THE DUEL
The trees of the orchard stood out black against a crimson sky. "Faith!
it is a color we shall see more of presently," said Laramore, divesting
himself of his doublet.
His antagonist, passing a laced handkerchief along a gleaming blade,
smiled politely. "A pretty tint. Wine, the lips of women, Captain
Laramore's blood--Lard! 'tis a color I adore!"
"Gentlemen!" cried Colonel Verney. "Once more I beg of you to forego
this foolish quarrel. William Berkeley, for the first time in your life,
be reasonable!"
The Governor turned sharply, his chest, beneath his shirt of finest
holland, swelling, each closely cropped hair upon his head, bared for
action, stiff with injured dignity.
"Colonel Richard Verney forgets himself," he began angrily; then,
"Confound you, Dick! keep your hands out of this. I don't want to fight
you too! I say not that this gentleman is disloyal, but I do say, and I
will maintain it with the last drop of my blood, that he strives to draw
to himself a party in the State, with what intent he best knows. If he
choose to pocket that assertion and withdraw, I am content."
"On guard, sir," said Carrington, raising his sword.
The Colonel shrugged his shoulders, and returned to his post beside Mr.
Peyton.
"Very well, gentlemen, since you will not be ruled. Are you ready?"
The rapiers clashed together, and the game began.
The Governor fenced brilliantly, if a trifle wildly; his antagonist with
a cool steadiness of manner and an iron wrist. Laramore fought with
bull-like ferocity, striving to beat down his opponent's guard, making
mad lunges, stamping, and keeping up a continuous rumble of oaths. Sir
Charles, always smiling, and with an air as if his thoughts were
anywhere but at that particular spot, put aside his thrusts with the
ease with which the toreador avoids the bull.
Mr. Peyton was moved to reluctant admiration. "When I was in London,
sir," he said in an excited whisper to the Colonel, "I did see Mathews
fight with Westwicke, and thought I had seen fencing indeed, but your
cousin--ah!"
Laramore's sword described a curve in the air, and lodged in the boughs
of an apple-tree, while its owner staggered forward and fell heavily to
the ground. At the same instant Carrington wounded the Governor in the
wrist. Colonel Verney struck up the weapons. "By the Lord, gentlemen!
you shall go no further! Jack Laramore's down, run through the shoulder!
Major Carrington, you have drawn blood--it is enough."
"If Sir William Berkeley is content," began Carrington, bowing to his
antagonist.
"Rat me! I've no choice," said the Governor ruefully. "You've disabled
my sword arm, and the gout has the other."
"I shall be happy to wait until the wound shall have healed," said the
Surveyor-General, with another bow.
"No, no," said his Excellency, with a laugh. "We'll cry quits. And rat
me! if now that we have had it out, I do not love thee better, Miles
Carrington, than ever I did before. In the morning when thou goest home,
burn thy library, burn Milton and Bastwick, and Withers, and the rest of
the rogues, forswear such rascally company forever, and rat me! if I
will not maintain that thou art the honestest, as well as the
longest-headed, man in the colony. There's my hand on it, and to-night
we'll have a rouse such as would make old Noll turn in his grave if he
had one."
Carrington took the proffered hand courteously, if coldly. "I thank your
Excellency for your advice. Your Excellency should have your wound
attended to at once. You are losing a deal of blood."
"Tut, a trifle!" said the Governor, airily, winding a handkerchief about
the bleeding member.
"Is there ever a chirurgeon upon the place?" asked Sir Charles in his
most dulcet tones. "If not, I fear that Captain Laramore will very
shortly make his last voyage."
"Egad! that will never do!" cried the Colonel, dropping upon his knees
beside the wounded man. "A bad thrust! Charles, thou art the very
devil!"
"Shall I ride for the doctor?" cried Mr. Peyton.
"No. Anthony Nash is at the house. Run, lad, and fetch him. He is
surgeon as well as divine."
Mr. Peyton disappeared; and presently there stood in the midst of the
group gathered about the unconscious captain, a man clad in a clerical
dress and of a very dignified and scholarly demeanor.
"Ha, gentlemen!" he said gravely, looking with bright, dark eyes from
one to the other. "This is a sorry business. Shirts, drawn rapiers,
trampled turf, Sir William bleeding, Captain Laramore senseless upon the
ground! His Excellency the Governor; Major Carrington, the
Surveyor-General; Colonel Verney, the lieutenant of the
shire;--scandalous, gentlemen!"
"And Anthony Nash who would give his chance of a mitre to have been one
of us," cried the Governor. "Ha! Anthony! dost remember the fight behind
Paul's, three to one,--and the baggage that brought it about?"
The divine, on his knees beside Laramore, looked up with a twinkle in
his eye from his work of tying laced handkerchiefs into bandages. "That
was in the dark ages, your Excellency. My memory goeth not back so far.
Ha! that is better! He is coming to himself. It is not so bad after
all."
Laramore groaned, opened his eyes, and struggled into a sitting posture.
"Blast me! but I am properly spitted. Sir Charles Carew, my compliments
to you. You are a man after my own heart. Ha, your Excellency! I find
myself in good company. Dr. Anthony Nash, I shall have you out! You have
torn the handkerchief Mistress Lettice Verney gave me."
The Doctor laughed. "You must be got to the house at once, and to bed,
where Mistress Lettice, who is as skillful in healing as in making
wounds, shall help me to properly dress this one."
Laramore staggered to his feet. "Give me an arm, Doctor; and Peyton,
clap my periwig upon my head, will you? and fetch me my sword from where
I see it, adorning yonder bough. Sir Charles Carew, I am your humble
servant. Damme! it's no disgrace to be worsted by the best sword at
Whitehall." And the gallant captain, supported by the clergyman and Mr.
Peyton, reeled off the ground; the remainder of the party waiting only
to assume doublets and wigs before following him to the house.
Two hours later Sir Charles Carew rose from the supper-table, and
leaving the gentlemen at wine, passed into the great room, and came
softly up to Patricia, sitting at the spinet.
"My heart was not there," he said, answering her smile and lifted brows.
"I am come in search of it."
She laughed, fingering the keys. "Did you leave it on the field of
honor? Fie, sir, for shame! Doctor Nash says that Captain Laramore will
not use his arm for a fortnight."
"What--" said Sir Charles, dropping his voice and leaning over
her--"what if I had been the wounded one?"
"I would have made your gruel with great pleasure, cousin."
She laughed again, and looked at him half tenderly, half mockingly.
There were silver candlesticks upon the spinet and the light from the
tall wax tapers fell with a white radiance over the slender figure in
brocade and lace, the gleaming shoulders, the beautiful face, and the
shining hair. Her eyes were brilliant, her mouth all elusive, mocking,
exquisite curves.
He raised a wandering lock of gold to his lips. "The King hath written,
commanding me home to England," he said abruptly.
"Yes, my father told me. He says the King loves you much."
Sir Charles left her side, twice walked the length of the room, and
came back to her. "Am I to go as I came--alone?" he asked, standing
before her with folded arms.
"If you so desire, sir?"
"Will you go with me?"
"Yes."
He caught her in his arms; but she cried out and freed herself.
"No, no, not yet!" she said breathlessly. "Listen to me."
She moved backwards a step or two, and stood facing him, her hand at her
bosom, a color in her cheek, her eyes like stars. "I do not know that I
love you, Sir Charles Carew. At times I have thought that I did; at
times, not. There is an unrest here," touching her heart, "which has
come to me lately. I do not know--it may be the beginning of love. Last
night my father had much talk with me. It is his dearest wish that you
and I should wed. He has been my very good father always. If you will
take me as I am, not loving you yet, but with a heart free to learn,
why--" Her voice broke.
Sir Charles flung himself at her feet, and, taking possession of her
hands, covered them with kisses. A voice passed the window, singing
through the night:--
"Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,
And shake the green leaves from the tree;
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am weary."
"Margery again?" said Sir Charles, rising.
"Yes," said Patricia, with a troubled voice.
The voice began the stanza again:--
"Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,
And shake the green leaves from the tree?"
"What is the matter?" cried Sir Charles in alarm.
Patricia stared at him with wide, unseeing eyes. "Martinmas wind," she
said in a low, clear, even voice. "Martinmas wind! The leaves drift in
clouds, yellow and red, red like blood. Look at the river flowing in the
sunshine! And the tall gray crags! Ah!" and she put her hands before her
face.
"What is it?" cried her suitor. "What is the matter? You are ill!"
She dropped her hands. "I am well now," she said tremulously. "I do not
know what it was. I had a vision--" she broke into wild laughter.
"I am fey, I think," she cried. "Let me go to my room; I am better
there."
He held the door open, and she passed him quickly with lowered eyes. He
watched her run up the stairs, and then threw himself into a chair and
stared thoughtfully at the floor.