“That will do,” was the dry answer; and MacNaghten took his leave, more than ever puzzled by the Grinder's manner, and wondering within himself in what shape and from what quarter might come the storm, which he convinced himself could not be distant.
Grief for my father's death, and anxiety for my poor mother's fate, were, however, the uppermost thoughts in his mind; and as he drew nigh Castle Carew, his heart was so much overpowered by the change which had fallen upon that once happy home that he totally forgot all the dark hints and menacing intimations of his late interview.
It was truly a gloom-stricken mansion. The servants moved about sadly, conversing in low whispers; save in one quarter, all the windows were closed, and the rooms locked up,—not a voice nor a footstep was to be heard. Mourning and woe were imprinted on every face and in every gesture. MacNaghten knew not where to go, nor where to stay. Every chamber he entered was full of its memories of the past, and he wandered on from room to room, seeking some spot which should not remind him of days whose happiness could never return. In this random search he suddenly entered the chamber where M. de Gabriac lay at full length upon a sofa, enjoying, in all the ease of a loose dressing-gown, the united pleasures of a French novel and a bottle of Bordeaux. MacNaghten would willingly have returned at once. Such a scene and such companionship were not to his taste; but the other quickly detected him, and called out,—
“Ah! M. MacNaghten, how delighted am I to see you again! What days of misery and gloom have I been passing here,—no one to speak to, none to sit with.”
“It is, indeed, a sad mansion,” sighed MacNaghten, heavily.
“So, then, it is all true?” asked the other. “Poor fellow, what a sensitive nature,—how impressible. To die just for a matter of sentiment; for, after all, you know it was a sentiment, nothing else. Every man has had his affairs of this kind,—few go through life without something unpleasant; but one does not die broken-hearted for all that. No, parbleu, that is a very poor philosophy. Tell me about the duel; I am greatly interested to hear the details.”
To escape as far as possible any further moralizings of his companion, Dan related all that he knew of the fatal rencontre, answering, so well as he might, all the Frenchman's questions, and, at the same time, avoiding all reference to the provocation which led to the meeting.
“It was a mistake, a great mistake, to fight in this fashion,” said Gabriac, coldly. “There is an etiquette to be observed in a duel, as in a dinner; and you can no more hurry over one than the other, without suffering for it afterwards. Maybe these are, however, the habits of the country.”
MacNaghten calmly assured him that they were not.
“Then the offence must have been an outrage,—what was it?”