Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 460
“I was half afraid you’d think so,” said Mr. Dacre, “still while a hope was possible I ventured to try; and since my little proposal has fallen through, there only remains the unpleasant alternative. It can all be arranged in a few minutes.”
“I don’t understand you; but if you mean that we should fight, I’ll meet you when and where you like; and the sooner the better,” said Charles Mannering sharply, with gleaming eyes, and a face now pale and contracted.
He had been on the point of striking Dacre with the little walking-stick he clutched tightly in his fingers.
Dacre smiled and nodded slightly.
“No need to wait a moment; your friend, Captain Transom, can speak to mine, who’s here, also; and he’ll find everything that is necessary. This light will answer perfectly.”
“I dare say; I don’t care; as bad for one as the other.”
Incensed, agitated, Charles Mannering strode onward and under the old oaks, over the stile.
“By Jove, I thought you’d never come down from your moonlight and poetry,” said Transom, whose head was sticking out of the window, “the Ticklepitchers won, I suppose you heard, with five wickets to go down. Anything wrong? what’s the matter?” he added, observing the expression of his friend’s face.
“Nothing — just a word — get out for a moment, and walk a bit up here,” answered Charles.
CHAPTER XVI.
ONE — TWO.
“TRANSOM, I’ve got into a scrape — a row with that fellow, and I suppose we must fight,” said Charles, in a low tone, looking very grim and pale.
“What fellow? What the deuce? What’s the row?” inquired Transom, very much astonished.
“That fellow Dacre — I don’t know what he is — I suppose he’s gentleman enough to be shot at, and upon my soul he’s the most impertinent snob, besides, that I could have imagined.”
“But what’s the quarrel, and what do you want, and what are you going to do?” demanded Transom.
“Going to fight, I suppose,” said Charles.
“Well, but that’s quite gone out now, you know, and by Jove they make it a very serious business — you know all about that,” said Captain Transom, uneasily.
“I’m very sorry, Transom, to give you any trouble, but you were always such a good fellow, and I know you wont see your old schoolfellow floored for want of someone to stand by him.”
“No — certainly — of course — but what is— ““Oh, it’s just impertinence — he wants me to consent to things — in fact, to do what I wont do, and to let him bully me.”
“I’d like to settle it, though. Who’s, that fellow coming up the field towards us. — can’t it be arranged, hang it?”
“I think not — I’m sure it can’t — there’s, no way except by my submitting to be bullied by that cur, and, whatever his reason, it must go on.”
“That’s Dacre’s man, I suppose — why I haven’t had time to think — it’s very odd if nothing can be done,” said Captain Transom, “surely there can be nothing to make a shot so inevitable.”
The tall, slim gentleman was approaching, having raised his hat from his head in courteous salutation, and was now only little more than a dozen steps away.
“Yes,” said Mannering, lifting his hat in return— “very likely — and if it is, mind, no compromise. Dacre wants me to make submissions such as no gentleman could dream of. I have nothing whatever to say — if he chooses to recede he may, but otherwise this thing must go on — for I’ll not give way, not an inch.”
The Frenchman, for so he turned out to be, now presented himself with a very grave and ceremonious courtesy to Charles Mannering, and begged, in rather laborious and grotesque English, an introduction to his friend.
There was something in the serene and businesslike manner of this gentleman amounting, in Mannering’s opinion, to evidence of his having been brought down to this place for the express service in which he was now busy — a very cold-blooded procedure — and the sense of this made Charles a little haughty, and even surly.
He presented his friend Captain Transom and walked away some score steps.
Was it a dream? With intense excitement conies a sort of quietude which answers the purposes of coolness quite the reverse of that insensibility which phlegmatic natures exhibit. This is not akin to dullness and relaxation — it is the highest tension to which human nerves can be drawn, and awakes to its keenest perception every sense.
In this state, so unlike the normal life, he turned about and saw the tall, slight figure of the Frenchman, standing close to the stouter figure of his friend Transom. The colloquy did not last five minutes. Charles was walking to and fro with measured tread, like a sentinel. Transom turned and approached him.
Charles Mannering advanced a step or two to meet him. He knew by Transom’s face before he spoke that there was nothing cheerful to report.
“Well, that old French fellow, very gentlemanlike he is, but he says Mr. Dacre can’t withdraw or qualify any one of the conditions he proposes — that he conceives your looking after him, and inquiring, to be a perpetual insult, and that you would use opportunities, were he to permit a continuation of your visits in a certain quarter, for purposes of your own, and with the effect of frustrating his exertions to be of use where he has promised his services.”
“He lies, then,” exclaimed Charles.
“Of course he does — Dacre I mean; and have you perfectly made up your mind, is it really worth having this thing go on?”
“I can’t help it; I wont be bullied by that fellow; it must go on.”
“Well, it’s devilish odd they want to fight now,” said Transom.
“Certainly, I’d much rather now, this, moment; but where can we get pistols? It’s a long way into town,” said Charles.
“They have brought two cases and everything quite fair; I’m to have choice, but the time, the hour, you know, although there’s light, it’s so unusual; there was, to be sure, that duel about two months ago in the Bois de Boulogne; but on that ground we may, of course, put it off till morning. What do you say?”
“Don’t put it off a moment; I hate delay; let us have it at once and have done with it,” said Charles.
“Well, you know, for my part, I agree with you; I’d rather have it now and over, a great deal; have you ever been in a thing of this kind before?”
“Never; but I’ve fired pistols, of course, often.”
“I see, they’re bringing in those things — I must be off in a minute — but never you mind — you’ll be all right if you do as I tell you.”
Charles, looking down the slope saw the tall, slight figure of the Frenchman carrying a flat box in his hand, and followed closely by a man bearing a second like it. Of course he knew very well what these things were.
“I was going to say, I think that fellow Dacre is vicious — you must hit him if you can the first shot. Do you know anything of shooting? you’ll have to fire at the word, you know — ready, fire, and a goodnatured fellow will always say it as quick as he can to prevent mischief.”
“Thanks, I see; no, I know nothing of pistols — nothing since I was a boy shooting at a board.”
“I know; well, I shall have to go in a moment, so listen. I wont set the hair-trigger, if it has one; I’ll give you the pistol at full-cock; when you take it you must keep your arm loose, on no account stiffen it as you raise it, just trace with your eye an imaginary line along the grass between the muzzle of your pistol and your adversary’s body. There, that fellow’s bowing. In a moment, monsieur, I shall do myself the honour to attend you,” he called aloud, and added in the low key in which he had “been speaking, “Let your arm swing slightly in the direction of that line, so that when the word comes you can carry it right up to the level, keep it extended all the time, swing it from the shoulder, you are not to bend it for the world, you understand; now I must go.”
Down the slope he went, apologizing to monsieur as he approached. Charles Mannering continued his march backward and forward and saw them, not thirty yards away, arranging what are called the preliminaries, dividing the weapons, and then proceeding to load them.
Charles Mannering was no coward, but the minutes so passed were anything but comfortable. “However long the time may seem,” he thought, “ten minutes, in reality, must see this sickening business over and all settled, one way or other,” and this thought constantly recurring helped him through the interval.
And now the adversaries were placed. It was to be a duel after the English fashion. The two men, each stationary in his place, to fire together— “one, two,” the word being two.
Charles saw the French gentleman place his pistol in Dacre’s hand, and add a confidential word or two, with ‘extended palms and a little shrug.
“Now, think nothing about him but that you’re sure to hit him,” said Transom, quite steady, but looking pale and excited, “and mind, old fellow, don’t touch the trigger a moment too soon, and measure a line from your foot to his, and keep your arm straight, and swinging from the shoulder, mind, and when all’s ready look hard and Steady at your man till you can see nothing else. You’ll wing him the first shot; and I’ll bet you what you like he doesn’t go near you.”
With these encouraging words he withdrew. The cold intense moonlight showed him the slender figure of Dacre as sharply defined as if it had been in daylight, and struck brightly on the barrel of the pistol.
Transom, it had been agreed, was to give the word. “Gentlemen,” said he, addressing them from his safe point of observation, “you don’t move until I’ve done speaking; when all’s ready I shall say, ‘One, two,’ and at the word two, you fire; and now, gentlemen, if you are not ready, say so.”
They were both silent, and perfectly motionless.
“One, two,” cried Transom.
Instantaneously a sharp report followed, and the thin film of smoke blew across the air between the combatants. Charles Mannering staggered a short step or two backward, and fell to the ground.
In a moment Captain Transom had run up, and was kneeling at his side. It was a comfort to see that Charles was still living.
“Not much, I hope; how is it?”
“Hit somewhere — I don’t know — will you try to get me out of this like a good fellow?” — said Mannering, speaking very low, and with difficulty.
“Hurt, not badly, I hope?” — said Dacre, now standing close by Transom.
The French gentleman was already at the other side, and stooping over the patient — looked by no means so much put out as the other gentlemen.
Transom liked Charles Mannering very well; Charles was a very good fellow; he would take some trouble for Charles, and even ran a risk, as he had just now shown. But he had no aptitudes for nursetending — and so rigidly does every man refer things to himself, and measure them by their relations to that interesting person that Captain Transom — although half a minute had hardly passed — was already discussing with himself the best way of getting rid of so intolerable a bore without being positively ill-natured.
CHAPTER XVII.
DRIVE TO TOWN.
AN unexpected fourth person was added at this moment to the group.
“Canny, now, lads — canny, now,” cried a harsh voice, with a broad, Scottish intonation; and Mr. Gillespie, who had bee» nearer than they supposed, came up to the little group; looking grim and dismayed,- and a good deal blown from his run down a bit of the hill.
“Hallo! what the deil’s all this — who’s’ hurt? Mister Mannering, by the law! Guide us! who’s been settin’ ye by the lugs, ye pair of fuies!” He resumed.
Alfred Dacre, still unconsciously holding his smoking pistol in his hand, was looking with a frown of pain into the face of Charles Mannering. There were a great many unpleasant feelings mingled in his suspense. He knew that of men hit in duels, hardly one in twenty lost his life; and he was willing to back the chances, and stand the hazard of the die. It would be too bad if the one throw he dreaded should turn up.
“Are ye deleerit, mon?” exclaimed the Scot, very much out of breath, with a very black look in the face of Mr. Dacre— “I thocht ye’d hae keepit your word, sir.”
“I thought ye’d hae keepit your place, sir,” retorted Dacre, with a bitter imitation of his broad Scotch, and so dangerous a glare in his dark eyes as showed that the insult was not meant in a spirit of fun;— “what the devil brings you here?” And he glanced up the moonlight slopes, thinking, perhaps, that some one had accompanied him, and spoke very sternly.
“Weel, I don’t know,” said the elder man, more quietly, “I don’t know why I’m here, I’m sure, except that I’m such a gude-natured guse; and I think it’s a bad business this, for I doubt ye’ve killed him.”
“No sign of death there,” muttered Dacre.
“I wish I was sure o’ it; but get ye doun to the carriage, and away to the toon — will ye?”
Without minding what he was saying, Dacre had addressed himself to the tall Frenchman, who was conversing affably, though nobody was listening to him. He had seen friends on the fields of battle with all sorts of gunshot wounds, and having, as a patient, once had, himself, a considerable hospital experience, was politely ‘illuminating the party in voluble French, upon the case before him; and, kneeling on the turf, he felt his pulse, and pronounced that Charles Mannering would do very well, and looked, nevertheless, uneasily about, and was clearly of Mr. Gillespie’s way of thinking, about the expediency of betaking themselves to the carriage which awaited them on the road hard by.
“We had better get him down to the inn — had not we?” said Dacre.
“Hout — never fash your beard about that, mon — come away, will ye — come wi’ me — come I say, or ye’ll sup sorrow for it.”
“D — n you, be quiet, sir; I’ll not go till I know how the case is.”
“And d — n you for a daft loon,” retorted Mr. Grillespie, savagely, muttering it, however, between his teeth, by way of soliloquy, as he turned away to another of the party.
“You’ll be Mr. Thransom, I take it, sir,” he said, taking that gentleman with rather a hard grip above the elbow, “I don’t know, sir, how this thing fell — a quarrel may be, about a lassie — a limmer, I warrant; and I don’t mean to speer any questions about it; but it wont do, sir, letting that fule Dacre stay here till some o’ they constable folk clap a grip on his shouther — it wont do, sir: and there is a doctor — Doctor Browning, they caud him, down there in the Silver Dragon. Just take your friend gently round by the road back again to the inn, de ye see, in his carriage, and ye’ll tell ‘em it was a mischance shootin’ at a mark, or such like, wi’ a pistol; and ye’ll be sae gude as to drap me a line — here’s my card — just to say how the fulish lad’s doin’, so soon as the doctor has made his examination and deeagnosis, ye comprehend; and don’t keep him here, mind, on the ground a minute longer, ye may lose the doctor else, or lose the lad’s life. I’m a gude-hairted fule, sir, and I don’t like to see young blude spilt, or mair mischief come o’ it than need be; and get him awa’, now, and he’ll do weel, and there’ll be no more fass about it, and it will all be forgot, they’ll mak’ it up; the dirt will rub out when its dry, and I and that French chap will try and tak’ the chield Dacre away with us to toon.”
There was reason in all this, though the old Scotchman spoke it in no small agitation and ire; and with their united persuasions he and the Frenchman at length induced Dacre, but not till they had got Mannering into his carriage with Transom, and seen it start for the Silver Dragon, to get into theirs and accompany them in a very rapid drive toward London.
Dacre rolled his cloak about him, and seemed disposed to take a nap in the corner, while the Frenchman was garrulous, and Mr. Gillespie sat by way of listening, glowering very surlily in his place, which was nearly opposite the dozing form of Mr. Dacre, who on a sudden laughed at some amusing recollections, it might be, and looked gaily out on the moonlighted hedgerows.
“What for do you laugh, sir?” demanded Mr. Gillespie, rather harshly.
“Never you fash your beard about that,” rejoined Mr. Dacre; “isn’t that the proper phrase? though what fashing a beard is, is a mystery known only to Scotchmen,” he added reflectively.
“I doubt ye’ve killed the chield Mannering; I see naething to laugh at — naething,” Mr. Gillespie replied with the emphasis of an oath.
“I don’t want you to laugh; I don’t think either the sight or sound would be agreeable. I laugh, when I’m disposed, and I don’t think the chield Mannering is more likely to die of his little hurt than any one of us in this carriage. What do you think, monsieur?”
“I should not wonder,” said monsieur in his own tongue, “if that young gentleman were quickly to reestablish himself. The wounds of young people in good estate cure themselves so quickly, one may see him possibly to walk himself of street in street in your so beautiful city of London before many days pass themselves.”
“I don’t hope it, monsieur; perhaps because I don’t wish it,”, said Mr. Dacre. “Try one of these cigarettes. I object to his dying — I object also to his recovering more rapidly than is quite convenient.”
Here Mr. Gillespie pressed his foot significantly on that of the speaker.
“One of these?” said Mr. Dacre, tendering his cigarettes.
“No, no, I thank ye, I like one o’ they fellows better,” and he produced a huge cigar which he prepared to smoke.
The Frenchman having a store of cigarettes in his own case kept up the fire steadily, enlivening the process by short but animated spurts of conversation.
Dacre tired first of smoking.
“The Scotch are a metaphysical people, and your brilliant nation, monsieur, are more ingenious and philosophical than we English. I was on the point of talking psychology, but I’m half afraid in such a presence.”
“Monsieur may have fear of Monsieur Gillespie, perhaps, but of me it is impossible; I should listen, I assure monsieur, with more of pleasure and instruction than I can express to his charming discourses.”
