The Trellised Lane, page 12
“Please, do not even tell me ‘in that case.’ I do not wish to know the penalties; so long as it can not be avoided, there is no sense in knowing. When do you suppose it will take place?”
“It is usually best to do these things as soon as possible. Perhaps we may arrange it for to-morrow, or maybe the next day. By the way, have you a set of duelling pistols?”
“Good God, no! Nor ever thought I should need them!”
“Never mind then; I have. Let us write your defiance, shall we?”
D’Arbois rose to fetch a pen and paper. The cartel took only an half-hour to compose, and a few hours later, as Mr. Compton was finishing his breakfast, the following note was delivered to him:
“Sir:
I can not permit your intimations regarding my sister’s honour to go unanswered. I do not enjoy hearing the name of any lady questioned, but when it concerns my own sister it is beyond toleration. Monsieur Guy d’Arbois will act for me in this matter; we request you or your agent appoint a time and place.
I regret deeply that I am obliged to act in this manner.
The honourable
Fitzgerald Edgehampton”
This last line had, of course, been added by Fitzgerald himself, and against the better judgement of d’Arbois.
Mr. Compton read and reread this letter, sitting among a litter of half-empty dishes. When he had at last conned it over enough times to understand it completely, reconciliation was the last thing on his mind. In his view, Fitzgerald had taken him up on the merest quibble; to take offence at a thing so inoffensive was to him intolerable behaviour. Besides, he had never fought a duel, and he thought it might be rather jolly. He dressed without further consideration and hurried off to Mr. Whipstan’s, there to consult upon time, place, and weapons.
Julia was meanwhile in a fever of frustration. While she felt it was excessively kind of Monsieur d’Arbois to second her brother, she did not quite like being so much in his debt. She was furious with Fitzgerald for having asked him at all. She berated her brother for this, and for his rashness of the previous afternoon, until the poor gentleman asked her whether she did not consider it an honour to have her reputation so contested. To this, Julia replied, in a fit of pique, that she would thank her brother to leave her reputation alone in the future, and to ignore scrupulously all aspersions cast upon it. The only point on which they did agree was that it would be best to tell Lord and Lady Edgehampton nothing of the matter, since they could do nothing about it but fret.
Chapter XI
Mr. Norcross did not sit idle while these stirring events went forward. A little reflexion forced him to conclude that he could be of no use to Fitzgerald in the matter of the duel, but this circumstance did not result in his forgetting the Edgehamptons altogether. In fact, the picnic had given him food for much thought regarding Julia, and especially for thought about what he could only, after observing them closely, call her tendre for Guy d’Arbois. Now, Mr. Norcross, it has been noted before, did not like Monsieur d’Arbois; the picnic on Hampstead Heath, however, brought him to the realisation that he positively despised him. Norcross was a man accustomed to trusting his own intuitions; had he had only himself to think of, he would have given the Frenchman the cut direct as quickly as possible and thought no more of him. In this case, however, there were others to consider, in particular Mrs. Patience Norcross, who insisted so violently on extolling d’Arbois’s merits at every opportunity that her son was very nearly sick with it.
For this reason, if no other, Benjamin Norcross resolved to renew his look into the monsieur’s past, and he began with a visit to Captain Hurst. This visit included an excursion by the two men, which is how it happened that Fitzgerald met the two of them in London, just after leaving d’Arbois. Captain Hurst was brimming with the same hale heartiness he had manifested at the picnic, and felicitated Fitzgerald again on his correct behaviour; Norcross, however, seemed strangely distracted and eager to get away, so that Fitzgerald left them with the feeling that it was perhaps not such a shame, after all, that Norcross could not second him. When he informed the captain, upon inquiry, that d’Arbois was to fill that position, he received a rather startled look and the news that “it would most likely be alright, anyway.” Concluding that both Norcross and Hurst were up to some thing rather peculiar, and were perhaps even a trifle foxed, Fitzgerald took his leave of them as quickly as he might.
The two older gentlemen then proceeded to their destination where, after an hour or two, they quit one another’s company, Norcross returning home to conduct a brief interrogation of his mother. That evening brought a letter to his door, written in an excited hand by Harry Burnett, and containing the following tidings:
“My dear fellow,
Just remembered what it was about d’Arbois, but I still can’t recall the particulars. That is, there was some scandal, some thing to do with his inheritance—kicked up the devil of a lot of dust. I fear, however, that this is all I am likely to recollect on this head, for I think, my dear fellow, that it is all I or any one knows. Do hope it’s what you wanted; come and see me some time, won’t you? Sorry there’s no more to tell. I am, etc., etc.”
This was all the contents of the letter, yet it was enough to encourage its recipient to pay a most extraordinary visit to Julia on the following day.
She received him in the drawing room, whither, when she heard from Mr. Hale that Norcross was there, Miss Piffin also proceeded hastily. He was looking very handsome, and somehow taller than before, but the gleam in his eyes (for which Julia searched expectantly) seemed almost to be extinguished, as though it was smouldering under the suffocating presence of some indecision, or mistrust. He regarded her with a steady gaze that, for all its directness, was almost melancholy. They had hardly spoken to one another at the picnic, and it seemed to Julia that the hesitancy that had arisen between them after the waltz lingered there still. He presented her, upon his entrance, with a nosegay of China asters; they were very beautiful, and it was a rare pleasure to see them at this season, but to Julia they had a meaning beyond this. “I will think of thee,” they whispered; “I will think of thee.” Did Mr. Norcross know this? Was he planning an absence? A brief glance at his apparel caused her to think that he was indeed; his boutonnière held a small sweet-pea blossom. She could hardly doubt that he had forgotten what he read in her album. Sweet pea signified departure. Her heart sank.
“Will you sit down, Mr. Norcross? I think you must be—that is—” she stammered as she realized that if he had wished his projects discussed aloud he would not have indicated them so subtlely. “I hope you will take some thing? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”
“I should be very grateful for a cup of coffee,” he said, turning to Hale, who had just entered the room with an air of desiring to be of service. Julia, still absorbed by the meaning of the flowers, was not really listening, but Mr. Hale’s eyes widened imperceptibly and Miss Piffin’s heart skipped a beat. The butler bowed and left the room and returned some quarter of an hour later. The conversation he interrupted at that point was composed largely of conventional inquiries and meaningless responses. If Mr. Norcross meant to go away, he apparently did not intend to mention it. Mr. Hale entered with the same air of eager servitude he had worn when quitting the room, but his hands were empty.
“Sir,” he said with another slight bow, “I regret to inform you of a rather unfortunate accident that has just taken place. As the cook was about to hand me your coffee, it slipped and fell on the floor. If I may ask you to wait a bit longer, I assure you she will brew you some more.”
“O dear,” cried Julia. “So that was the cause of the crash we heard! But Hale,” she began, after a moment’s pause, “we—”
“I am sorry to interrupt you with such trivial news,” the butler said loudly, cutting her off entirely. “It will not take much longer.”
“I beg you will not disturb your household for me,” said Mr. Norcross to Julia. “The coffee is really of no consequence; I can easily do without it.”
“That is not at all necessary,” replied Mr. Hale, again speaking out of turn. “I will go and see to it directly.”
In the event, however, Julia never found out just what Mr. Hale would have brought back with him the next time, for Mr. Norcross stayed only a few minutes longer. When she questioned him about it later, the butler replied with great assurance that he should have gone on bringing excuse after excuse, and breaking just as many cups as necessary, to extend the life of the mythical coffee until her guest had left. He knew his own coffee would never have answered, and he would rather have died than have owned to Mr. Norcross that Heathedge had no cook. Julia would have given a great deal to have witnessed this performance, but it was not to be. Some twenty minutes after he had arrived, Mr. Norcross rose to take his leave; Julia rose also to escort him to the door of the drawing room.
“I trust we shall soon see you again,” she said, with a rising inflection that betrayed that she trusted nothing of the kind.
Mr. Norcross did not answer but looked into her eyes with an agonising intensity. He took the hand she extended towards him, bent over it abruptly, and turning the soft palm up with a tenderness that made her tremble, he buried his mouth for an instant in its curve.
The next moment he was gone.
Fitzgerald returned to Heathedge a few minutes after Mr. Norcross’s departure, wearing a shaky smile and enveloped in a humour of cheerful fatalism. The duel was set for the following morning, at five o’clock at Battersea Fields. Mr. Compton, mercifully had chosen pistols, and Fitzgerald had just spent an hour with Monsieur d’Arbois becoming familiar with his set. D’Arbois had met with Mr. Whipstan; there seemed to be no hope of a reconciliation—indeed, Mr. Whipstan had laughed aloud at the suggestion. D’Arbois assured Fitzgerald that an apology was often procured on the day of the duel itself, but Fitzgerald found this small comfort. D’Arbois was to see to it that a surgeon was in attendance, and this grim detail recurred again and again in Fitzgerald’s thoughts. He did not know which he feared most: injury to himself, injury to Mr. Compton, or discovery by the authorities. Miss Piffin was in a fever of reproach; Julia had been able to dissuade her from writing to her master, but nothing could stop the cascade of ominous information she insisted on pouring onto the hapless Fitzgerald. She informed him that merely being present at a duel, even when the duel had not yet taken place, was a punishable offence. She reminded him that to kill a man in a duel was murder and often resulted in execution by hanging. In short, she did all she could to make him as miserable as he could be.
Julia did not have a very high opinion of duelling in general, and she had no opinion of this duel in particular, but the more gruesome Miss Piffin became, the more she felt herself in sympathy with her brother. As she had been unable to shut Miss Piffin off by dinner time, she directed her to take her meal in the common dining parlour; she and Fitzgerald took a private parlour and dined alone. (They had continued to take their dinner at Jack Straw’s castle, since no better inn could be found nearby.) Fitzgerald knew that it was considered more dashing and modish to dine, on the eve of a duel, with gentlemen friends, and to spend the night carousing, but he had not had the heart to pretend to be dashing; besides the only acquaintance he had with whom such an evening might properly be spent was the man whom he had challenged. Julia’s company was probably more suitable on this occasion in any case, though unfashionable, since the state of Fitzgerald’s nerves was indifferent, to say the best of it. He spilled almost every thing upon the table that could well be spilled; he heaped his plate with food and then sat looking at it with sudden distaste; at one moment he could not bear to sit still, while the next found him slumped, practically lifeless, over the table. Julia bore with it all, trying to be soothing and commending to him such refreshments as she thought might prove salutary. She persuaded him to drink several glasses of claret, and at last brought him home in a state bordering on sedation. She even went so far as to tuck him into bed. Hale had strict orders to awaken him at four o’clock.
The coffee he found awaiting him on the breakfast table the next morning did little to brace him, nor was Julia’s emotional farewell kiss much help. Even Kitt’s unspoken but obvious admiration as they drove to Monsieur d’Arbois’s lodgings did not encourage him. D’Arbois himself was subdued rather than reviving; Fitzgerald’s principal impression of the morning was that it was a great deal too early for any one to be awake, and that certainly no one had any business driving at such an hour. He managed, however, to assume at least a semblance of calm, and was even able to cast at his adversary a look that he imagined to be disdainful. The surgeon’s name was Mr. Ellis; it was with him that Fitzgerald was left to converse while d’Arbois consulted with Mr. Whipstan. Stacey, Fitzgerald could see, had Mr. Cadwell to talk with, and he regretted much that he had not thought to ask Mr. Norcross at least to attend the duel. Mr. Ellis was not very good company, being mainly concerned with the morning, which was quite foggy, and consequently damp, and hoping rather more for fine weather later in the day than for Fitzgerald’s survival.
D’Arbois joined them after a short conference, which had seemed an eternity to the principal he represented. No reconciliation could be reached. Mr. Compton had his own pistol; Fitzgerald was to use one belonging to d’Arbois. Mr. Whipstan and d’Arbois had already loaded them, in one another’s presence as was required, and as Fitzgerald took the handle it seemed unnaturally cold and hard to him. He realized that his hand was perspiring abnormally. D’Arbois was explaining the procedure to him. Mr. Compton would take his ground and call upon Fitzgerald to proceed, and to fire at pleasure. He had nothing to do but to stay calm and aim to wound slightly. Fitzgerald closed his eyes and prayed fervently that the duel would be frustrated; however, he was forced to conclude, as seconds, surgeons, and friends retired to a safe distance, that all the Bow Street runners were still warm in their beds, as any reasonable man would be. Mr. Compton was standing some forty paces off, looking a little anxious but still confident. Suddenly Fitzgerald heard him call. It was all over; there was no way out; nothing would answer but to fire.
He advanced a little ways, hoping to appear to be taking aim at his adversary; in fact, he pointed his pistol a little above Stacey’s left shoulder. He drew a breath, prayed another instantaneous prayer, and fired. He heard his own shot go off; then he thought he heard Stacey’s. What occurred subsequently had to be explained to him later, for he lost consciousness almost immediately.
He discovered this fact when he awoke, as it seemed to him, from a very deep, restful sleep. At first he was aware only that it was lighter on the outside of his eyelids than on the inside. He noted this, digested the information, and at last decided to open them. He thought better of it in a moment; there was some sort of ache in his right hand and arm; it had been so much nicer in the dark. He closed his eyes again, but soon recalled that he had been in a duel. It would be good to know who had won. He opened his eyes, more cautiously this time.
“What happened?” he asked of a tall figure, hovering over him.
“Never mind,” said a voice that sounded familiar; it was, in fact, Julia’s.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“We are in Monsieur d’Arbois’s lodgings. You have had an accident, Fitz dear. Do you feel alright?”
“No, I think there is some thing wrong with my arm.”
“Yes, dearest, it was injured. Do you remember the duel?”
“Of course, I do. Who won?”
“No one. It is all done with now; you need not think of it.”
“How can no one have won? Some body must have won! Some body always—ow!”
“Lie still, Fitz; you must not try to move.”
“Julia, I didn’t hurt him, did I?”
“Not at all. Promise to remain calm and I will tell you what occurred.”
“I promise,” said Fitzgerald, feeling that it would be an easy vow to keep, since he was quite sure he could not move again.
“Very well, then. Your pistol burst when you tried to fire. Those aches you are feeling are the places where bits of the pistol—are you sure you wish to hear this?”
“O yes,” murmured Fitzgerald. “It’s quite fascinating.”
“It is a little grisly, I fear. You see, bits of the pistol got lodged in your hand and arm. It is quite alright now; the surgeon has got them all out again—”
“My dear sister, it is not ‘quite alright now.’ It hurts dreadfully. Has any thing been done about that?”
“Fitz, dear, do try to be brave. I assure you, you have had a half a dozen doses of medicine, really enough to drown you. You have been asleep these three hours, you know.”
“I am sorry, Lady J. Only it is hard to believe that one could be in much greater pain than I am in now.”
“Indeed, my dear, you could be rather dead by now. Monsieur d’Arbois tells me it is only the greatest good fortune that you are not. He has seen pistols burst before, and it is often fatal.”
“I am not certain that I would not rather be dead,” answered the invalid.
“Well, I am certain. It will be difficult enough to explain this to Father; what a task I should have had if you had been killed!”
“Is that what worried you? Well you are a fine sister!” cried the ungrateful patient, with all the energy he could muster. “Are there to be no tears over me? Does not it pain you to see your brother wounded for your sake?”
Julia was silent.
“Lady Julia cried all the way from Hampstead to London, and a good two hours longer,” said d’Arbois at last. “I have never seen any one weep more pitifully.”
“O,” said Fitzgerald, in a very small voice.
A short pause ensued. “To continue with the duel,” said Julia finally, “Mr. Compton’s bullet went nowhere near you; he insists it is due to the dispart of his pistol, which he says is as much as five inches, but I rather suspect he dumbfired. I do not think he wished to hurt you.”
