The Duel
“I knew it was a duel;--bedad I did,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon,
standing at the corner of Orchard Street and Oxford Street, when
Phineas had half told his story. “I was sure of it from the tone of
your voice, my boy. We mustn’t let it come off, that’s all;--not
if we can help it.” Then Phineas was allowed to proceed and finish
his story. “I don’t see any way out of it; I don’t, indeed,” said
Laurence. By this time Phineas had come to think that the duel was in
very truth the best way out of the difficulty. It was a bad way out,
but then it was a way;--and he could not see any other. “As for ill
treating him, that’s nonsense,” said Laurence. “What are the girls to
do, if one fellow mayn’t come on as soon as another fellow is down?
But then, you see, a fellow never knows when he’s down himself, and
therefore he thinks that he’s ill used. I’ll tell you what now. I
shouldn’t wonder if we couldn’t do it on the sly,--unless one of you
is stupid enough to hit the other in an awkward place. If you are
certain of your hand now, the right shoulder is the best spot.”
Phineas felt very certain that he would not hit Lord Chiltern in an
awkward place, although he was by no means sure of his hand. Let come
what might, he would not aim at his adversary. But of this he had
thought it proper to say nothing to Laurence Fitzgibbon.
And the duel did come off on the sly. The meeting in the drawing-room
in Portman Square, of which mention was made in the last chapter,
took place on a Wednesday afternoon. On the Thursday, Friday, Monday,
and Tuesday following, the great debate on Mr. Mildmay’s bill was
continued, and at three on the Tuesday night the House divided. There
was a majority in favour of the Ministers, not large enough to permit
them to claim a triumph for their party, or even an ovation for
themselves; but still sufficient to enable them to send their bill
into committee. Mr. Daubeny and Mr. Turnbull had again joined
their forces together in opposition to the ministerial measure. On
the Thursday Phineas had shown himself in the House, but during
the remainder of this interesting period he was absent from his
place, nor was he seen at the clubs, nor did any man know of his
whereabouts. I think that Lady Laura Kennedy was the first to miss
him with any real sense of his absence. She would now go to Portman
Square on the afternoon of every Sunday,--at which time her husband
was attending the second service of his church,--and there she would
receive those whom she called her father’s guests. But as her father
was never there on the Sundays, and as these gatherings had been
created by herself, the reader will probably think that she was
obeying her husband’s behests in regard to the Sabbath after a very
indifferent fashion. The reader may be quite sure, however, that Mr.
Kennedy knew well what was being done in Portman Square. Whatever
might be Lady Laura’s faults, she did not commit the fault of
disobeying her husband in secret. There were, probably, a few words
on the subject; but we need not go very closely into that matter at
the present moment.
On the Sunday which afforded some rest in the middle of the great
Reform debate Lady Laura asked for Mr. Finn, and no one could answer
her question. And then it was remembered that Laurence Fitzgibbon
was also absent. Barrington Erle knew nothing of Phineas,--had heard
nothing; but was able to say that Fitzgibbon had been with Mr.
Ratler, the patronage secretary and liberal whip, early on Thursday,
expressing his intention of absenting himself for two days. Mr.
Ratler had been wroth, bidding him remain at his duty, and pointing
out to him the great importance of the moment. Then Barrington Erle
quoted Laurence Fitzgibbon’s reply. “My boy,” said Laurence to poor
Ratler, “the path of duty leads but to the grave. All the same; I’ll
be in at the death, Ratler, my boy, as sure as the sun’s in heaven.”
Not ten minutes after the telling of this little story, Fitzgibbon
entered the room in Portman Square, and Lady Laura at once asked him
after Phineas. “Bedad, Lady Laura, I have been out of town myself for
two days, and I know nothing.”
“Mr. Finn has not been with you, then?”
“With me! No,--not with me. I had a job of business of my own which
took me over to Paris. And has Phinny fled too? Poor Ratler! I
shouldn’t wonder if it isn’t an asylum he’s in before the session is
over.”
Laurence Fitzgibbon certainly possessed the rare accomplishment of
telling a lie with a good grace. Had any man called him a liar he
would have considered himself to be not only insulted, but injured
also. He believed himself to be a man of truth. There were, however,
in his estimation certain subjects on which a man might depart as
wide as the poles are asunder from truth without subjecting himself
to any ignominy for falsehood. In dealing with a tradesman as to his
debts, or with a rival as to a lady, or with any man or woman in
defence of a lady’s character, or in any such matter as that of a
duel, Laurence believed that a gentleman was bound to lie, and that
he would be no gentleman if he hesitated to do so. Not the slightest
prick of conscience disturbed him when he told Lady Laura that he
had been in Paris, and that he knew nothing of Phineas Finn. But, in
truth, during the last day or two he had been in Flanders, and not in
Paris, and had stood as second with his friend Phineas on the sands
at Blankenberg, a little fishing-town some twelve miles distant
from Bruges, and had left his friend since that at an hotel at
Ostend,--with a wound just under the shoulder, from which a bullet
had been extracted.
The manner of the meeting had been in this wise. Captain Colepepper
and Laurence Fitzgibbon had held their meeting, and at this meeting
Laurence had taken certain standing-ground on behalf of his friend,
and in obedience to his friend’s positive instruction;--which was
this, that his friend could not abandon his right of addressing the
young lady, should he hereafter ever think fit to do so. Let that
be granted, and Laurence would do anything. But then that could not
be granted, and Laurence could only shrug his shoulders. Nor would
Laurence admit that his friend had been false. “The question lies in
a nutshell,” said Laurence, with that sweet Connaught brogue which
always came to him when he desired to be effective;--“here it is. One
gentleman tells another that he’s sweet upon a young lady, but that
the young lady has refused him, and always will refuse him, for ever
and ever. That’s the truth anyhow. Is the second gentleman bound by
that not to address the young lady? I say he is not bound. It’d be a
d----d hard tratement, Captain Colepepper, if a man’s mouth and all
the ardent affections of his heart were to be stopped in that manner!
By Jases, I don’t know who’d like to be the friend of any man if
that’s to be the way of it.”
Captain Colepepper was not very good at an argument. “I think they’d
better see each other,” said Colepepper, pulling his thick grey
moustache.
“If you choose to have it so, so be it. But I think it the hardest
thing in the world;--I do indeed.” Then they put their heads together
in the most friendly way, and declared that the affair should, if
possible, be kept private.
On the Thursday night Lord Chiltern and Captain Colepepper went over
by Calais and Lille to Bruges. Laurence Fitzgibbon, with his friend
Dr. O’Shaughnessy, crossed by the direct boat from Dover to Ostend.
Phineas went to Ostend by Dover and Calais, but he took the day
route on Friday. It had all been arranged among them, so that there
might be no suspicion as to the job in hand. Even O’Shaughnessy and
Laurence Fitzgibbon had left London by separate trains. They met on
the sands at Blankenberg about nine o’clock on the Saturday morning,
having reached that village in different vehicles from Ostend and
Bruges, and had met quite unobserved amidst the sand-heaps. But one
shot had been exchanged, and Phineas had been wounded in the right
shoulder. He had proposed to exchange another shot with his left
hand, declaring his capability of shooting quite as well with the
left as with the right; but to this both Colepepper and Fitzgibbon
had objected. Lord Chiltern had offered to shake hands with his late
friend in a true spirit of friendship, if only his late friend would
say that he did not intend to prosecute his suit with the young lady.
In all these disputes the young lady’s name was never mentioned.
Phineas indeed had not once named Violet to Fitzgibbon, speaking of
her always as the lady in question; and though Laurence correctly
surmised the identity of the young lady, he never hinted that he had
even guessed her name. I doubt whether Lord Chiltern had been so wary
when alone with Captain Colepepper; but then Lord Chiltern was, when
he spoke at all, a very plain-spoken man. Of course his lordship’s
late friend Phineas would give no such pledge, and therefore Lord
Chiltern moved off the ground and back to Blankenberg and Bruges, and
into Brussels, in still living enmity with our hero. Laurence and the
doctor took Phineas back to Ostend, and though the bullet was then in
his shoulder, Phineas made his way through Blankenberg after such a
fashion that no one there knew what had occurred. Not a living soul,
except the five concerned, was at that time aware that a duel had
been fought among the sand-hills.
Laurence Fitzgibbon made his way to Dover by the Saturday night’s
boat, and was able to show himself in Portman Square on the Sunday.
“Know anything about Phinny Finn?” he said afterwards to Barrington
Erle, in answer to an inquiry from that anxious gentleman. “Not
a word! I think you’d better send the town-crier round after
him.” Barrington, however, did not feel quite so well assured of
Fitzgibbon’s truth as Lady Laura had done.
Dr. O’Shaughnessy remained during the Sunday and Monday at Ostend
with his patient, and the people at the inn only knew that Mr. Finn
had sprained his shoulder badly; and on the Tuesday they came back
to London again, via Calais and Dover. No bone had been broken, and
Phineas, though his shoulder was very painful, bore the journey well.
O’Shaughnessy had received a telegram on the Monday, telling him that
the division would certainly take place on the Tuesday,--and on the
Tuesday, at about ten in the evening, Phineas went down to the House.
“By ----, you’re here,” said Ratler, taking hold of him with an
affection that was too warm. “Yes; I’m here,” said Phineas, wincing
in agony; “but be a little careful, there’s a good fellow. I’ve been
down in Kent and put my arm out.”
“Put your arm out, have you?” said Ratler, observing the sling for
the first time. “I’m sorry for that. But you’ll stop and vote?”
“Yes;--I’ll stop and vote. I’ve come up for the purpose. But I hope
it won’t be very late.”
“There are both Daubeny and Gresham to speak yet, and at least three
others. I don’t suppose it will be much before three. But you’re
all right now. You can go down and smoke if you like!” In this way
Phineas Finn spoke in the debate, and heard the end of it, voting for
his party, and fought his duel with Lord Chiltern in the middle of
it.
He did go and sit on a well-cushioned bench in the smoking-room, and
then was interrogated by many of his friends as to his mysterious
absence. He had, he said, been down in Kent, and had had an accident
with his arm, by which he had been confined. When this questioner and
that perceived that there was some little mystery in the matter, the
questioners did not push their questions, but simply entertained
their own surmises. One indiscreet questioner, however, did trouble
Phineas sorely, declaring that there must have been some affair in
which a woman had had a part, and asking after the young lady of
Kent. This indiscreet questioner was Laurence Fitzgibbon, who, as
Phineas thought, carried his spirit of intrigue a little too far.
Phineas stayed and voted, and then he went painfully home to his
lodgings.
How singular would it be if this affair of the duel should pass away,
and no one be a bit the wiser but those four men who had been with
him on the sands at Blankenberg! Again he wondered at his own luck.
He had told himself that a duel with Lord Chiltern must create
a quarrel between him and Lord Chiltern’s relations, and also
between him and Violet Effingham; that it must banish him from
his comfortable seat for Loughton, and ruin him in regard to his
political prospects. And now he had fought his duel, and was back in
town,--and the thing seemed to have been a thing of nothing. He had
not as yet seen Lady Laura or Violet, but he had no doubt but they
both were as much in the dark as other people. The day might arrive,
he thought, on which it would be pleasant for him to tell Violet
Effingham what had occurred, but that day had not come as yet.
Whither Lord Chiltern had gone, or what Lord Chiltern intended to
do, he had not any idea; but he imagined that he should soon hear
something of her brother from Lady Laura. That Lord Chiltern should
say a word to Lady Laura of what had occurred,--or to any other
person in the world,--he did not in the least suspect. There could
be no man more likely to be reticent in such matters than Lord
Chiltern,--or more sure to be guided by an almost exaggerated sense
of what honour required of him. Nor did he doubt the discretion of
his friend Fitzgibbon;--if only his friend might not damage the
secret by being too discreet. Of the silence of the doctor and the
captain he was by no means equally sure; but even though they should
gossip, the gossiping would take so long a time in oozing out and
becoming recognised information, as to have lost much of its power
for injuring him. Were Lady Laura to hear at this moment that he
had been over to Belgium, and had fought a duel with Lord Chiltern
respecting Violet, she would probably feel herself obliged to quarrel
with him; but no such obligation would rest on her, if in the course
of six or nine months she should gradually have become aware that
such an encounter had taken place.
Lord Chiltern, during their interview at the rooms in Great
Marlborough Street, had said a word to him about the seat in
Parliament;--had expressed some opinion that as he, Phineas Finn, was
interfering with the views of the Standish family in regard to Miss
Effingham, he ought not to keep the Standish seat, which had been
conferred upon him in ignorance of any such intended interference.
Phineas, as he thought of this, could not remember Lord Chiltern’s
words, but there was present to him an idea that such had been their
purport. Was he bound, in circumstances as they now existed, to give
up Loughton? He made up his mind that he was not so bound unless
Lord Chiltern should demand from him that he should do so; but,
nevertheless, he was uneasy in his position. It was quite true that
the seat now was his for this session by all parliamentary law, even
though the electors themselves might wish to be rid of him, and that
Lord Brentford could not even open his mouth upon the matter in a
tone more loud than that of a whisper. But Phineas, feeling that
he had consented to accept the favour of a corrupt seat from Lord
Brentford, felt also that he was bound to give up the spoil if it
were demanded from him. If it were demanded from him, either by the
father or the son, it should be given up at once.
On the following morning he found a leading article in the _People’s
Banner_ devoted solely to himself. “During the late debate,”--so ran
a passage in the leading article,--“Mr. Finn, Lord Brentford’s Irish
nominee for his pocket-borough at Loughton, did at last manage to
stand on his legs and open his mouth. If we are not mistaken, this
is Mr. Finn’s third session in Parliament, and hitherto he has been
unable to articulate three sentences, though he has on more than one
occasion made the attempt. For what special merit this young man has
been selected for aristocratic patronage we do not know,--but that
there must be some merit recognisable by aristocratic eyes, we
surmise. Three years ago he was a raw young Irishman, living in
London as Irishmen only know how to live, earning nothing, and
apparently without means; and then suddenly he bursts out as a member
of Parliament and as the friend of Cabinet Ministers. The possession
of one good gift must be acceded to the honourable member for
Loughton,--he is a handsome young man, and looks to be as strong as
a coal-porter. Can it be that his promotion has sprung from this? Be
this as it may, we should like to know where he has been during his
late mysterious absence from Parliament, and in what way he came by
the wound in his arm. Even handsome young members of Parliament,
fêted by titled ladies and their rich lords, are amenable to the
laws,--to the laws of this country, and to the laws of any other
which it may suit them to visit for a while!”
“Infamous scoundrel!” said Phineas to himself, as he read this.
“Vile, low, disreputable blackguard!” It was clear enough, however,
that Quintus Slide had found out something of his secret. If so, his
only hope would rest on the fact that his friends were not likely to
see the columns of the _People’s Banner_.