"Look doun, look doun now, ladye fair,
On him ye lo'ed sae weel;
A brawer man than yon blue corse
Never drew sword of steel."
The dead silence that ensued was broken first by Guy Livingstone. "It
was well done! I say it and maintain it; Mohun, I envy you that blow!"
He looked round as if to challenge contradiction; but evidently the
general opinion was that Levinge had only got his deserts. By this time
the fallen man had recovered his consciousness, and struggled up, first
into a sitting posture, then to his feet; he stood leaning against a
table, swaying to and fro, and staring about him with wild eyes half
glazed. At last he spoke in a thick, faint voice, stanching all the
while the gushing blood with his handkerchief.
"Will any one here be my second, or must I look for a friend elsewhere?"
There was a pause, and then from the circle stepped forth Camille de
Rosny. He did not like Levinge, and thought in the present instance he
had behaved infamously, but it was the fashion hereditary in his gallant
house to back the losing side; so, when he saw every one else shrink
from the appeal, he bowed gravely and said,
"I shall have that honor, if you will permit me. In an hour I shall be
at the orders of M. le Colonel's second. Where shall I find him?"
"Here," replied Livingstone. "I think no one will contest my right to
see my old friend through this quarrel."
Mohun grasped his hand. "I would have chosen you among a thousand. You
understand me, and know what I wish."
"Then I shall expect you, De Rosny," Guy went on. The Frenchman assented
courteously, and then, turning to his principal,
"Let us go," he said. "My _coupé_ is at your disposition, M. Levinge.
_Messieurs, au plaisir._"
Horace followed him with a step that was still faltering and uncertain;
but at the door he turned, and, straightening himself up, faced his
adversary with such a look as few human countenances have ever worn.
There was more in it than mortal hatred: it expressed a sort of devilish
satisfaction and anticipation, as if he knew that his revenge was
secured.
Mohun read all this as plainly as if it had been written down in so many
words; but he only smiled as he seated himself and lighted a cigar.
There was an end of lansquenet for that night. An ordinary quarrel would
have made little impression on those reckless spirits, who had, most of
them, at one time or another, "been out" themselves; but they felt that
what they had witnessed now was the prologue to a certain tragedy; there
was a savor of death in the air; so they dropped off one by one, leaving
Guy and Ralph alone; not before the latter had expressed, with much
politeness, "his desolation at having been compelled to interrupt a
_partie_, which he trusted was only deferred till the morrow."
Before long De Rosny returned. The preliminaries were soon arranged.
Pistols were necessarily to be the weapons, for Levinge had seldom
touched a foil; and, as the Frenchman said with a bow that made his
objection a compliment, "Colonel Mohun's reputation as a swordsman was
European." An early hour next morning was fixed for the _venue_, in the
Pré aux Clercs of the nineteenth century--the Bois de Boulogne.
When they were alone again Guy turned gravely to his companion. "It is a
bad business, I fear, though you could not have acted otherwise; but I
would rather your adversary were any other than Levinge. It is a
murderous, unscrupulous scoundrel as ever lived. He can shoot--that's
nothing; so can you, better than most men--but, mark me, Ralph, he has
been out twice, and hit his man each time, the last mortally; but on
neither occasion was _his fire returned_. Men say he has an awkward
knack of pulling the trigger half a second too soon. I don't know if
this is true, but I do know that Seymour, who seconded him at Florence
when he killed O'Neill, has been more than cool to him ever since."
"Faith, I can well believe it," Mohun answered, quietly, "and it is very
probable I may get hard hit to-morrow; but of killing him I feel morally
certain. Do you believe in presentiments? I do. Before that drunken
brute had half done speaking, I saw imminent death written in his face
as plainly as if I had possessed the Highland second-sight. I think I
could almost tell you how it will look _after my shot_. Well, we must
talk of business. My arrangements won't take me long. I have very little
to dispose of; it is almost all entailed property. I shall leave you the
choice of any thing among my goods and chattels. You will find some arms
that you may fancy. But if my pistols fail me to-morrow, so that Levinge
lives over it, do me the favor to throw them into the Seine; they
deserve nothing better. As for the ready-money I have with me, and some
more at my banker's--" he hesitated, and then went on in a gentler
voice, "I should like it to go to that poor child whom we met to-night.
If I live I will take care she is settled in England, where some one
will be kind to her. Her father was a good soldier and a true-hearted
gentleman. And, Guy, I am sorry that I sneered at you to-night; I hardly
meant it when I said it."
This was a great concession from Mohun, and his hearer thought so as he
wrung his hand hard and replied,
"Don't think of that again. I did you justice an hour ago."
There was this peculiarity about Ralph; he was not only insensible to
danger, like other men, but he absolutely seemed to revel in it. The
genial side of his character came out at the approach of deadly peril,
just as some morose natures will soften and brighten temporarily under
the influence of strong wine.
His mood seemed to change, however, suddenly; and when, after a long
pause, he spoke again, it was in a low, broken voice, as if to himself.
"'Be sure your sin will find you out.' It is thirty years since I heard
that text; I forgot it the same day, and never thought of it again till
now. There may be truth in that. It hunted _her_ to her grave, and it
will not leave her in peace even there. And yet she suffered enough to
make atonement. She tried not to let me see how much, but I did see it;
I watched her dying for a year and more. I am sure she is an angel now.
I like to think so, though I shall never see her again. I would not
believe otherwise if a thousand priests said it and swore it; for I
never moved from her side, after she was dead, till I saw the smile come
on her face. She must have been happy then; do you not think so? They
would hardly have gone on punishing her forever. It was all my fault,
you know."
He gazed at Livingstone anxiously, almost timidly. Guy bowed his head in
assent, but he could not find words to answer just then. There was
something very terrible in that opening of the flood-gates when a life's
pent-up remorse broke forth.
"I think you will end better than I have done," Mohun went on, "though
you are going down-hill fast now. But I have no right even to warn you.
Only take care--" He broke off suddenly, and roused himself with an
effort. "I shall go home and dress now, and get through what little I
have to write, and then lie down for an hour or two. Nothing makes the
hand shake like a sleepless night. I'll call for you in good time." So
he went away.
Livingstone sat thinking, without ever closing his eyes, till Mohun
returned. The latter looked fresh and alert; he had slept for the time
he had allotted to himself quite calmly and comfortably; the old habits
of picket-duty had taught him to watch or sleep at pleasure.
After Guy had made a careful toilette, at the special request of his
principal they started, and in forty minutes were on the ground. Levinge
and his second, with the surgeon, arrived almost immediately; the former
stood somewhat apart, keeping the lower part of his face carefully
muffled.
It was a dull, chill morning; the sky of a steely-gray, without a
promise of a gleam from the sun, which had risen _somewhere_, but was
reserving himself for better times. There was a sort of desultory wind
blowing, just strong enough at intervals to bring the moist brown leaves
sullenly down.
After the pistols had been scientifically loaded, the seconds placed
their men fifteen yards apart--with such known shots it was not worth
while shortening the distance.
The sensations of ordinary mortals under such circumstances are somewhat
curious. Very few are afraid, I think; but one has an impression that
one's own proportions are becoming sensibly developed--"swelling
wisibly," in fact, like the lady at the Pickwickian tea-fight--while
those of our adversary diminish in a like ratio, so that he does not
appear near so fair a mark as he did a few minutes ago. But, with all
this, there is a quickening of the pulse not unpleasurable--something
like the excitement of the "four to the seven" chance at hazard, when
you are backing the In for a large stake.
I do not believe Mohun felt any thing of this sort. It was not his own
life, but his adversary's death he was playing for; the other was busy,
too, with still darker thoughts and purposes.
"Listen," Guy said in French; "M. de Rosny gives the signal, _un_,
_deux_, _trois_; if either fires before the last is fully pronounced, it
is murder." He looked sharply at Levinge, but the latter seemed
studiously to avoid meeting his eye. Guy felt very uncomfortable and
very savage.
The men stood opposite to one another like black marble statues, neither
showing a speck of color which might serve as a _point de mire_, each
turning only a side-front to his opponent.
De Rosny pronounced the two first words of the signal in a clear,
deliberate voice; the last left his lips almost in a shriek, for, before
it was half syllabled, his principal fired.
Quick as the movement was, it was anticipated; as Levinge's hand
stirred, Mohun made a half-face to the right, and looked his enemy
straight between the eyes. That sudden change of position, or the
consciousness of detection, probably unsettled the practiced aim, for
the ball, that would have drilled Ralph through the heart, only scored a
deep furrow in his side.
No one could have guessed that he was touched; he brought his pistol to
the level just as coolly as he would have done in the shooting-gallery,
and, after the discharge, dropped his hand with measured deliberation.
Before the smoke had curled a yard upward, Horace Levinge sprang into
the air, and, with out-stretched arms, fell crashing down upon the
grass--a bullet through his brain.
They turned him over on his back. It was a ghastly sight; the ball had
penetrated just below the arch of the right eyebrow, and all the lower
features were swollen and distorted with the blow of last night, adding
to the hideous disfigurement.
Is that the face on which the dead man used to spend hours, tending it,
like an ancient coquette, with washes and cosmetics, dreading the
faintest freckle or sunburn which might mar the smoothness of the
delicate skin? No need of the surgeon there. Cover it up quickly. The
mother that bore him, if she should recognize him, would recoil in
disgust and loathing.
"_C'en est fini_," Livingstone said to De Rosny, who stood by shuddering
in horror, not at the death, but at the treachery which had preceded it.
None but a Frenchman could have given such an accent to the low, hissing
reply, "_Je l'espére_."
Then they looked to Mohun's wound; it was nothing serious: there were a
dozen deeper on the warworn body and limbs. Indeed, I imagine his
general health was materially benefited by the blood-letting. The first
remark he made was when he was depositing his pistol in its
case--tenderly as you would lay a child in its cradle--"Do you believe
in presentiments _now_, Guy?"
The sullen sun broke out just as they turned to go, and peered curiously
through the boughs, till it found out and lighted on the angular ominous
heap, shrouded with a cloak, that, ten minutes ago, was a strong,
hot-blooded man.
There the _garde_ soon after discovered Horace Levinge; and, when he had
been owned, they buried him in _Père la Chaise_. Such events were common
then, and the police gave themselves no trouble to trace who had slain
the stranger. Among his tribes-men and kinsfolk in Houndsditch and the
Minories there was great joy at first, and afterward bitter, endless
litigation. They screamed and battled over the heritage like vultures
over a mighty carrion, tearing it at length piecemeal. He did not keep a
pet dog, and so no living creature regretted him, unless it were the
thin, delicate girl, with white cheeks and hollow eyes, who came once,
and knelt to pray by his grave for hours, her tears falling fast.
Hard as they may find it to observe other precepts of the Great Master,
this one, at least, most women have practiced easily and naturally for
eighteen hundred years: "Forgive, until seventy times seven." The acts
of some of these--how they warred with their husbands and were worsted;
how they provoked the presiding Draco, and stultified the attesting
policeman by obstinately ignoring their injuries, written legibly in
red, and black, and blue; how they interceded with many sobs for the
aggressor--are they not written in the book of the chronicles of
Bow-street and Clerkenwell?
This propensity leads them into scrapes, it is true, for our world, in
its wisdom, will take advantage of such weakness. Perhaps the next will
make them some amends.
But the mourner strewed no flowers on the grave. It would have been too
bitter a mockery; for, if there were sympathy in sweet roses and pure
white lilies, on no other spot of God's earth would they have withered
so soon: she hung up no wreath of _immortelles_; for, if such things
could be, the dearest wish one could have formed for the dead man's soul
would have been swift, utter annihilation.
Yet Fanny Challoner would scarcely have accepted Mohun's good offices if
she had guessed that the blood of her seducer and tyrant was on his
hand. She never suspected it, and so went gratefully to the home he
found for her; and there she lives yet, tranquil and contented, though
always sad and humble, among people who know nothing of her history and
love her dearly, trying her best to be useful in her generation--alone
in her cottage, that nestles under a sunny cliff, just above the white
spray-line of the Irish Sea.