PUZZLED—EXPLANATION—MAKES BAD WORSE—THE DEED
“Any letters?” said her ladyship to a servant, as she crossed the hall.
“Only one, my lady—for Mr. Lorrequer, I believe.”
“For me!” thought I; “how is this?” My letters had been hitherto always
left in Kilrush. Why was this forwarded here? I hurried to the
drawing-room, where I found a double letter awaiting me. The writing
was Curzon’s and contained the words “to be forwarded with haste” on
the direction. I opened and read as follows:—
“Dear Lorrequer,—Have you any recollection, among your numerous
‘escapades’ at Cork, of having grievously insulted a certain Mr. Giles
Beamish, in thought, word, or deed? If you have, I say, let me know
with all convenient despatch, whether the offence be one admitting of
apology—for if not, the Lord have mercy on your soul—a more wrothy
gentleman than the aforesaid, it having rarely been my evil fortune to
foregather with. He called here yesterday to inquire your address, and
at my suggestion wrote a note, which I now enclose. I write in great
haste, and am ever yours faithfully, C. Curzon.
“N.B.—I have not seen his note, so explain all and every thing.”
The inclosed letter ran thus:
“Sir,—It can scarcely have escaped your memory, though now nearly two
months since, that at the Mayor’s ‘dejeune’ in Cork, you were pleased
to make merry at my expense, and expose me and my family for your
amusement. This is to demand an immediate apology, or that satisfaction
which, as an officer, you will not refuse your most obedient servant,
Giles Beamish, Swinburne’s Hotel.”
“Giles Beamish! Giles Beamish!” said I, repeating the name in every
variety of emphasis, hoping to obtain some clue to the writer. Had I
been appointed the umpire between Dr. Wall and his reviewers, in the
late controversy about “phonetic signs,” I could not have been more
completely puzzled than by the contents of this note. “Make merry at
his expense!” a great offence truly—I suppose I have laughed at better
men than ever he was; and I can only say of such innocent amusement, as
Falstaff did of sack and sugar, if such be a sin, “then heaven help the
wicked.” But I wish I knew who he is, or what he alludes to, provided
he is not mad, which I begin to think not improbable. “By the bye, my
Lord, do you know any such person in the south as a Mr. Beamish—Giles
Beamish?”
“To be sure,” said Lord Callonby, looking up from his newspaper, “there
are several of the name of the highest respectability. One is an
alderman of Cork—a very rich man, too—but I don’t remember his
Christian name.”
“An alderman, did you say?”
“Yes. Alderman Beamish is very well known. I have seen him frequently—a
short florid, little man.”
“Oh, it must be him,” said I, musingly, “it must have been this worthy
alderman, from whose worshipful person I tore the robe of office on the
night of the fete. But what does he mean by ‘my exposing him and his
family?’ Why, zounds, his wife and children were not with him on the
pavement. Oh, I see it; it is the mansion-house school of eloquence;
did not Sir William Curtis apologise for not appearing at court, from
having lost an eye, which he designated as an awful ‘domestic
calamity.’”
It being now settled to my satisfaction, that Mr. Beamish and the great
uncloaked were “convertible terms,” I set about making the ‘amende’ in
the most handsome manner possible. I wrote to the alderman a most
pacific epistle, regretting that my departure from Cork deprived me of
making reparation before, and expressing a most anxious hope that “he
caught no cold,” and a fervent wish that “he would live many years to
grace and ornament the dignity of which his becoming costume was the
emblem.” This I enclosed in a note to Curzon, telling him how the
matter occurred, and requesting that he would send it by his servant,
together with the scarlet vestment which he would find in my
dressing-room. Having folded and sealed this despatch, I turned to give
Lord Callonby an account of the business, and showed him Beamish’s
note, at which he was greatly amused: and, indeed, it furnished food
for mirth for the whole party during the evening. The next morning I
set out with Lord Callonby on the long-threatened canvassing
expedition—with the details of which I need not burden my
“Confessions.” Suffice it to say, that when Lord Kilkee was advocating
Toryism in the west, I, his accredited ambassador, was devoting to the
infernal gods the prelacy, the peerage, and the pension list—a mode of
canvass well worthy of imitation in these troublesome times; for, not
to speak of the great prospect of success from having friends on both
sides of the question, the principal can always divest himself of any
unpleasant consequences as regards inconsistency, by throing the blame
on this friend, “who went too far,” as the appropriate phrase is.
Nothing could be more successful than our mission. Lord Callonby was
delighted beyond bounds with the prospect, and so completely carried
away by high spirits, and so perfectly assured that much of it was
owing to my exertions, that on the second morning of our tour—for we
proceeded through the county for three days—he came laughing into my
dressing-room, with a newspaper in his hand.
“Here, Lorrequer,” said he, “here’s news for you. You certainly must
read this,” and he handed me a copy of the “Clare Herald,” with an
account of our meeting the evening before.
After glancing my eye rapidly over the routine usual in such
cases—Humph, ha—nearly two hundred people—most respectable farmers—room
appropriately decorated—“Callonby Arms”—“after the usual loyal toasts,
the chairman rose”—Well, no matter. Ah! here it is: “Mr. Lorrequer here
addressed the meeting with a flow of eloquence it has rarely, if ever,
been our privilege to hear equalled. He began by”—humph—
“Ah,” said his lordship, impatiently, “you will never find it out—look
here—‘Mr. Lorrequer, whom we have mentioned as having made the highly
exciting speech, to be found in our first page, is, we understand, the
son of Sir Guy Lorrequer, of Elton, in Shropshire—one of the wealthiest
baronets in England. If rumour speak truly, there is a very near
prospect of an alliance between this talented and promising young
gentleman, and the beautiful and accomplished daughter of a certain
noble earl, with whom he has been for some time domesticated.”
“Eh, what think you? Son of Sir Guy Lorrequer. I always thought my old
friend a bachelor, but you see the ‘Clare Herald’ knows better. Not to
speak of the last piece of intelligence, it is very good, is it not?”
“Capital, indeed,” said I, trying to laugh, and at the same time
blushing confoundedly, and looking as ridiculously as need be.
It now struck me forcibly that there was something extremely odd in his
lordship’s mention of this paragraph, particularly when coupled with
his and Lady Callonby’s manner to me for the last two months. They knew
enough of my family, evidently, to be aware of my station and
prospects—or rather my want of both—and yet, in the face of this, they
not only encouraged me to prolong a most delightful visit, but by a
thousand daily and dangerous opportunities, absolutely threw me in the
way of one of the loveliest of her sex, seemingly without fear on their
parts. “‘Eh bien,’” thought I, with my old philosophy, “Time, that
‘pregnant old gentleman,’ will disclose all, and so ‘laisse, aller.’”
My reveries on my good and evil fortune were suddenly interrupted by a
letter which reached me that evening, having been forwarded from
Callonby by a special messenger. “What! Another epistle from Curzon,”
said I, as my eye caught the address, and wondering not a little what
pressing emergency had called forth the words on the cover—“to be
forwarded with haste.” I eagerly broke the seal and read the following:
“My Dear Harry,—I received yours on the 11th, and immediately
despatched your note and the raiment to Mr. Beamish. He was from home
at the time, but at eight o’clock I was sent for from the mess to see
two gentlemen on most pressing business. I hurried to my quarters, and
there found the aforesaid Mr. B. accompanied by a friend, whom he
introduced as Dr. De Courcy Finucane, of the North Cork Militia—as
warlike looking a gentleman, of his inches, some five feet three, as
you would wish to see. The moment I appeared, both rose, and commenced
a narrative, for such I judge it to be, but so energetically and so
completely together, that I could only bow politely, and at last
request that one, or the other, would inform me of the object of their
visit. Here began the tug of war, the Doctor saying, ‘Arrah, now
Giles’—Mr. Beamish interrupting by ‘Whisht, I tell ye—now, can’t you
let me! Ye see, Mr. Curzoin’—for so they both agreed to designate me.
At last, completely worn out, I said, ‘Perhaps you have not received my
friend’s note?’ At this Mr. Beamish reddened to the eyes, and with the
greatest volubility poured forth a flood of indignant eloquence, that I
thought it necessary to check; but in this I failed, for after
informing me pretty clearly, that he knew nothing of your story of the
alderman, or his cloak, added, that he firmly believed your pretended
reparation was only a renewed insult, and that—but in a word, he used
such language, that I was compelled to take him short; and the finale
is, that I agreed you should meet him, though still ignorant of what he
calls the ‘original offence.’—But heaven knows, his conduct here last
night demands a reprimand, and I hope you may give it; and if you shoot
him, we may worm out the secret from his executors. Nothing could
exceed the politeness of the parties on my consenting to this
arrangement. Dr. Finucane proposed Carrigaholt, as the rendezvous,
about 12 miles, I believe, from Kilrush, and Tuesday evening at six as
the time, which will be the very earliest moment we can arrive there.
So, pray be up to time, and believe me yours, C. Curzon, Saturday
Evening.”
It was late on Monday evening when this letter reached me, and there
was no time to be lost, as I was then about 40 Irish miles from the
place mentioned by Curzon; so after briefly acquainting Lord Callonby
that I was called off by duty, I hurried to my room to pack my clothes,
and again read over this extraordinary epistle.
I confess it did appear something droll, how completely Curzon seemed
to imbibe the passion for fighting from these “blood-thirsty Irishmen.”
For by his own showing he was utterly ignorant of my ever having
offended this Mr. Beamish, of whom I recollected nothing whatever. Yet
when the gentleman waxes wrothy, rather than inconvenience him, or
perhaps anxious to get back to the mess, he coolly says, “Oh, my friend
shall meet you,” and then his pleasant jest, “find out the cause of
quarrel from his executors!”
Truly, thought I, there is no equanimity like his who acts as your
second in a duel. The gentlemanlike urbanity with which he waits on the
opposite friend—the conciliating tone with which he proffers implacable
enmity—the killing kindness with which he refuses all accommodation—the
Talleyrand air of his short notes, dated from the “Travellers,” or
“Brookes,” with the words 3 o’clock or 5 o’clock on the cover, all
indicative of the friendly precipitancy of the negociation. Then, when
all is settled, the social style with which he asks you to take a
“cutlet” with him at the “Clarendon,” not to go home—are only to be
equalled by the admirable tact on the ground—the studiously elegant
salute to the adverse party, half a la Napoleon, and half Beau
Brummell—the politely offered snuff-box—the coquetting raillery about
10 paces or 12—are certainly the beau ideal of the stoicism which
preludes sending your friend out of the world like a gentleman.
How very often is the face of external nature at variance with the
thoughts and actions—“the sayings and doings” we may be most intent
upon at the moment. How many a gay and brilliant bridal party has
wended its way to St. George’s, Hanover-square, amid a downpour of
rain, one would suppose sufficient to quench the torch of Hymen, though
it burned as brightly as Capt. Drummond’s oxygen light; and on the
other hand, how frequently are the bluest azure of heaven and the most
balmy airs shed upon the heart bursting with affliction, or the head
bowed with grief; and without any desire to impugn, as a much high
authority has done, the moral character of the moon, how many a scene
of blood and rapine has its mild radiance illumined. Such reflections
as these came thronging to my mind, as on the afternoon of Tuesday I
neared the little village of our rendezvous.
The scene which in all its peaceful beauty lay before me, was truly a
bitter contrast to the occasion that led me thither. I stood upon a
little peninsula which separates the Shannon from the wide Atlantic. On
one side the placed river flowed on its course, between fields of
waving corn, or rich pasturage—the beautiful island of Scattery, with
its picturesque ruins reflected in the unrippled tide—the cheerful
voices of the reapers, and the merry laugh of the children were mingled
with the seaman’s cry of the sailors, who were “heaving short” on their
anchor, to take the evening tide. The village, which consisted of
merely a few small cabins, was still from its situation a pleasing
object in the picture, and the blue smoke that rose in slender columns
from the humble dwellings, took from the scene its character of
loneliness, and suggested feelings of home and homely enjoyments, which
human habitations, however lowly, never fail to do.
“At any other time,” thought I, “and how I could have enjoyed all this,
but now—and, ha, I find it is already past five o’clock, and if I am
rightly informed I am still above a mile from ‘Carrigaholt,’ where we
were to meet.”
I had dismissed my conveyance when nearing the village, to avoid
observation, and now took a foot-path over the hills. Before I had
proceeded half a mile, the scene changed completely. I found myself
traversing a small glen, grown over with a low oak scrub, and not
presenting, on any side, the slightest trace of habitation. I saw that
the ground had been selected by an adept. The glen, which grew narrow
as I advanced, suddenly disclosed to my view a glimpse of the Atlantic,
upon which the declining sun was pouring a flood of purple glory. I had
scarcely turned from the contemplation of this beautiful object, when a
long low whistle attracted my attention. I looked in the direction from
whence it proceeded, and discovered at some distance from me three
figures standing beside the ruin of an old Abbey, which I now for the
first time perceived.
If I had entertained any doubt as to who they were, it had been
speedily resolved, for I now saw one of the party waving his hat to me,
whom, I soon recognized to be Curzon; he came forward to meet me, and,
in the few hundred yards that intervened before our reaching the
others, told me as much as he knew of the opposite party; which, after
all, was but little. Mr. Beamish, my adversary, he described as a
morose, fire-eating southern, that evidently longed for an “affair”
with a military man, then considered a circumstance of some eclat in
the south; his second, the doctor, on the contrary, was by far “the
best of the cut-throats,” a most amusing little personage, full of his
own importance, and profuse in his legends of his own doings in love
and war, and evidently disposed to take the pleasing side of every
occurrence in life; they both agreed in but one point—a firm and fixed
resolve to give no explanation of the quarrel with me. “So then,” said
I, as Curzon hurried over the preceding account, “you absolutely know
nothing whatever of the reason for which I am about to give this man a
meeting.”
“No more than you,” said Curzon, with imperturbable gravity; “but one
thing I am certain of—had I not at once promised him such, he would
have posted you in Limerick the next morning; and as you know our mess
rule in the 4—th, I thought it best—”
“Oh, certainly, quite right; but now are you quite certain I am the man
who offended him? For I solemnly assure you, I have not the most remote
recollection of having ever heard of him.”
“That point,” said Curzon, “there can be no doubt of, for he not only
designated you as Mr. Harry Lorrequer, but the gentleman that made all
Cork laugh so heartily, by his representation of Othello.”
“Stop!” said I, “say not a word more; I’m his man.”
By this time we had reached the ruins, and turning a corner came in
full contact with the enemy; they had been resting themselves on a
tombstone as we approached.
“Allow me,” said Curzon, stepping a little in advance of me; “allow me
to introduce my friend Mr. Lorrequer, Dr. Finicane,—Dr. Finicane, Mr.
Lorrequer.”
“Finucane, if quite agreeable to you; Finucane,” said the little
gentleman, as he lifted his hat straight off his head, and replaced it
most accurately, by way of salute. “Mr. Lorrequer, it is with sincere
pleasure I make your acquaintance.” Here Mr. Beamish bowed stiffly, in
return to my salutation, and at the instant a kind of vague sensation
crossed my mind, that those red whiskers, and that fiery face were not
seen for the first time; but the thumbscrews of the holy office would
have been powerless to refresh my memory as to when.
“Captain,” said the doctor, “may I request the favour of your company
this way, one minute;” they both walked aside; the only words which
reached me as I moved off, to permit their conference, being an
assurance on the part of the doctor, “that it was a sweet spot he
picked out, for, by having them placed north and south, neither need
have a patch of sky behind him.” Very few minutes sufficed for
preliminaries, and they both advanced, smirking and smiling, as if they
had just arranged a new plan for the amelioration of the poor, or the
benefit of the manufacturing classes, instead of making preparations
for sending a gentleman out of the world.
“Then if I understand you, captain,” said the doctor, “you step the
distance, and I give the word.”
“Exactly,” said Curzon.
After a joking allusion to my friend’s length of limb, at which we all
laughed heartily, we were placed, Curzon and the doctor standing and
breaking the line between us; the pistols were then put into our hands,
the doctor saying—“Now, gentlemen, I’ll just retire six paces, and turn
round, which will be quite time enough to prepare, and at the word
‘fire,’ ye’ll blaze away; mind now.” With a knowing wink, the doctor
delivered this direction, and immediately moved off; the word “fire”
followed, and both pistols went off together. My hat was struck near
the top, and, as the smoke cleared away, I perceived that my ball had
taken effect upon my adversary; he was wounded a little below the knee
and appeared to steady himself with the greatest difficulty. “Your
friend is hit,” said Curzon, to the doctor, who now came forward with
another pistol. “Your friend is hit.”
“So I perceive,” said he, placing his finger on the spot; “but it is no
harm in life; so we proceed, if you please.”
“You don’t mean to demand another shot?” said Curzon.
“Faith, do I,” said the doctor coolly.
“Then,” said Curzon, “I must tell you most unequivocally, I refuse, and
shall now withdraw my friend; and had it not been for a regulation
peculiar to our regiment, but never intended to include cases of this
nature, we had not been here now; for up to this hour my principal and
myself are in utter ignorance of any cause of offence ever having been
offered by him to Mr. Beamish.”
“Giles, do you hear this?” said the doctor.
But Giles did not hear it, for the rapid loss of blood from his wound
had so weakened him, that he had fainted, and now lay peaceably on the
grass. Etiquette was now at an end, and we all ran forward to assist
the wounded man; for some minutes he lay apparently quite senseless,
and when he at last rallied and looked wildly about him, it appeared to
be with difficulty that he recalled any recollection of the place, and
the people around him; for a few seconds he fixed his eyes steadily
upon the doctor, and with a lip pale and bloodless, and a voice
quivering from weakness, said,
“Fin! Didn’t I tell ye, that pistol always threw high—oh!” and this he
said with a sigh that nearly overpowered him, “Oh, Fin, if you had only
given me the saw-handled one, that _I am used to;_ but it is no good
talking now.”
In my inmost heart I was grateful to the little doctor for his mistake,
for I plainly perceived what “the saw-handled one he was used to” might
have done for me, and could not help muttering to myself with good Sir
Andrew—“If I had known he was so cunning of fence, I’d have seen him
damned before that I fought with him.”
Our first duty was now to remove the wounded man to the high road,
about which both he himself and his second seemed disposed to make some
difficulty; they spoke together for a few moments in a low tone of
voice, and then the doctor addressed us—“We feel, gentlemen, this is
not a time for any concealment; but the truth is, we have need of great
circumspection here, for I must inform you, we are both of us bound
over in heavy recognizances to keep the peace.”
“Bound over to keep the peace!” said Curzon and myself together.
“Nothing less; and although there is nobody hereabout would tell, yet
if the affair got into the papers by any means, why there are some
people in Cork would like to press my friend there, for he is a very
neat shot when he has the saw-handle,” and here the doctor winked.
We had little time permitted us, to think upon the oddity of meeting a
man in such circumstances, for we were now obliged to contribute our
aid in conveying him to the road, where some means might be procured
for his transfer to Kilrush, or some other town in the neighbourhood,
for he was by this time totally unable to walk.
After half an hour’s toiling, we at last did reach the highway, by
which time I had ample opportunity, short as the space was, to see
something of the character of our two opponents. It appeared the doctor
exercised the most absolute control over his large friend, dictating
and commanding in a tone which the other never ventured to resist; for
a moment or two Mr. Beamish expressed a great desire to be conveyed by
night to Kilrush, where he might find means to cross the Shannon into
Kerry; this, however, the doctor opposed strenuously, from the risque
of publicity; and finally settled that we should all go in a body to
his friend, Father Malachi Brennan’s house, only two miles off, where
the sick man would have the most tender care, and what the doctor
considered equally indispensable, we ourselves a most excellent supper,
and a hearty welcome.
“You know Father Malachi, of course, Mr. Lorrequer?”
“I am ashamed to say I do not.”
“Not know Malachi Brennan and live in Clare! Well, well, that is
strange; sure he is the priest of this country for twelve miles in
every direction of you, and a better man, and a pleasanter, there does
not live in the diocese; though I’m his cousin that says it.”
After professing all the possible pleasure it would afford my friend
and myself to make the acquaintance of Father Malachi, we proceeded to
place Mr. Beamish in a car that was passing at the time, and started
for the residence of the good priest. The whole of the way thither I
was occupied but by one thought, a burning anxiety to know the cause of
our quarrel, and I longed for the moment when I might get the doctor
apart from his friend, to make the inquiry.
“There—look down to your left, where you see the lights shining so
brightly, that is Father Malachi’s house; as sure as my name is De
Courcy Finucane, there’s fun going on there this night.”
“Why, there certainly does seem a great illumination in the valley
there,” said I.
“May I never,” said the doctor, “if it isn’t a station—”
“A station!—pray may I ask—”
“You need not ask a word on the subject; for, if I am a true prophet,
you’ll know what it means before morning.”
A little more chatting together, brought us to a narrow road, flanked
on either side by high hedges of hawthorn, and, in a few minutes more,
we stood before the priest’s residence, a long, white-washed, thatched
house, having great appearance of comfort and convenience. Arrived
here, the doctor seemed at once to take on him the arrangement of the
whole party; for, after raising the latch and entering the house, he
returned to us in a few minutes, and said,
“Wait a while now; we’ll not go in to Father Malachi, ‘till we’ve put
Giles to bed.”
We, accordingly, lifted him from off the car, and assisted him into the
house, and following Finucane down a narrow passage, at last reached a
most comfortable little chamber, with a neat bed; here we placed him,
while the doctor gave some directions to a bare-headed, red-legged
hussey, without shoes or stockings, and himself proceeded to examine
the wound, which was a more serious one than it at first appeared.
After half an hour thus occupied, during which time, roars of merriment
and hearty peals of laughter burst upon us every time the door opened,
from a distant part of the house, where his reverence was entertaining
his friends, and which, as often as they were heard by the doctor
seemed to produce in him sensations not unlike those that afflicted the
“wedding guest” in the “Ancient Mariner,” when he heard the “loud
bassoon,” and as certainly imparted an equally longing desire to be a
partaker in the mirth. We arranged every thing satisfactorily for Mr.
Beamish’s comfort, and with a large basin of vinegar and water, to keep
his knee cool, and a strong tumbler of hot punch, to keep his heart
warm—homeopathic medicine is not half so new as Dr. Hahnneman would
make us believe—we left Mr. Beamish to his own meditations, and
doubtless regrets that he did not get “the saw-handled one, he was used
to,” while we proceeded to make our bows to Father Malachi Brennan.
But, as I have no intention to treat the good priest with ingratitude,
I shall not present him to my readers at the tail of a chapter.