"He's truly valiant, that can wisely suffer
The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs
His outsides: to wear them, like his raiment, carelessly,
And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart,
To bring it into danger."
SHAKESPEARE.
The colonel, in the meantime, had returned to the house where he was
residing, when he was immediately accosted by Captain Carrington and the
other gentlemen who had been let into the secret of the plot. During his
walk home the colonel had been ruminating on his dismissal, and had not
quite made up his mind whether he ought or ought not to resent the conduct
of Mr Sullivan. Naturally more inclined for peace than war, by the time
that he had arrived home he had resolved to pocket the affront, when
Captain Carrington called him on one side, and obtained from him a
recapitulation of what had passed; which probably never would have been
given if the colonel had not considered the communication as confidential.
This, however, did not suit the intentions of Captain Carrington, who felt
inclined for more mischief; and, when the colonel had concluded his
narrative, he replied, "Upon my word, colonel, as you observe, this conduct
on the part of Mr Sullivan is not exactly what can be permitted by us
military men. I hardly know how to advise; indeed, I would not take the
responsibility; however, I will consult with Mr S---- and Mr G----, and if
you will leave your honour in our hands, depend upon it we will do you
strict justice:" and Captain Carrington quitted the colonel, who would have
expostulated, and, walking up to the other gentlemen, entered into a
recapitulation of the circumstances. A wink of his eye, as his back was
turned to the colonel, fully expressed to the others the tenor of the
advice which they were to offer.
"Well, gentlemen, what is your opinion?" said the captain, as he concluded
his narrative.
"I think," replied Mr S----, with a serious face, "there can be but
one--our gallant friend has been most grossly insulted. I think," continued
he, addressing the colonel, who had quitted the sofa, in his anxiety to
know the issue of their debate, "that I should most decidedly ask him what
he meant."
"Or rather demand an apology," observed Mr G----.
"Which Mr Sullivan, as a man of honour, is bound to offer, and the colonel,
as a gentleman and an officer, has a right to insist upon. Do you not think
so, Captain Carrington?" said Mr S----.
"Why, I always have been more inclined to be a peacemaker than otherwise,
if I can," replied Captain Carrington. "If our gallant friend the colonel
is not sure that Mr Sullivan did use the words, 'I won't trouble you to
call again,'--are you positive as to the exact words, colonel?"
"Why, to the best of my recollection," replied the colonel, "I rather think
those were the words. I may be mistaken:--it was certainly--most certainly,
something to that effect."
"Were they 'requesting you to call again?'" said Captain Carrington.
"No, no, that they were certainly not."
"Well, they could be but one or the other. Then, gentlemen, the case is
clear--the words were uttered," said Mr S----. "Now Captain Carrington,
what would you advise?"
"I really am vexed to say that I do not see how our friend, Colonel Ellice,
can do otherwise than demand an apology, or a meeting."
"Could not I treat him with contempt, Captain Carrington?" demanded the
colonel.
"Why, not exactly," replied Mr S----. "Sullivan is of good family--the
Sullivans of Bally cum Poop. He was some time in the 48th Regiment, and was
obliged to retire from it for challenging his colonel."
"Well, gentlemen," replied the colonel, "I suppose I must leave my honour
in your hands, although it does appear to me that our time is very short
for such arrangements. We sail early to-morrow morning, Captain Carrington;
at daylight I think you said, and it will be too late to-night."
"My dear colonel, I will risk a rebuke from the Admiralty," replied the
captain, "rather than not allow you to heal your wounded honour. I will
stay till the day after tomorrow, should it be requisite for the
arrangement of this business."
"Thank you, many thanks," replied the colonel, with an expression of
disappointment. "Then I had better prepare the letter?"
"Carta por senhor commandante," interrupted a Portuguese, presenting a
letter to the colonel; "O senhor embaixo; queir risposta."
The colonel opened the letter, which contained Mr Sullivan's
challenge,--pistols--tomorrow morn, at daylight--one mile on the road to
Machico.
The colonel's countenance changed two or three shades less yellow as he
read the contents: recovering himself with a giggle, he handed the letter
to Captain Carrington.
"You see, captain, the gentleman has saved me the trouble--He, he, he!
these little affairs are common to gentlemen of our profession--He, he!
and, since the gentleman wishes it, why, I presume--He, he! that we must
not disappoint him."
"Since you are both of one mind, I think there will be some business done,"
observed Mr S----. "I perceive that he is in earnest by the place named for
the meeting. We generally settle our affairs of honour in the Loo-fields;
but I suppose he is afraid of interruption.--They want an answer, colonel."
"Oh! he shall have one," replied the colonel, tittering with excitement;
"he shall have one. What hour does he say?"
"Oh, we will arrange all that. Come, colonel," said Captain Carrington,
taking him familiarly by the arm, and leading him away.
The answer was despatched, and they sat down to dinner. Many were the
friendly and encouraging glasses of wine drank with the colonel, who
recovered his confidence, and was then most assiduous in his attentions to
the ladies, to prove his perfect indifference. He retired at an early hour,
nevertheless.
In the meantime Mr Sullivan had received the answer, and had retired to his
counting-house, to arrange his affairs in case of accident. He had not seen
his wife since the _fracas_. And now we will leave them both for a while,
and make a few remarks upon duelling.
Most people lament, many abuse, the custom as barbarous; but barbarous it
is not, or it would not be necessary in a state of high civilisation. It is
true, that by the practice we offend laws human and divine; but, at the
same time, it must be acknowledged, that neither law nor religion can keep
society in such good order, or so restrain crime. The man who would defy
the penalty of the law, and the commandments of his God against seduction
will, however, pause in his career, when he finds that there are brothers
to avenge an injured sister. And why so?--because in this world we live as
if we were in a tavern, careless of what the bill is which we run up, but
dreading the day of reckoning, which the pistol of our adversary may bring
at once. Thus duelling may be considered as a necessary evil, arising out
of our wickedness; a crime in itself rare in occurrence, but which prevents
others of equal magnitude from occurring every day; and, until the world is
reformed, nothing can prevent it. Men will ever be governed by the
estimation of the world: and until the whole world decide against
duelling--until it has become the usage to offer the other cheek upon the
first having been smitten--then, and not till then, will the practice be
discontinued. When a man refuses to fight a duel, he is stigmatised as a
coward, his company is shunned, and unless he is a wretch without feeling,
his life becomes a burden. Men have refused from purely conscientious
motives, and have subsequently found themselves so miserable, from the
neglect and contumely of the world, that they have _backslided_, and have
fought to recover their place in society. There have been some few--very
few--who, having refused from conscientious motives, have adhered to these
resolutions, because they feared God and not man. There was more courage in
their refusal than if they had run the gauntlet of a hundred duels; a moral
courage which is most rare,--preferring the contempt of man to the wrath of
God. It is, however, the most trying situation on this side of the grave.
To refuse to fight a duel, is in fact to obey the stern injunction, "Leave
all, and follow me."
For my part, I never have and never will fight a duel, if I can help it. I
have a double motive for my refusal; in the first place, I am afraid to
offend the Deity; and in the next, I am afraid of being shot. I have,
therefore, made up my mind never to meet a man except upon what I consider
fair terms; for when a man stakes his life, the gambling becomes rather
serious, and an equal value should be laid down by each party. If, then, a
man is not so big--not of equal consequence in the consideration of his
fellow-mites--not married, with five small children, as I am--not having so
much to lose,--why, it is clear that I risk more than he does; the stake is
not equal, and I therefore shall not meet him. If, on the contrary, he
presents a broader target--if he is my superior in rank, more patriarchal
at home, or has so many hundreds per annum more--why, then the
disadvantages will be on his side; and I trust I am too much of a
gentleman, even if he offers to waive all these considerations, to permit
him to fight. It would be _swindling_ the man out of his life.
The best advice I can offer to my friends under these unpleasant
circumstances is, first to try if they cannot persuade their adversaries to
make an apology: and if they will not, why, then, let them make one
themselves; for although the making an apology creates a very uneasy
sensation, and goes very much _against_ the stomach, yet, depend upon it, a
well-directed bullet creates a much more uneasy feeling, and, what is
worse, goes _directly into it_.
We left Mrs Sullivan sobbing in her anger, when her husband bounded out of
the room in his heroics. At the time that he made the threat she was in no
humour to regard it; but as her anger gradually subsided, so did her alarm
increase. Notwithstanding that she was a coquette, she was as warmly
attached to her husband as he was to her; if she trifled, it was only for
her amusement, and to attract that meed of admiration to which she had been
accustomed previous to her marriage, and which no woman can renounce on her
first entry into that state. Men cannot easily pardon jealousy in their
wives; but women are more lenient towards their husbands. Love,
hand-in-hand with confidence, is the more endearing; yet, when confidence
happens to be out of the way, Love will sometimes associate with Jealousy;
still, as this disagreeable companion proves that Love is present, and as
his presence is what a woman and all a woman asks, she suffers Jealousy,
nay, sometimes even becomes partial to him, for the sake of Love.
Now, that Mrs Sullivan had been most unjustly accused, the reader must
know, and, moreover, that she had great reason to feel irritated. When her
tears had subsided, for some time she continued in her chair, awaiting,
with predetermined dignity, the appearance and apology of Mr Sullivan.
After some time had elapsed, she wondered why he did not come. Dinner was
announced, and she certainly expected to meet him then, and she waited for
some minutes to see if he would not take this opportunity of coming up to
her;--but no. She then presumed that he was still in the sulks, and had sat
down to table without her, and therefore, as he would not come--why, she
went; but he was not at the table. Every minute she expected him:--Had he
been told?--Where was he?--He was in the counting-house, was the reply. Mrs
Sullivan swallowed a few mouthfuls, and then returned upstairs. Tea was
made--announced to Mr Sullivan, yet he came not. It remained on the table;
the cup poured out for him was cold. The urn had been sent down, with
strict injunctions to keep the water boiling, and all was cleared away. Mrs
Sullivan fidgeted and ruminated, and became uneasy. He never had been at
variance for so many hours since their marriage, and all for nothing! At
last the clock struck ten, and she rang the bell.--"Where is Mr
Sullivan?"--"In the counting-house."--"Tell him that I wish to speak with
him." Mr Sullivan had not answered him, and the door was locked inside.
This intelligence created a little irritation, and checked the tide of
affection. "Before all the servants--so inconsiderate--it was quite
insulting!" With a heavy heart, Mrs Sullivan lighted the chamber candle,
and went upstairs to bed. Once she turned down the stairs two or three
steps, intending to go to the counting-house door; but her pride restrained
her, and she reascended. In an hour Mrs Sullivan was in bed, expecting her
husband every minute, listening at the slightest sound for his footsteps;
but two o'clock came, and he was still away. She could bear up against her
suspense and agitation no longer; she rose, threw on her _robe de nuit_,
and descended the stairs. All the family had long retired, and everything
was still: her light foot made no noise as she tripped along. As she neared
the door she perceived the light gleaming through the key-hole. Whether to
peep or to speak first--he might be fast asleep. Curiosity prevailed--she
looked through the key-hole, and perceived her husband very busy writing.
After he had finished his letter he threw down the pen, pressed his
forehead with both hands, and groaned deeply. Mrs Sullivan could refrain no
longer. "William! William!" cried she, in a soft, imploring voice: but she
was not answered. Again and again did she repeat his name, until an answer,
evidently wrung from him by impatience, was returned--"It is too late now."
"Too late, dear William! Yes, it is very late--it's almost three o'clock.
Let me in, William--pray do!"
"Leave me alone: it's the last favour I shall probably ever request of
you."
"The last favour! Oh, William! you frighten me so:--dear William--do--do
let me in. I'm so cold--I shall die:--only for one moment, and I'll bless
you. Pray do, William!"
It was not until after repeated and repeated entreaties of this kind that
Mr Sullivan, worn out by importunity, at last opened the door.
"Mary, I am very busy; I have opened the door to tell you so, and to
request that you will not interrupt me. Now oblige me by going to bed."
But getting in was everything; and a young and pretty wife, in dishabille
and in tears, imploring, entreating, conjuring, promising, coaxing, and
fondling, is not quite so easy to be detached when once she has gained
access. In less than half an hour Mr Sullivan was obliged to confess that
her conduct had been the occasion of a meeting being agreed upon for that
morning, and that he was arranging his affairs in case of a melancholy
termination.
"You now, Mary, must see the consequences of your conduct. By your
imprudence, your husband's life is risked, probably sacrificed; but this is
no time to be at variance. I forgive you, Mary--from my soul I do, as I
hope for pardon myself."
Mrs Sullivan burst into a paroxysm of tears; and it was some time before
she could answer. "William," cried she, energetically, "as you well say,
this is no time to be at variance, neither is it a time for falsehood. What
I stated to you this morning was true;--if not, may I never hope for
pardon! and may heaven never be opened to me! You have been
deceived--grossly deceived; for what purpose, I know not: but so it is. Do
not, therefore, be rash. Send for all who were present, and examine them;
and if I have told you a falsehood, put me away from you, to the shame and
seclusion I shall so well deserve."
"It is too late, Mary; I have challenged him, and he has accepted it. I
fain would believe you; but he told me so himself."
"Then he told a lie! a base, cowardly lie! which sinks him beneath the
notice of a gentleman. Let me go with you and confront him. Only let him
dare to say it to my face; 'tis all I ask, William, that I may clear my
fame with you. Come to bed--nay, nay, don't refuse me," and poor Mrs
Sullivan again burst into tears.
We must leave the couple to pass the remaining hours in misery, which,
however, reclaimed them both from faults. Mrs Sullivan never coquetted
more; and her husband was, after this, never jealous but on trifles.
The colonel was just as busy on his side in preparing for the chances of
the morrow: these chances, however, were never tried; for Captain
Carrington and his confederates had made their arrangements. Mr Sullivan
was already dressed, his wife clinging to him in frantic despair, when a
letter was left at his door, the purport of which was that Colonel Ellice
had discovered that his companions had been joking with him, when they had
asserted that during his state of inebriety he had offered any rudeness to
Mrs Sullivan. As, therefore, no offence had been committed, Colonel Ellice
took it for granted that Mr Suillivan would be satisfied with the
explanation.
Mrs Sullivan, who devoured the writing over her husband's shoulder, sank
down on her knees in gratitude, and was raised to her husband's arms, who,
as he embraced her, acknowledged his injustice.
The same party who wrote this epistle also framed another in imitation of
Mr Sullivan's handwriting, in which Mr Sullivan acquainted the colonel,
that having been informed by a mutual friend that he had been in error
relative to Colonel Ellice's behaviour of the night before, he begged to
withdraw the challenge, and apologise for having suspected the colonel of
incivility, &c. That having been informed that Colonel Ellice embarked at
an early hour, he regretted that he would not be able to pay his respects
to him, and assure him, &c.
The receipt of this letter, just as the colonel had finished a cup of
coffee, preparatory to starting, made him, as a single man, quite as happy
as the married couple: he hastened to put the letter into the hands of
Captain Carrington, little thinking that he was handing it over to the
writer.
"You observe, Captain Carrington, he won't come to the scratch. Perhaps as
well for him that he does not," said the colonel, chuckling in his glee.
The breakfast was early; the colonel talked big, and explained the whole
affair to the ladies, quite unconscious that everyone in the company knew
that the hoax had been played upon him. Before noon, everyone had
re-embarked on board of their respective ships, and their lofty sails were
expanded to a light and favouring breeze.