“All that I feel myself at liberty to tell at present,” replied I; “recollect, darling, it is my friend's secret, not my own, or you should hear everything.”
“Then you will tell me all your secrets if I ask you?” inquired Fanny archly.
“Whom should I trust or confide in, if not my own dear little sister?” said I, stroking her golden locks caressingly. “And now,” continued I, rising, “I will go and see whether I can do any good in this affair; but when Master Harry is in one of his impetuous moods he gets quite beyond my management.”
“Oh! but you can influence him,” exclaimed Fanny, her bright eyes sparkling with animation; “you can calm his impetuosity with your own quiet good sense and clear judgment—you can appeal to his high and generous nature—you can tell him how dear he is to you, how you love him with more than a brother's love: you can and will do all this—will you not, dear Frank?”
“Of course I shall do everything that I am able, my dear child,” replied I, somewhat astonished at this sudden outburst; “and now go, and be quiet, this business seems rather to have excited you. If my mother asks for me, tell her I am gone up to the Hall.”
“What warm-hearted creatures women are!” thought I, as I ran, rather than walked, through the park; “that little sister of mine, now—no sooner does she hear that my friend has got into a scrape, of the very nature of which she is ignorant (a pretty fuss she would be in if she were aware that it was a duel, of which I am afraid), than she becomes quite excited, and implores me, as if she were pleading for her life, to use my influence with Harry to prevent his doing—something, she has not the most remote notion what. I wish she did not act quite so much from impulse. It's lucky she has got a brother to take care of her; though it does not become me to find fault with her, for it all proceeds from her affection for me; she knows how wretched I should be if anything were to go wrong with Harry,”—and then I fell into a train of thought as to what it could be which had so suddenly excited him: something connected with Wilford, no doubt; but what?—my fears pointed to a challenge, and my blood ran cold at the thought. He must accept it; neither my influence, were it increased a hundredfold, nor that of any one else, could make him apologise; besides, it is not very easy to imagine a satisfactory apology for horse-whipping a man till he cannot stand. And what course likely to be of any use could I take? On one point I was resolved—nothing should induce me to become his second. What would be my feelings in case of a fatal result were I to reflect that I had made all the arrangements for the murder of the friend I loved best in the world—that I had actually stationed him opposite the never-failing pistol of his most bitter enemy, and placed in his hand a deadly weapon wherewith to attempt the life of a fellow-creature, when the next moment he might be called upon to answer before the Judge of all mankind for the deeds which he had done in the flesh? No! I could not be his second. As my meditations reached this point, I overtook the groom who had brought the eventful note, and who was leisurely proceeding on foot towards the Hall with that peculiar gait observable in men who spend much of their time on horseback, which consists of a compromise between walking and riding, and is strongly suggestive of their inability to realise the fact that they have not at all times and seasons a perpetual horse between their legs.
“Have you seen Mr. Oaklands, Harris?” inquired I, as the man touched his hat respectfully.
“Yes, sir, I may say I've seen him, and that's all,” was the reply. “I brought him a note to the cottage, and was a waiting for orders, when he came tearing out, ordered me to get off, sprang into my saddle, and without stopping for me to let down the stirrups, drove his heels into 'Tom Trot'—that's the new grey horse, sir, if you please—and was out of sight like old boots.”
Not having time to institute an inquiry into the amount of velocity with which the ancient articles referred to by Mr. Harris were accustomed to vanish, I asked if he knew who brought the note.
“A groom in a dark, claret-coloured livery, mounted on a splendid coal-black mare, nearly thorough-bred, but with more bone and substance about her than you generally see in them sort, and as clean on her pins as an unbroke colt. Sir John ain't got such a horse in his stables, nor Mr. Harry neither,” was the reply.