate me as a coward, and trample me into infamy, ere I had stept into manhood. In spite of your unkind letter, I still love you with the candor and truth of a boy's heart, and I think now more deeply of the innocent hours of our early days, when friendship united us, and sincerity hallowed the union. You know that I cannot make an apology under a threat. Retract it, and I will humble myself, if by such means I can regain your wonted affection.
Your friend,
ARTHUR LUDWELL.
"Return!" said I to my second, "and inform Mr. Ludwell that if he do not consent to fight, I will proclaim him as a coward, and publish his whining letter to the world. He, with every other man who dare sustain Pilton, is my enemy."
We met! 'Twas a mild and peaceful evening when we approached the field, and the setting sun was rejoicing like a bridegroom in the blushing embrace of the trembling horizon. Its quivering rays were reflected in shadowy lines, through the foliage of the forest, while the scarlet fruit of two old holly trees—the mute records of many a duel—lent the only cheering aspect to the frightful solitude of the scene. Our seconds having retired a short distance, for the purpose of arranging the usual ceremonies, we were left standing near each other. I was proud and inflexible, yet I felt my heart throbbing with anguish, and long-prized friendship, and when I looked on his serene and dignified countenance, the jeweled days of our childhood flashed before me—when I was untainted by revenge—and uncursed by hatred,—when I was lifted above the darkness of human passion—when hope illuminated the airy future, and pleasure grasped the unalloyed fruition of reality. I thought not of my own death—of that dreamless and sodden sleep, from whose ghastly phantasm wisdom sinks into horror—of that dark insensibility to warm and mantling life—to light, hope, and love—a shadowless, impenetrable and boundless desart. Could I destroy the life of him, who with tireless truth had ever joyed in my joys—and sorrowed in my sorrows? Could I crush and scatter into nothingness, the full harvest which his ambition had garnered—the gems of mind—the sparkling thoughts of genius—the rich treasures of learning—and bankrupt the accumulated spoils of wisdom? Could I seize from the fœtid riot of the grave the animated countenance, the brave, generous and affectionate heart, or call back from the eternal prison of death, the gifted mind, and the eloquent brow? I reasoned with a memory which could not be recreant, and of the result of that duel my heart is guiltless?
Our seconds, having finished their conversation, now approached, and placed the pistols in our hands, Arthur holding his in a perpendicular position, and mine according to the latest improvement, and the repeated suggestions of my second, being directed to the earth.
"I cannot consent to fire?" said I, "while Mr. Ludwell stands directly in the line of that tree, it gives me a great advantage!"
"It makes no difference, Lionel!—Mr. Granby," said Arthur, suddenly correcting himself, "I care not in what posture, or situation I stand." His second now advanced and placed him in a position, the advantage of which did not escape the keen eye of my friend, who turned me around twice, before he confessed himself satisfied with my attitude. The word "fire" was now given, and almost at the same moment our pistols were discharged, Arthur having fired his into the air, while I in raising mine, had involuntarily aimed it directly at my antagonist. The ball struck him I know not where, but I saw him reel backwards, stagger, and laying hold of a bush near him, stumble, and fall to the earth.
"I demand another fire," said his friend, "he is able to stand, and I claim the privilege." "Mr. Ludwell cannot fire again," replied my second, "for he has thrown away his shot."
"I resign my right," interrupted Arthur! "and Lionel, I forgive you. If I recover, I will forget all—and dying, you have my unalloyed friendship. Leave this frightful place as soon as possible, for you may be arrested; and do not fear, for I shall yet recover, and we will be friends again." These words were uttered by him in a faint, though distinct voice; his features were nerved with his usual lofty dignity of countenance, yet his eye quivered with a flitting light, and a dark and unearthly color fell, like a wintry cloud, over the radiance of his brow. I could not so far divest myself of pride, as to confess in presence of our seconds that my fire had been accidental, nor could I, even at that trying moment, reconcile it to myself to be an exception to that general rule, which requires that a challenger shall never throw away his fire. Motioning to our friends to retire, I approached Arthur, and leaning over him, I whispered the simple truth. A momentary smile flashed over his pallid countenance, and grasping my hand in an ecstacy of delight, he said, "I knew it! I believe you! I was confident that you did not fire intentionally!" He was here interrupted by my second who exclaimed "the civil authorities!" I looked round, and through the dim twilight, I saw a crowd of ill-dressed people rapidly approaching us. I knelt down, and asking forgiveness once more from my injured friend, fled with the burning brand of Cain on my forehead—an humbled and heart-broken man!