Conon.--You’re well met, Crates. Crates.--If we part so,
Conon.-Queen of Corinth.
It was as might be expected from the character of the aggressor. Lord
Borodaile refused all apology, and agreed with avidity to a speedy
rendezvous. He chose pistols (choice, then, was not merely nominal), and
selected Mr. Percy Bobus for his second, a gentleman who was much
fonder of acting in that capacity than in the more honourable one of
a principal. The author of “Lacon” says “that if all seconds were as
averse to duels as their principals, there would be very little blood
spilt in that way;” and it was certainly astonishing to compare the
zeal with which Mr. Bobus busied himself about this “affair” with
that testified by him on another occasion when he himself was more
immediately concerned.
The morning came. Mr. Bobus breakfasted with his friend. “Damn it,
Borodaile,” said he, as the latter was receiving the ultimate polish of
the hairdresser, “I never saw you look better in my life. It will be a
great pity if that fellow shoots you.”
“Shoots me!” said Lord Borodaile, very quietly,--“me! no! that is quite
out of the question; but joking apart, Bobus, I will not kill the young
man. Where shall I hit him?”
“In the cap of the knee,” said Mr. Percy, breaking an egg.
“Nay, that will lame him for life,” said Lord Borodaile, putting on his
cravat with peculiar exactitude.
“Serve him right,” said Mr. Bobus. “Hang him, I never got up so early
in my life: it is quite impossible to eat at this hour. Oh!--a propos,
Borodaile, have you left any little memoranda for me to execute?”
“Memoranda!--for what?” said Borodaile, who had now just finished his
toilet.
“Oh!” rejoined Mr. Percy Bobus, “in case of accident, you know: the man
may shoot well, though I never saw him in the gallery.”
“Pray,” said Lord Borodaile, in a great though suppressed passion,
“pray, Mr. Bobus, how often have I to tell you that it is not by Mr.
Linden that my days are to terminate: you are sure that Carabine saw to
that trigger?”
“Certain,” said Mr. Percy, with his mouth full, “certain. Bless me,
here’s the carriage, and breakfast not half done yet.”
“Come, come,” cried Borodaile, impatiently, “we must breakfast
afterwards. Here, Roberts, see that we have fresh chocolate and some
more cutlets when we return.”
“I would rather have them now,” said Mr. Bobus, foreseeing the
possibility of the return being single: “Ibis! redibis?” etc.
“Come, we have not a moment to lose,” exclaimed Borodaile, hastening
down the stairs; and Mr. Percy Bobus followed, with a strange mixture of
various regrets, partly for the breakfast that was lost and partly for
the friend that might be.
When they arrived at the ground, Clarence and the duke were already
there: the latter, who was a dead shot, had fully persuaded himself that
Clarence was equally adroit, and had, in his providence for Borodaile,
brought a surgeon. This was a circumstance of which the viscount, in
the plenitude of his confidence for himself and indifference for his
opponent, had never once dreamed.
The ground was measured; the parties were about to take the ground. All
Linden’s former agitation had vanished; his mien was firm, grave, and
determined: but he showed none of the careless and fierce hardihood
which characterized his adversary; on the contrary, a close observer
might have remarked something sad and dejected amidst all the
tranquillity and steadiness of his brow and air.
“For Heaven’s sake,” whispered the duke, as he withdrew from the spot,
“square your body a little more to your left and remember your exact
level. Borodaile is much shorter than you.”
There was a brief, dread pause: the signal was given; Borodaile fired;
his ball pierced Clarence’s side; the wounded man staggered one step,
but fell not. He raised his pistol; the duke bent eagerly forward; an
expression of disappointment and surprise passed his lips; Clarence had
fired in the air. The next moment Linden felt a deadly sickness come
over him; he fell into the arms of the surgeon. Borodaile, touched by
a forbearance which he had so little right to expect, hastened to the
spot. He leaned over his adversary in greater remorse and pity than he
would have readily confessed to himself. Clarence unclosed his eyes;
they dwelt for one moment upon the subdued and earnest countenance of
Borodaile.
“Thank God,” he said faintly, “that you were not the victim,” and with
those words he fell back insensible. They carried him to his lodgings.
His wound was accurately examined. Though not mortal, it was of a
dangerous nature; and the surgeons ended a very painful operation by
promising a very lingering recovery.
What a charming satisfaction for being insulted!