“Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.”
“More matter for a May morning.”
“Here's the challenge, read it.”
“If this letter move him not, his legs cannot.”
“Ominous! he comes to kill my heart.”
--_Shakspeare_.
OLD MAURICE, the pastry-cook, had welcomed his daughter gladly, as one
returned from the grave, and had learned from her own lips, with mingled
tears of joy and gratitude, how, thanks to noble Harry Oaklands, she had
escaped unscathed from the perils and temptations to which she had been
exposed; many days had elapsed, the Long Vacation had commenced, and the
ancient town of Cambridge, no longer animated by the countless throngs
of gownsmen, frowned in its unaccustomed solitude, like some City of the
Dead, and still no hostile message came from Wilford. Various reports
were circulated concerning the reappearance of Lizzie Maurice; but none
of them bore the faintest resemblance to the truth, and to no one had
the possibility of Oaklands' interference in the matter occurred, save,
as it afterwards appeared, to Charles Archer.
For above a week Wilford was confined to his room, seeing only
Wentworth; and it was given out that he had met with a severe fall from
his horse, and was ordered to keep perfectly quiet. At the expiration
of that period he quitted Cambridge suddenly, leaving no clue to his
whereabouts. This strange conduct scarcely excited any surprise amongst
the set he moved in, as it was usually his habit to shroud all his
proceedings under a veil of secrecy, assumed, as some imagined, for
the purpose of enhancing the mysterious and unaccountable influence he
delighted to exercise over the minds of men.
Oaklands remained a few days at Cambridge after Wilford's departure, as
he said, to pack up, but, as I felt certain, to prevent the possibility
of Wilford's imagining that he was anxious in any way to avoid him.
Finding at length that his rooms were dismantled, and that he would
not in all probability return till the end of the Long Vacation, Harry
ceased to trouble his head any further about the matter, and we set off
for Heathfield, accompanied by Archer, whom Harry had invited to pay him
a visit.
We found all well at our respective homes; my mother appeared much
stronger, and was actually growing quite stout, for her; and Fanny
looked so pretty, that I was not surprised at the very particular
attentions paid her from the first moment of his introduction by the
volatile Archer (who, by the way, was a regular male flirt), attentions
which I was pleased to perceive she appreciated exactly at their proper
value. We soon fell into our old habits again, Oaklands and Archer
setting out after breakfast for a stroll, or on a fishing expedition,
which usually ended in Harry's coming to an anchor under some spreading
oak or beech, where he remained, “doing a bit of the _dolce_,” as Archer
called it, till luncheon time; whilst I, who could not afford to be
idle, read hard till about three o'clock, and then joined in whatever
amusement was the order of the day.
“Frank, may I come in?” exclaimed Fanny's silvery voice outside my study
door, one morning during my working hours when I had been at home about
a fortnight.
“To be sure you may, you little torment,” replied I; “are you coming to
learn mathematics, or to teach me crochet? for I see you are armed with
that vicious little hook with which you delight to torture the wool of
innocent lambs into strange shapes, for the purpose of providing your
friends with innumerable small anomalous absurdities, which they had
much rather be without.”
“No such thing, Mr. Impudence, I never make any article which is not
particularly useful as well as ornamental. But, Frank, dear,” she
continued, “I should not have interrupted you, only I wanted to tell you
something--it may be nothing to signify, and yet I cannot help feeling
alarmed about it.”
“What is it, darling?” said I, putting my arm round her taper little
waist, and drawing her towards me.
“Why, Mr. Oaklands has been here this morning; he came to bring mamma a
message from Sir John, inviting us all to dine with him to-morrow.”
“Nothing very alarming so far,” observed I; “go on.”
“Mamma said we should be extremely happy to do so, and quitted the room
to find a recipe she had promised to the housekeeper at the Hall.”
~200~~“And you were left alone with Harry--that was alarming certainly,”
said I.
“Nonsense,” returned Fanny, while a very becoming blush glowed on her
cheek; “how you do interrupt me! Mr. Oaklands had kindly offered to
explain a difficult passage in Dante for me, and I was standing on a
chair to get down the book--”
“Which he could have reached by merely stretching out his arm, I
daresay, only he was too idle,” interposed I.
“Indeed he could not,” replied Fanny quickly, “for he was sitting in
the low easy-chair, and trying to fasten mamma's spectacles on Donald's
nose.” (Donald being a favourite Scotch terrier belonging to Harry, and
a great character in his way.) “Well, I had just found the book,” she
continued, “and we were going to begin when a note was given to Mr.
Oaklands, which had been brought by a groom from the Hall, with a
message that the gentleman who had left it was waiting at the inn in the
village for an answer. Mr. Oaklands began to read it in his usual quiet
way, but no sooner had he thrown his eye over the first few lines
than his cheeks flushed, his brow grew dark, and his face assumed that
fearfully stern expression which I have heard you describe, but had
never before seen myself. As soon as he had finished reading it he
crushed the paper in his hand, and sprung up, saying hurriedly, 'Is
Frank------?' He then took two or three steps towards the door, and I
thought he was coming to consult you. Suddenly, however, some new idea
seemed to cross his mind, and, stopping abruptly, he strode towards
the window, where he remained for a few moments, apparently buried in
thought. At length he muttered, 'Yes, that will be better, better in
all respects'; and turning on his heel, he was about to quit the room,
leaving his hat on the table, when I ventured to hand it to him, saying,
'You are going without your hat, Mr. Oaklands'. He started at the sound
of my voice, and seeming for the first time to recollect that I was in
the room, he took the hat from me, begging pardon for his inattention,
and adding, 'You must allow me to postpone our Italian lesson
till----till to-morrow, shall we say? I find there is a gentleman
waiting to see me.' He paused as if he wished to say more, but scarcely
knew how to express himself. 'You saw,' he continued, 'that is--you may
have observed that--that in fact there was something in that note which
annoyed me--you need not say anything about it to Mrs. Fairlegh; she
is rather given to alarming herself unnecessarily, I fancy,' he added
~201~~with a faint smile; 'tell Frank I shall not be at home till dinner
time, but that I shall see him in the evening.' He then shook my hand
warmly, and, holding it for a moment in his own, fixed his eyes on my
face with a strange, half-melancholy expression that frightened me,
and once more saying 'good-bye,' he pressed his hat over his brows, and
bounding across the lawn, was out of sight in an instant. His manner
was so very odd, so unlike what it generally is. Dear Frank, what is
the meaning of all this? I am sure there is something going to happen,
something--”
“You silly child,” replied I, affecting a careless composure I was
far from feeling, “how you frighten yourself about nothing. Harry has
probably received a threatening letter from a Cambridge dun, and your
lively imagination magnifies it into a--(challenge, I was going to add,
but I substituted)--into something dreadful.”
“Is that what you really think?” questioned Fanny, fixing her large blue
eyes upon my face inquiringly.
I am the worst hand in the world at playing the hypocrite, and with
ready tact she perceived at once that I was attempting to deceive her.
“Frank,” she resumed, “you have seen but little of me since we were
children together, and deem, possibly, that--I am a weak, silly girl,
unfit to be trusted with evil tidings; but indeed, dear brother, you
do me injustice; the sorrows we have gone through” (and her eyes filled
with tears as she spoke), “the necessity for exertion in order to save
mamma as much as possible, have given me more strength of character and
firmness of purpose than girls of my age in general possess; tell me the
truth, and fear not that power will be given me to bear it, be it what
it may; but, if I think you are trying to hide it from me--and do not
hope to deceive me; your face proves that you are as much alarmed
at what you have heard as I am myself, and probably with far better
reason--I shall be unable to forget it, and it will make me miserable.”
“Well then,” replied I, “thus far I will trust you. I do fear, from what
you have told me, that Oaklands has received some evil tidings relative
to a disagreeable affair in which he was engaged at Cambridge, the
results of which are not fully known at present, and which, I am afraid,
may yet occasion him much care and anxiety.”
“And I had fancied him so light-hearted and happy,” said Fanny
thoughtfully; “and is this all I am to know about it then?”
“All that I feel myself at liberty to tell at present,” ~202~~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 ~203~~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.
This was conclusive evidence; the livery and the mare were alike
Wilford's.
Leaving the groom to conjecture what he pleased, I hurried on, and,
reaching the Hall, inquired of the old butler whether Harry was at home.
“No, sir,” was the reply, “they ain't any of them at home. Mr. Harry
came home a horseback about a quarter of an hour ago, and called Mr.
Archer into his own room, and they had a confab, and then Mr. Archer
went out a ~204~~riding on the same horse Mr. Harry came back upon, and
would not take any o' the grooms with him--and afore that Sir John had
ordered the phaeton, and Mr. Henry being come home he asked him to go
with him; so you see, Mr. Fairlegh, they're none of 'em at home, sir.”
“I'll go into the library and write a note, Edmonds,” said I, as a new
idea entered my head. “You know Sir John is kind enough to let me order
a horse whenever I require one--will you tell Harris to have one saddled
for me in ten minutes' time?”
“Certainly, Mr. Fairlegh; we all of us have Sir John's orders to attend
to you, sir, the same as to Mr. Henry, and you're a young gent as it's a
pleasure to serve too, if you'll excuse me taking the liberty of telling
you so,” replied the good old man, as he showed me into the library.
The idea which had come into my head (and it was more for the sake of
doing _something_ that I determined on it, than from any great hope
I entertained of its proving of much avail) was to ride over to
Hillingford, and consult Freddy Coleman on the subject. Perhaps his
clear head and quick wit might enable him to devise some scheme by
which, without betraying Harry's confidence, or bringing the slightest
imputation on his honour, this duel might be prevented. What else could
I do? It was quite clear to me that the note Harry had received was a
challenge from Wilford, and that the gentleman waiting at the inn was
some one whom he had prevailed upon to act as his second, probably
Wentworth. Harry's first impulse had evidently been to come to me, and
ask me to be his second; but, doubtless, guessing the distaste I should
have to the office, and reflecting on the difficulties in which, if
anything serious were to ensue, I might be involved, he had determined
on asking Archer instead. Archer, by instantly setting off on horseback
alone, had clearly agreed to his request, and was gone to make the
necessary arrangements; and Harry had gladly accompanied Sir John, in
order to be out of the way, and so avoid my questions and any attempts I
might have made to induce him to alter his purpose. Were I to inform
Sir John on his return, it would be an unpardonable breach of confidence
towards Harry; were I to give notice to the authorities, so as to enable
them to take measures for preventing the duel, it would always be said
by Wilford that I did so with Harry's connivance, because he was afraid
to meet him: thus my hands were tied in every way, and, as I said
before, I could think of nothing better than to ride over and consult
Coleman, whose powers of ~205~~getting out of a scrape I had seen pretty
well tested in the affair of the bell-ringing. I therefore scrawled a
hasty note to my mother, telling her that I was going to take a long
ride, and she had better not wait dinner for me; and leaving a message
for Oaklands with the servant who announced the horse, that I should see
him in the evening, flung myself into the saddle, rode quietly till
I was out of sight of the house, and then started at a gallop for
Hillingford. Unwilling to meet any of the Coleman family, I left my
horse at the inn, and, pulling my hat over my brows, to avoid, if
possible, being recognised by their servant, rang the bell, and desired
him to tell Mr. Frederic that a gentleman wanted to speak with him on
particular business.