PISTOLS FOR TWO
Let us avoid repetition, and return to Eliphalet Cardomay where we left
him at the dining-table, to march backwards to a past episode.
Lack of concentration and cohesion are among the chief snares lying in
wait for him who chronicles character rather than plot. One might, of
course, hazard, by way of excuse, that the recently recounted
reminiscence was of greater interest than a detailed account of a roast
leg of lamb followed by black-currant tart would prove. But
justifications are always dull. To Eliphalet Cardomay the London episode
was a grief unspeakable, whereas the homely repast, consumed in such
familiar and well-loved surroundings, was the very reverse.
He finished that black-currant tart unto the final morsel, till naught
but the permanganate-coloured stains upon the plate remained in token of
its recent being. There was something almost boyish in the liberality of
his appetite. In using the term boyish the period of his own youth is
not implied, for Eliphalet displayed no youthful traits until his hair
was silvered, his brow furrowed, and his eyes deep-set.
There are certain men whose mental condition bears little or no relation
to their years, and he was one of them. They are born with grown-up
minds, sage and mature convictions, unsuited to youth and only really
serviceable when they have reached that time of life with which such
gravity accords.
Eliphalet Cardomay, even when a boy, was oppressed with a middle-aged
manner and a professional mien. It might truthfully be said that his
brain and body did not synchronise until he had passed the forty-year
high-water mark. His body, or, to put it more gracefully, his externals,
were prepossessing. His broad forehead, swept-back hair, bold eyebrows
and dilated nostrils, gave suggestion of virility and power. To a maiden
they were productive of second glances, an added colour and a quickening
of heart-beats against the ramparts of her corsets. In this well-knit
yet æsthetic youth she might be pardoned for presuming there lurked
wells of high romance, tempered with humour and a knavish disposition.
It was said of him in the company, where he played juvenile leads at two
pounds two shillings a week, that he was “deep.” Furthermore, since it
was never his custom to boast about deeds of love, the young men with
whom his lot was cast credited him with the proclivities of a Lothario
and laid to his account many charming indiscretions in the glades of
Eros. The older members of the company were wiser, or deemed themselves
to be, and decided, not without a certain rough justice, that he was a
bit of a prig. For this reason, Harrington May, who specialised in
villains of the heavier kind, gave him the title of “Mother’s Boy” and
named him as such to his face.
Eliphalet was very grave (he had accomplished the forty-five manner
twenty years before he was entitled to it), and replied:
“In so far as I was born of woman your accusation is correct. My mother
died, however, when I was a year old. I presume, from your smile, you
believe you have said something offensive, but since it is nothing but
the truth I cannot allow myself to take umbrage, even though the truth
is usually a stranger to your lips.”
For one so young the speech was painfully pedantic, but it succeeded in
putting Mr. Harrington May temporarily out of action, and established
for Eliphalet a reputation for caustic repartee. He was frequently asked
to repeat his words, but this he politely declined to do, thus giving
further proof of age before accession to age.
Miss Blanche Cannon, a depictor of adventuresses on the stage and a
great Bohemian off, had been present at the contretemps, and was greatly
delighted by the young man’s urbanity and calm. It is no infrequent
occurrence for opposites to be attracted by each other, and she, with
her scatter-brained, love-a-lark disposition, scented in Eliphalet a
suitor of possible quality.
He, poor fellow, was quite unaware of this, for his thoughts were
centred in Art and a desire to make a mark in dramatic history. Hitherto
he had had no dealings with love, and many a maid had languished in vain
on that account.
But Blanche was not of the languishing brand. Having decided to ensnare
his affections, she set about making inquiries, and was greatly
intrigued to learn, from several misinformed, but talkative, young
actors, that he was “no end of a dog on the Q.T.” One of them, with an
imagination that would have thriven in Fleet Street, went to the length
of describing a _liaison_ with a certain titled lady, who had become
enamoured of Eliphalet from the stalls and had lured him away to a
castle, beside which Haddon Hall paled into insignificance. Charmed by
these accounts, Blanche Cannon’s desire developed exceedingly, and
forthwith she began a tentative archery upon the heart of Eliphalet. It
is always your student who proves the easiest prey to the wiles of love,
and one day, when she had successfully manœuvred a tête-à-tête tea-party
in her own rooms, Eliphalet succumbed, and Blanche, picking up her cue
with professional skill, dropped into his arms under a smother of
kisses.
Eliphalet was entirely proficient in the art of love-making. It was part
of his equipment as an actor. He knew the moment to fold to his bosom
the form of an adored one, and how to brush the hair back from her
forehead with just sufficient pressure to elevate the chin to the ideal
angle for imprinting a kiss. He knew how to drop his voice to a quality
of whispering and passionate vibration. All of these services he most
faithfully rendered, with one or two minor improvements suggested by a
productive mind. Repetition, however, if pursued beyond a given margin,
is apt to weary the soul, and after a while Blanche began to yearn for
variety, and to doubt if he were indeed the ideal lover. Certain
misgivings also arose in his own mind. At first he was enveloped in the
wonder of love new-born, but as time went on he was able to detect
certain faults in the poetic composition of his destined bride. For
instance, she did not respond very rapidly to the Shakespearian
atmosphere he diligently sought to produce by passionately-delivered
quotations from _Romeo and Juliet_. She showed a marked lack of interest
in the story of Abélard and Héloise, and a greater enthusiasm at the
prospect of a donkey-ride on the New Brighton sands than a lovers’
wander in leafy solitudes. She became sick of holding hands, and more
than once told him stories the humour of which would have been better
suited to the court of Bluff King Hal.
To a sensitive mind these passages of wit were distasteful, but
nevertheless Eliphalet Cardomay remained in love with praiseworthy
constancy. He built palaces, masoned and mortared of their united
talents, and spoke of the future that should be theirs—a future which
would be spoken of in retrospect by posterity. With love and guidance he
convinced himself that Blanche would in time come to a fuller
understanding of the vast responsibility they jointly held for the
furtherance of art. He pictured her as blossoming into a great emotional
actress, and to that end tried to dissuade her from over-hilarity in
public places, and to attach less importance to such trivial pleasures
as ice-creams consumed in small Italian cafés. He spoke of the glory of
mutual understanding, reciprocity, and many other long-worded matters,
tedious to a person of light-hearted habit.
For her part, Blanche was heartily disappointed that none of the alleged
characteristics displayed in the affair of the titled lady had been
revealed to her. His behaviour had been of a scrupulous purity, and
high-standing little short of ridiculous. It has been said that Blanche
was a Bohemian, which implies a taste for the savoury diet. She enjoyed
risky friendships—she liked to see the eyes of her lover catch fire and
to quell the fire by some cold drench of inconsequent nonsense. That was
caviare! There was a relish in such intimacy—but with Eliphalet, and
his erotic quotations, there was none. Wherefore, partly to stimulate
more vivid emotions, and partly for her own entertainment, she adopted
other methods, and in Mr. Harrington May and his natural villainies she
found the desired means.
May was a heavily-built man with a hearty laugh and a bullying manner.
He bullied his juniors and his lovers alike, and by so doing achieved
something of a reputation for manhood. His principle in life was to take
his fun where he found it, so, accordingly, when Blanche yearned towards
him, he threw an arm around her with a strong man’s zeal.
“Can’t see what you found to amuse you in that young spring poet,” he
observed, after the first elaborately-resisted embrace had been
achieved.
“Anyway,” returned Blanche, who was a firm believer in tantalising
methods, “he scored off you all right.”
Harrington May did not deny the charge, but “I’m scoring off him pretty
heavily at the moment,” he said.
When, that night, Eliphalet suggested to Blanche they should take
sandwiches and aerated waters and have a picnic in the pleasaunces of
Jesmond Dene the following day, she shook her head and declined.
“But my dearest, there will be no rehearsal, and you and I could——”
“I’ve something else to do, I tell you.”
She was very mysterious and roguishly declined to tell him what.
Eliphalet, unlike most youths, was not in the least suspicious, but he
thought it a strange violation of true love’s laws to harbour secrets.
When he observed as much, she put him off with a coquettish toss of the
head.
For the next couple of days each proposed meeting met with the same
answer, and at last he began to feel angry and injured.
Being of a philosophical mind, this sense of injury found expression in
more practical ways than upbraiding his _fiancée_. He reflected that, if
after so short a time she was able willingly to forego the charms of his
company, it was reasonable to expect that serious breaches would arise
should they engage upon more enduring relations. This reasoning led to
the natural conclusion that Blanche Cannon was not the right woman to
fill the post of his wife and helpmeet. It would be better, perhaps, to
tell her so at once, rather than increase the embarrassment by untimely
delay.
These thoughts were occupying his mind when Blanche herself pushed open
his dressing-room door, and, violently rubbing her cheek, stepped
inside.
“You are a nice lover, aren’t you?” she began.
“I have tried to be,” he replied evenly.
“Well, you haven’t succeeded. My idea of a lover is a knight in armour
who protects his fair lady, not you. You sit down and shut your eyes to
what’s going on in front of your nose.”
“I don’t understand, my dear. You had some secrets, and I did not like
to intrude on them without your permission.”
“No, and I suppose you’d wait for my permission before going for a man
who tried to kiss me.”
Eliphalet rose and compressed his lips.
“No one would dare with the knowledge that we are engaged.”
“Wouldn’t they, just! Well, they just have—at least one has, the vile
brute!”
“A member of this company kissed you against your will?”
“Of course.”
“Who?”
“You’d do nothing if I told you.”
“Who?” repeated Eliphalet, very white and calm.
“Harrington May.”
“Thank you. I shall know what to do, my dear. Your honour is quite safe
with me; and mine—mine has been outraged.”
He threw open the door and closed it crisply behind him, leaving Blanche
looking a little scared. She had not counted on producing the quality of
dull anger his face had worn, but thought rather he would fly into a
boy’s rage—caress her with a savage intensity and curse the man who had
sought to steal her favours. Then she would have told him that the whole
thing was a joke, devised to buck him up and make him amusing.
Afterwards, they would have gone out and had a jolly good beano. But
somehow his looks did not give encouragement for such a recital, and,
moreover, she felt a stirring of admiration for the manner in which he
had strode to confront his rival.
Eliphalet went straight to Harrington May’s room and entered uninvited.
The leading-man was removing his make-up, and he looked up over the brim
of a very dirty towel.
“What d’you want?” he demanded.
And Eliphalet answered coldly enough:
“You are a blackguard—a low, thieving blackguard. A man to whom honour
is a thing unknown.”
“That’s very pretty,” said May. “Did you write it?”
“You dared to kiss my future wife.”
Harrington May rubbed his face thoughtfully.
“Oh, and who would that be?”
“I refer to Miss Cannon.”
“Oh, ah! I see. And I’m supposed to have kissed her, am I?”
“Do you deny having done so?”
“Well, I must make quite sure before answering. There’s a note-book in
the pocket of that jacket, if you’d pass it over.”
But Eliphalet picked up a pair of gloves and flung them into the
leading-man’s face.
“Hey! Go easy! What’s that for?”
“It is a challenge.”
“A challenge, eh? To what?”
“To a duel.”
Harrington May threw back his head and laughed aloud, but for all that
he scrutinised Eliphalet shrewdly from the corner of his eye.
“As the challenged party, it is your right to choose the weapons.”
“Ah, yes, so it is. I haven’t fought a duel for a week or two, so I’d
forgotten. What do you say to crossbows?—or, if they don’t suit, I’m a
pretty good hand with the lasso.”
“The choice lies between pistols and swords.”
May flashed another quick glance. Certainly the young man appeared to be
in earnest—but the whole thing was absurd. He was on the point of
selecting swords, as the first word to come to hand, but decided
hurriedly against doing so. It was conceivable Eliphalet, in the heat of
his anger, might snatch up a sword and make a dig at him. In the course
of one or two previous productions they had fought a few stage-fights,
and Eliphalet Cardomay had rather a pretty knack with a blade. Pistols
and the thought of speeding lead would very soon destroy the foolish
ideas that were possessing him, thought May; so with a world of dignity
he said:
“I choose the trusty old bundook.”
“We will meet at midnight by the ruined mill in Jesmond Dene,” said
Eliphalet, and walked sedately from the room.
Harrington May sat motionless awhile, regarding his own image in the
glass. He felt oddly cold, and his jaw showed a disposition to tremble.
“Whew!” he said, squaring his shoulders. “This is silly! That young
upstart is trying to bounce me. Well, we must come back on him heavily,
that’s all.”
He rose and finished dressing.
At the stage-door a few members of the company had gathered, and an
inspiration seized him to narrate what had occurred. So, with plenty of
noise and a liberal allowance of margin for his own repartee, he
recounted the side-splitting exchanges that had led up to the challenge.
“What do you think, boys?” he shouted. “It’s pistols for two, at
midnight.”
To a chorus of “No,” “Chuck it,” and “You’re having us on, old man,” he
responded:
“Solemn fact, I give you my word. We meet in Jesmond Dene at the
witching hour of twelve. Coffee for one at five past.”
Never before had the company enjoyed so rich a jest, and they fell about
in ecstasies of rib-punching laughter.
“’Course I saw through it,” said May, “though he played his bluff well.
I wish some of you had been there. I was as solemn as a judge. Lord! it
was funny.”
“D’you think he was bluffing, then?” asked a very young man, whose name
was Manning, and who secretly harboured admiration for Eliphalet
Cardomay.
“I don’t _think_ about it, darling,” responded May, and was greeted with
a fresh burst of merriment, in which all but the aforesaid youngster
joined.
“It ’ud be funnier still,” he ventured, “if it turned out that he wasn’t
bluffing at all.”
But no one took any notice of that aside.
“What are you going to do, Mr. May?” asked one.
“I shall turn up, of course, dear boy, and, like as not, catch a cold
waiting half the night, while our little friend is sleeping in bed. Tell
you what: this joke is too big to keep to oneself. I’ll pay the hire of
a wagonette, then you can all slip off after the show and see the fun.”
This spirited offer was received with enthusiasm, and the whole company
was on the point of repairing to a hostelry to honour the occasion, when
Eliphalet Cardomay, carrying a small polished wooden case, came quietly
through the stage-door. At his approach the conversation died abruptly,
and all eyes were turned upon him.
“Please,” he said, asking for a gangway.
Someone touched his shoulder, and asked:
“Are you fighting a duel to-night, old man?”
“Mr. May will answer that question,” he replied, and passed into the
street.
“What did I tell you?” demanded May in his loudest tones. “Isn’t it
wonderful, eh?”
“Did you notice what he was carrying?” said very young Mr. Manning.
“Can’t say I did, unless it was a soother.”
“He had that old case of pistols from the property-room.”
“Damn good!” roared May; but the laugh stuck in his throat somehow, and
lacked the quality of genuine mirth.
The gifts bestowed by the gods upon Eliphalet Cardomay did not include a
very generous measure of humour, or he would scarcely have set about his
preparations with such precision and calm. Bearing the case of old
pinfire revolvers, he entered a gunsmith’s in High Street, and asked for
cartridges.
The shop assistant examined the bore of the weapon and rummaged about
among his stock.
“I think these’ll do,” he said, “but it’s an old pattern pistol, and
this stuff has been lying around some years. We’ve a range at the back,
if you’d care to try a few shots.”
“I should, very much. Perhaps you would lend me a wire bristle—these
barrels are a trifle rusty.”
Having little to occupy him, the amiable assistant spent half-an-hour in
cleaning up the old weapons, and succeeded in imparting to them a
greatly rejuvenated air.
“Don’t get much shooting in your line, do you?” he asked. A provincial
shopman recognises, by a kind of second-sight, every touring actor and
actress who visits the town.
“I have practised a little,” returned Eliphalet, “for you cannot use a
weapon effectively on the stage unless you are acquainted with the right
method.”
They descended to the basement, where there was a miniature range,
lighted with little whistling gas-jets. The assistant hung a target to a
clip and despatched it on a drawn wire to its appointed place. Eliphalet
loaded the pistols, and balanced them critically in his hand. Then,
laying one aside, he drew a bead and pressed the trigger. The bullet cut
the inner line at twelve o’clock.
“Throws up a shade,” he remarked.
His second shot perforated the bull very neatly.
“That’s sound shooting,” exclaimed the astonished assistant. “Try the
other one.”
There was little to choose between the two revolvers, and when all ten
shots had been fired, the target presented a very pretty pattern.
“You’ve a steady hand. Before I saw this I thought actors lifted their
elbows too much to shoot that way. I like your light hold on the butt
and the thumb straight with the barrel—it’s stylish.”
Eliphalet thanked him for his praises, paid for fifty cartridges, and
after carefully cleaning the two weapons, bade him good afternoon.
He took his meal at a chop-house, and ate but sparingly. When he had
finished, he called for paper and an envelope, and wrote a farewell
letter to Blanche, to be delivered should misadventure overtake him. It
was rather a grandiose composition, in which the word “honour” recurred
with some frequency. He placed it in his pocket, paid the bill, and
walked to the theatre.
The news of the challenge had spread like wildfire—even the stage hands
and cleaners were in possession of every detail. Wherever he went he was
followed by curious glances, and often after he had passed explosive but
suppressed giggles would break out. It was clear the company was
treating the affair as a joke. Personally, he could see very small
provocation for laughter, but reflecting that with trivial minds mirth
and calamity are close companions, he made no comment. He wondered
whether Harrington May would laugh next morning.
Eliphalet had quite made up his mind not to kill his antagonist, but to
place a bullet in his thigh, trusting this would prove sufficient
punishment to meet with the requirements. He wished almost that the
cause of their quarrel had been a woman of finer fibre, but that could
not be helped, and the insult to his pride was the same in any case.
The business of the play proceeded on even lines. A private affair could
not be allowed to interfere with a public duty; but once or twice he
stumbled with his words and missed a cue. Harrington May observed this,
was delighted, and noisily declared in the greenroom, during one of his
waits, that “Mother’s Boy” was in such alarm that he couldn’t “talk
straight.”
The wagonette had been ordered, and towards the end of the play had
drawn up in a side street to wait the coming of the revellers. Nearly
everyone had brought with them a warm coat or wrap, that the elements
might not interfere with their perfect enjoyment.
When the curtain fell on the last act, Eliphalet carefully dressed
himself, and was on the point of leaving his room, when Blanche came in.
“You are a little fool, aren’t you?” she said.
It is discouraging for a man about to risk his life for a lady’s sake to
be addressed in such terms. It was a time for guerdons and not rebukes.
“In what manner am I a fool, Blanche?”
“Challenging May to a duel, like that. Everyone knows about it, and is
laughing about it, too. Now, I suppose you are going to walk home as if
nothing has happened. A nice idiot it’ll make me look, and you’ll be the
laughing-stock of the theatre for ever.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Why couldn’t you punch his head, like a man, and leave it at that?”
“I do not consider to do so would be punishment enough.”
“Better than all this silly talking.”
“There has been very little talking; indeed, I ought not to be talking
now. There is not much time before the—the—appointment.”
Blanche’s eyes sought his face with quick interrogation.
“Cardy!” she exclaimed. “You’re not serious? You don’t really mean
to——?”
“Of course I am serious.”
“But—you can’t—you mustn’t!”
“I can and will. There is no going back now. Please.”
But she barred his way.
“No—no—no! I forbid you.”
“Please.”
“Oh, but you’re joking—joking! You couldn’t shoot him—not for that.
Besides, you wouldn’t know which end of the pistol to hold.”
A man who is playing a part senior to his years will generally give
himself away on a detail. It was sheer youthful arrogance when he drew
from his pocket the target he had decorated that afternoon, and cast it
on the table before her.
“I did this at fifteen paces,” he said.
The message of the target was plain, and Blanche needed no second
glance. She flung herself at her lover’s feet, and besought him to spare
the life of Harrington May.
“It—it wasn’t all his fault,” she sobbed. “I did egg him on a bit,
just—just to stir you up.”
For a moment he was silent, and his face was ominously stern.
“You achieved your object,” he replied at last. “We must talk more of
this later, Blanche. For the rest, you need not be alarmed. I shall not
kill this man, and you are free to take what is left of him, when I have
finished.” Thrusting her aside, he picked up the case of pistols and
hurried away.
“Oh, God!” cried Blanche, and there was admiration as well as fear in
her voice.
It was rather wonderful that he would risk death for her sake—but of
course it must not happen. She must go at once and warn Harrington May
of the danger. Then came the thought, “Suppose he, too, insists on
fighting?” Her eyes glittered. This drama that centred about her was
fantastic, thrilling. If he, too, were determined to enter the lists,
where would her choice lie?
The corridors were deserted, for the company had dressed hurriedly and
were well away towards the sheltering bushes of Jesmond Dene. As she
hastened towards May’s room she could hear Eliphalet Cardomay’s fly
rattling over the cobbles of the street below.
“Hulloa!” exclaimed May. “Not gone to the party? Better come in my cab.
Pity to miss the fun.”
“It isn’t fun,” she cried. “He’s in deadly, awful earnest. He’s going to
shoot you.”
The leading man licked his lips and smiled queerly.
“You can’t bounce me,” he said.
“I swear it. I’ve just left him. He’s gone there with the pistols, and
he can shoot straight—terribly straight.”
“Then it isn’t a joke?”
“A joke! He’ll kill you. Oh, Harrington, you must fly—get away—hide
somewhere. Look: it’s Saturday night. I’ll let you know if it’s safe to
come back on Monday—but you must go now.”
“By God, if it’s like that, I will,” gasped May, and reached for his
coat and hat.
“You won’t face him?”
“I’m not looking for a funeral. Thanks for telling me.”
As he clattered down the corridor, Blanche called the word “coward”
after his retreating form.
It was a very formidable and grim young man who, half-an-hour later,
alighted on the fringes of that pleasant dell known as Jesmond Dene.
Under his arm he carried the case of pistols, and the lines about his
mouth were set and hard.
“You will wait,” he said, addressing the cabman.
“Perhaps I won’t,” returned that gentleman, who was unaccustomed to so
direct an order.
Eliphalet did not deign to reply, but he turned aside from the road and
stepped briskly down the steep and wooded path. The moon shone serenely,
casting dark violet shadows of the trees upon the grey undergrowth. He
knew the way, for this had been a favourite seclusion when learning new
parts, and took a short cut to the appointed place.
“Here comes May,” whispered one of the concealed company from his
observation-post in the bushes. “Keep your hands down, you chaps.”
Eliphalet passed within a few feet of several unseen onlookers.
“That _was_ May, wasn’t it?”
“Couldn’t see his face.”
“Must have been.”
Young Manning spoke.
“You’re wrong. It was Cardomay.”
There was a ring of triumph in his voice.
“Don’t talk rot.”
“Look for yourselves, then.”
Eliphalet stepped out into the clearing, and the light of the moon
showed his features with a ghastly precision.
One of the girls gave a nervous laugh, and several men turned to each
other with apprehensive glances.
“Lord, he’s turned up!” said one.
“This is going too far,” said another. “We ought to stop it. Here!”
A hand was clapped over his mouth by Harrington May’s staunchest
supporter.
“Don’t spoil the fun. He’s only bluffing.”
Then Manning spoke again.
“Wish I knew which way they are going to stand,” he said. “Likely as not
one of us’ll pick up a stray bullet.”
Hearing which, Miss Mary Neville, the ingénue, did what she was
accustomed to do in plays on such occasions—fainted.
Far away in the distance the Town Hall clock struck twelve. There was a
general rustle, as everyone verified the time by their own watches in
the little patches of moonlight.
“If May finds him here there’ll be trouble.”
“P’r’aps he won’t come,” volunteered Manning, and was advised to avoid
folly and stupid speculation.
Eliphalet laid a white kerchief on the ground—stepped out fifteen
paces, and dropped another. Then he took out the pistols and examined
them. This he did at the precise moment Miss Neville emerged from her
faint, and caused an immediate relapse. Satisfied that all was in order
with the weapons, he laid them on the top of the case. His actions were
very concise, and he appeared quite composed.
“Fact is, he guesses we’re here, and he’s putting up a big bluff,”
whispered Harrington May’s supporter into a convenient ear.
Then there was silence, faintly disturbed by the rustle of the breeze
and the clucking of water dripping from the mosses of the old
mill-wheel.
Eliphalet removed his coat and looked at his watch. Ten minutes past
twelve. The waiting was trying his nerves. There should be strict
punctuality in an affair of honour. He began pacing up and down, slowly
at first, but later with a savage intensity of movement; when the
quarter past chimed, he tossed his head angrily.
“Can’t make out what’s become of May. He was almost dressed when we left
the theatre.”
“Perhaps——” began Manning, then stopped as the noise of approaching
wheels and hoofs cut crisply into the silence.
Eliphalet heard it—drew a sharp breath, and squared his shoulders in
the direction of the sound.
The excitement among the spectators leapt to fever-pitch as they heard
the vehicle come to a standstill. There immediately followed the patter
of running feet and the smart crackle of breaking twigs.
“He’s coming!”
All eyes turned towards the path as Blanche Cannon burst into view.
Without a second’s hesitation she flung herself into Eliphalet
Cardomay’s arms, gasping and crying:
“Oh, my hero, my darling hero! He was a coward—he wouldn’t meet
you—he’s run away.”
And in the exquisite relief of the moment Eliphalet folded her to his
breast in a sobbing ecstasy.
Then the company, who had remained silent for longer than their natures
allowed, broke cover and surrounded the happy pair with a chorus of
hand-shaking, back-slapping congratulations.
When the enthusiasm subsided, which was not until three a.m. that
morning, for everyone crowded to Eliphalet’s room to do him continued
honour, he was rather dismayed to find that he and Blanche were
destined, by pressure of opinion, to be made man and wife before the
month was out.
* * * * *
Surmise, therefore, O wise and prophetic reader, the disastrous results,
not alone confined to Art, that so often arise from humouring the
popular prejudice in favour of a Happy Ending.