“Make way, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, or you will compel me to do
that I may be sorry for!”
“You shall make no way here but at your peril,” said Sir
Geoffrey; “this is my ground.”--Peveril of the Peak.
One night on returning home from a party at Lady Westborough’s in
Hanover Square, Clarence observed a man before him walking with an
uneven and agitated step. His right hand was clenched, and he frequently
raised it as with a sudden impulse, and struck fiercely as if at some
imagined enemy.
The stranger slackened his pace. Clarence passed him, and, turning round
to satisfy the idle curiosity which the man’s eccentric gestures had
provoked, his eye met a dark, lowering, iron countenance, which, despite
the lapse of four years, he recognized on the moment: it was Wolfe, the
republican.
Clarence moved, involuntarily, with a quicker step; but in a few
minutes, Wolfe, who was vehemently talking to himself, once more passed
him; the direction he took was also Clarence’s way homeward, and he
therefore followed the republican, though at some slight distance,
and on the opposite side of the way. A gentleman on foot, apparently
returning from a party, met Wolfe, and, with an air half haughty, half
unconscious, took the wall; though, according to old-fashioned rules of
street courtesy, he was on the wrong side for asserting the claim.
The stern republican started, drew himself up to his full height, and
sturdily and doggedly placed himself directly in the way of the unjust
claimant. Clarence was now nearly opposite to the two, and saw all that
was going on.
With a motion a little rude and very contemptuous, the passenger
attempted to put Wolfe aside, and win his path. Little did he know
of the unyielding nature he had to do with; the next instant the
republican, with a strong hand, forced him from the pavement into the
very kennel, and silently and coldly continued his way.
The wrath of the discomfited passenger was vehemently kindled.
“Insolent dog!” cried he, in a loud and arrogant tone, “your baseness is
your protection.” Wolfe turned rapidly, and made but two strides before
he was once more by the side of his defeated opponent.
“What did you say?” he asked, in his low, deep, hoarse voice.
Clarence stopped. “There will be mischief done here,” thought he, as he
called to mind the stern temper of the republican.
“Merely,” said the other, struggling with his rage, “that it is not for
men of my rank to avenge the insults offered us by those of yours!”
“Your rank!” said Wolfe, bitterly retorting the contempt of the
stranger, in a tone of the loftiest disdain; “your rank! poor
changeling! And what are you, that you should lord it over me? Are your
limbs stronger? your muscles firmer? your proportions juster? your
mind acuter? your conscience clearer? Fool! fool! go home and measure
yourself with lackeys!”
The republican ceased, and pushing the stranger aside, turned slowly
away. But this last insult enraged the passenger beyond all prudence.
Before Wolfe had proceeded two paces, he muttered a desperate but brief
oath, and struck the reformer with a strength so much beyond what
his figure (which was small and slight) appeared to possess, that the
powerful and gaunt frame of Wolfe recoiled backward several steps, and,
had it not been for the iron railing of the neighbouring area, would
have fallen to the ground.
Clarence pressed forward: the face of the rash aggressor was turned
towards him; the features were Lord Borodaile’s. He had scarcely time to
make this discovery, before Wolfe had recovered himself. With a wild
and savage cry, rather than exclamation, he threw himself upon his
antagonist, twined his sinewy arms round the frame of the struggling but
powerless nobleman, raised him in the air with the easy strength of a
man lifting a child, held him aloft for one moment with a bitter and
scornful laugh of wrathful derision, and then dashed him to the ground,
and planting his foot upon Borodaile’s breast said,--
“So shall it be with all of you: there shall be but one instant between
your last offence and your first but final debasement. Lie there! it is
your proper place! By the only law which you yourself acknowledge, the
law which gives the right divine to the strongest; if you stir limb or
muscle, I will crush the breath from your body.”
But Clarence was now by the side of Wolfe, a new and more powerful
opponent.
“Look you,” said he: “you have received an insult, and you have done
justice yourself. I condemn the offence, and quarrel not with you for
the punishment; but that punishment is now past: remove your foot, or--”
“What?” shouted Wolfe, fiercely, his lurid and vindictive eye flashing
with the released fire of long-pent and cherished passions.
“Or,” answered Clarence, calmly, “I will hinder you from committing
murder.”
At that instant the watchman’s voice was heard, and the night’s guardian
himself was seen hastening from the far end of the street towards the
place of contest. Whether this circumstance, or Clarence’s answer,
somewhat changed the current of the republican’s thoughts, or whether
his anger, suddenly raised, was now as suddenly subsiding, it is not
easy to decide; but he slowly and deliberately moved his foot from
the breast of his baffled foe, and bending down seemed endeavouring
to ascertain the mischief he had done. Lord Borodaile was perfectly
insensible.
“You have killed him!” cried Clarence in a voice of horror, “but you
shall not escape;” and he placed a desperate and nervous hand on the
republican.
“Stand off,” said Wolfe, “my blood is up! I would not do more violence
to-night than I have done. Stand off! the man moves; see!”
And Lord Borodaile, uttering a long sigh, and attempting to rise,
Clarence released his hold of the republican, and bent down to assist
the fallen nobleman. Meanwhile, Wolfe, muttering to himself, turned from
the spot, and strode haughtily away.
The watchman now came up, and, with his aid, Clarence raised Lord
Borodaile. Bruised, stunned, half insensible as he was, that personage
lost none of his characteristic stateliness; he shook off the watchman’s
arm, as if there was contamination in the touch; and his countenance,
still menacing and defying in its expression, turned abruptly towards
Clarence, as if he yet expected to meet and struggle with a foe.
“How are you, my lord?” said Linden; “not severely hurt, I trust?”
“Well, quite well,” cried Borodaile. “Mr. Linden, I think?--I thank you
cordially for your assistance; but the dog, the rascal, where is he?”
“Gone,” said Clarence.
“Gone! Where--where?” cried Borodaile; “that living man should insult
me, and yet escape!”
“Which way did the fellow go?” said the watchman, anticipative of
half-a-crown. “I will run after him in a trice, your honour: I warrant I
nab him.”
“No--no--” said Borodaile, haughtily, “I leave my quarrels to no man;
if I could not master him myself, no one else shall do it for me. Mr.
Linden, excuse me, but I am perfectly recovered, and can walk very well
without your polite assistance. Mr. Watchman, I am obliged to you: there
is a guinea to reward your trouble.”
With these words, intended as a farewell, the proud patrician,
smothering his pain, bowed with extreme courtesy to Clarence, again
thanked him, and walked on unaided and alone.
“He is a game blood,” said the watchman, pocketing the guinea.
“He is worthy his name,” thought Clarence; “though he was in the wrong,
my heart yearns to him.”