THE DUEL.
Mr. Waring's old housekeeper was ill--a most unusual misfortune to
befall her, and one which she could not at first either realize or
believe. She struggled against this sudden malady with all the energy
and obstinacy of her nature; but she was at length forced to take to
her bed and let the fever have its course, while she grumbled and
snarled at every mortal who approached, and gave the poor girl who was
obliged to take care of her a precious life indeed.
But while the old lady lay snapping and rabid with fever, affairs in
the house did not go on smoothly at all, and nervous Mr. Waring nearly
fretted himself into a fever which almost equaled that which had taken
such sharp hold of his rebellious housekeeper.
Margaret was busy with her own troubles; and, besides, she was affected
with that horror of domestic matters, which, I am sorry to say, is
so common among my youthful country-women, and entirely neglected to
interest herself in the domestic annoyances that beset them.
In the mean time the servants ran riot below stairs, and, as several of
them were new-comers, belonging to the Celtic race into the bargain,
they took such advantage of the housekeeper's absence that it soon
became doubtful whether they would condescend to prepare meals for any
portion of the family except that which reigned in the kitchen.
Mr. Waring sent for Miss Chase to his room for consultation. The lady
was all sweetness and affability, declared her willingness to do every
thing in her power to restore the household to order, but more than
hinted that Margaret would not permit her to interfere.
Of course the old gentleman was in a sad way, but poor Meg's health had
become so delicate that he did not venture to speak with her upon the
subject; and the only thing he could do was to listen favorably to any
proposal which Miss Chase made.
"I will go down to town this very morning," she said, "and I am very
certain that I shall return with a woman perfectly competent to take
charge of your household."
When she saw how Mr. Waring brightened at that information, she added
another touch of comfort:
"I have the address somewhere of a woman who once lived for a time with
Mrs. Pierson. If I can find her, she will suit you admirably."
The matter was satisfactorily arranged. Mr. Waring began to look upon
Sybil as a sort of guardian-angel; and she bade him good-morning with
her sweetest smile to make preparations for her expedition.
Sybil returned from the city that night accompanied by a respectable
elderly female, who set about her duties in such a quiet, understanding
way that everybody was delighted and something like peace restored.
Of course the old housekeeper grumbled more than ever, and was prepared
to consider the stranger the most abominable of her sex; but no one
paid much attention, and, as every spasm of rage only increased her
fever, and she was quite incapable of controlling her temper, there
seemed every probability that placid Mrs. Brown would hold the reins
of government in her chubby fingers for some time to come.
And now events began to thicken about that once cheerful house on the
river, and those miserable young beings were urged forward to the last
act of anger and injustice which should consummate their misery. The
net which Sybil had woven had been slowly and securely drawn about
them, and now the opportunity was offered which completed the work she
had so skillfully arranged.
The estrangement between Laurence and Margaret was daily gaining
strength. Laurence began really to believe that he hated her, and the
fascination which Sybil had thrown about him became enthralling. He
came to the house now merely to hold long, confidential conversations
with her, and from every one he retired more completely bewildered and
enslaved.
He had quarreled with Hinchley, although the young man remained at the
house as his uncle's invited guest. He was deeply pained by the state
of affairs, and still hoped to reunite his cousin and friend.
It might have been a fortnight after the installation of Mrs. Brown
when Sybil and Laurence were walking in the shrubbery at some distance
from the house.
They saw Hinchley pass down a neighboring path in full view of the
spot where they stood, although he was unconscious of their presence.
Laurence muttered bitter execrations against the intruder; and while
Sybil was soothing him, they saw the new housekeeper go cautiously down
the path and join Hinchley. She gave him a note and stole away again.
"I understand now," whispered Laurence. "She is made a medium of
communication between that man and Margaret. She shall tell me the
truth, or I will annihilate her."
He drew Sybil forward and stood directly in the path as Mrs. Brown
approached. When she saw them, the woman started back with every
evidence of fear and confusion; but Laurence grasped her roughly by the
arm.
"You gave that man a note from Miss Margaret," he said.
The woman began to cry at once.
"Oh, sir, don't make me lose my place! I couldn't refuse the young
lady! Do speak a word for me, Miss Chase. I mean to be faithful. I
didn't mean any harm."
"And you have carried notes between them before?" demanded Laurence.
"I didn't know it was wrong--indeed I didn't. Tell him I am an honest
woman, Miss Chase."
"Go into the house, Brown," said the lady, coldly. "I am disappointed
in you."
Laurence released her arm, and she darted away wringing her hands in
sad distress. Laurence made a step toward the place where Hinchley
stood reading the letter with a look of doubt and astonishment.
"Stop," whispered Sybil. "What are you going to do?"
"Take that letter--know the truth."
She attempted to plead with him, but he pushed her aside and strode
toward Hinchley. The young man looked up, startled at his unexpected
approach, and made a movement to conceal the note in his hand.
"Give me that letter!" exclaimed Laurence, in a hoarse voice.
"A very singular demand, sir," returned Hinchley, coldly.
"I will have it--the proof of your treachery and hers--you miserable
coward!"
He sprung forward, seized Hinchley in his infuriated grasp, and a short
but severe struggle took place. At last, Laurence flung his opponent
back and seized the note.
"Scoundrel!" exclaimed Hinchley. "Give back that paper."
"Never! I will read it!"
Sybil saw that she must interfere, or Laurence would not be permitted
to open the sheet; so she hurried up with hysteric sobs, and threw her
arms about Hinchley.
"No violence!" she sobbed. "Oh, don't quarrel, Mr. Hinchley, don't."
While he vainly tried to extricate himself from her hold, Laurence tore
open the letter and read it. He would hardly have been human had he not
given way to the storm of fury which swept over him.
The writing was Margaret's, the letter signed with her name, and it
revealed the story of her wretchedness, her desire to free herself from
her engagement, and her belief that she was loved by Hinchley. The note
went on to say that he need have no scruples about seeking her hand,
as she was determined never to marry Laurence.
The young man dropped the letter with a groan.
Sybil released Hinchley, whose anger seemed to have changed to pity at
the sight of his former friend's distress.
"She never wrote it, Laurence," he exclaimed. "I would pledge my life
on it."
"Who then?" he answered. "Is there another woman on earth brazen enough
to have written it?"
"How can I tell? But I would stake my life that it is a forgery."
He glanced at Sybil; something in her attitude brought back his old
suspicions, but they were so vague, her innocence in the present matter
so apparent, that it would have seemed madness to have spoken of them.
Again Laurence turned upon him most furiously, and hurled such terrible
epithets and charges against him, that no man of courage could have
endured them.
Sybil Chase left the two men pale with wrath, and rushed away, not
frightened at what she had done, but believing it wiser for her to
escape from the scene; for language had been employed on both sides
that could only end in apologies or deadly violence. Hinchley was
wrought to a pitch of frenzy nearly equal to that which convulsed
Laurence.
He grasped eagerly at a defiance which fell from his opponent.
"When you will," he answered. "You will find me always ready to
vindicate my honor."
"So be it," returned Laurence. "Before sunset to-night, let your life
or mine pay the forfeit; we can not breathe the same air another day."
Before they parted it was settled--angrily settled--that two school
friends, men who had been intimate and loving as brothers, should stand
face to face, each opposed to his murderer. This is the true word.
Call duelling the only resource of wounded honor if you will; it is
murder, after all--murder the most atrocious, from its very coolness
and premeditation.
Hinchley broke away abruptly, after having regained possession of the
fatal letter, and Laurence rushed toward the house to find Margaret,
and overwhelm her with his knowledge of her weakness and treachery.
It had been a dark, wretched day to the girl, passed between the sick
chamber of her uncle and that of the old housekeeper. Mr. Waring had
been seized with one of his violent attacks, and was lying dangerously
ill. Exhausted with watching, Margaret found an opportunity to rest,
and went down stairs to the library, meeting Sybil Chase in the hall.
"Will you go and sit with my uncle for a while, Miss Chase?" she asked,
wearily.
"Certainly," replied Sybil, somewhat flurried after her escape from the
garden, but concealing her emotion with her usual success. "You look
quite worn out; it would do you good to sleep."
Margaret passed on without vouchsafing a reply; her dislike of the
woman had grown into absolute aversion during the past days, and it was
with difficulty that she could force herself to receive her advances
with common civility.
Margaret entered the library, closed the door and threw herself upon a
couch, hoping for a time to forget her distress and bitter feelings in
slumber. She fell asleep at once, and was aroused from an incoherent
dream by the violent opening of the door, and a hoarse voice called out:
"Margaret--Margaret Waring?"
She started up, confused by the abrupt awakening, and with a vague
impression that her uncle had been taken suddenly worse; but she saw
Laurence standing before her, livid with passion. Margaret rose at
once, and coldly said:
"Mr. Laurence, you will please come into a room which I occupy,
somewhat less boisterously."
"I grieve exceedingly to have disturbed your delicate nerves," he
replied, with a hoarse laugh; "but I have that to say which will
possibly shock them still more."
She gave him a haughty glance, which roused his fury to still greater
violence.
"Nothing you could do would shock me," she said. "I am prepared for any
thing."
"Then you are prepared to hear that I have discovered your falsehood
and treachery! Miserable, cowardly girl, why did you not come frankly
and tell me the truth?"
Her pride rose to meet the passion which flamed in his eyes.
"Mr. Laurence," she exclaimed, "I have borne a great deal from you; but
you shall not insult me in this house!"
"Why did you not say to me frankly--I detest this marriage?" he
continued. "Do you think I would not have freed you at once?"
"I do not know what you mean," she answered, trembling with angry
astonishment at his words. "But let me tell you now, I do dread
it--loathe the very thought of it."
"So this you wrote to him," he exclaimed. "I have seen the letter! Why,
shame on you, Margaret Waring! I would not have believed you thus lost
to all womanly pride. What! tell man unsought that you loved him? and
you honorably bound to another."
She stared at him in angry surprise--her lips apart, her wild eyes full
of scornful incredulity.
"You have been dreaming, or you are crazy," she said.
"Neither the one nor the other; but I know every thing."
"I do not understand you," she replied, relapsing into the haughty
coldness which always enraged him more than any bitter words that she
could speak.
"Oh, do not add another falsehood to the list!" he exclaimed. "Haven't
you perjured your soul enough, already? I tell you that I read the
letter you wrote to Ralph Hinchley. I have watched you for weeks; I
know the whole extent of your shameful duplicity."
"Stop!" cried Margaret. "I will endure no more! Leave this house, Mr.
Laurence, at once, and forever! While we both live, I will never see
your face again; my uncle decides this night, between you and me;
either he confirms what I now say, or I will leave his house."
"So be it; do not think I regret it! Why, I came here only to expose
and cast you off. Your uncle shall see that letter. I will have it, or
tear it from Hinchley's heart. When Waring has read that, we shall see
what he thinks of his dainty niece."
"Of all this passion I do not comprehend one word; but it wearies me.
Go, sir."
"Do you dare deny having written to Ralph Hinchley that you loved
him--that you were ready to abandon your engagement and marry him?"
"Oh!" groaned Margaret, almost fainting from a sharp recoil of outraged
feeling, "is there no man living who will avenge me on this libeler?"
"He may, perhaps, avenge you; why not?" retorted Laurence; "but answer.
You shall answer and confess this duplicity, or blacken your soul with
another lie. Did you write to Hinchley?"
"I did," said Margaret; "a note of three lines, asking him to pay a
bill for me at Desmond's."
"Margaret! Margaret! this effrontery only makes it more unbearable," he
cried. "I will expose you to the whole world."
"Do what you please--say what you choose, but leave this house, and
never let me see you again."
"I go willingly. Farewell forever, Margaret! I do not curse; time will
do that, and I can wait."
He dashed out of the room, pale and fierce with contending passions,
and hurried from her presence.
Margaret stood upright until the door closed, then her hands fell to
her side, a low moan broke from her lips, and she dropped senseless
upon the couch.
It was near sunset when she came to herself again; Sybil Chase was
bending over her, bathing her forehead and using words of tender
solicitude, while a little way off stood the new housekeeper,
apparently quite overcome with distress.
Margaret pushed Miss Chase away, and would have left the room without
a word, but Sybil caught her arm, while a strange light shot into her
eyes.
"I must detain you a moment," she said. "Your uncle has been seized
with a frightful attack; the physician is with him now."
"What caused it?" demanded Margaret.
"Mr. Laurence was with him," faltered Sybil.
Margaret turned upon her with cold scrutiny.
"Miss Chase," she said, "I believe on my soul that you are at the
bottom of all this trouble. I desire you to quit the house at once."
Sybil pleaded, wept, and demanded an explanation, but Margaret broke
from her, and hurried out of the room.
"What is to come now?" whispered the woman, going close to Sybil, who
stood looking after Margaret, and smiling as only women like her can
smile.
"She has done exactly what I desired," she answered. "I shall leave
this house in an hour; you will go with me."
"But the duel?"
"Oh! that drives me frantic; but I believe Hinchley will be the
sufferer--I should go mad else! Pack my things, and meet me at the
station in an hour."
She hurried away, without giving the woman time to speak, and left the
house at once.
Sybil took her way rapidly through the grounds, crossed the high road,
and ran through the fields until she reached a lofty ascent, from
whence she could command a view of the broad sandy plain beneath.
She was only just in time; there she stood, and gazed below with the
same expression her face had worn upon the night when she watched her
husband's frightful death in the wilds of California.
Only a few paces from each other stood Laurence and Ralph Hinchley;
each held a pistol in his hand, and even as Sybil looked, one of the
seconds gave the word.
There was a simultaneous report, a blinding flash, and when the smoke
cleared away, Sybil saw Hinchley stretched upon the ground, the two
assistants bending over him, and Laurence standing in his old position.
She heard one of the men say:
"Save yourself, Laurence;" then Hinchley called out:
"Not yet--not yet; it is only my arm; there is no danger. Edward,
believe me, Margaret never wrote that letter. Keep her name out of this
quarrel. It will yet be explained."
Laurence only replied by a gesture of dissent. The seconds raised the
wounded man, bore him to a carriage which was stationed a little way
off, placed him upon the seat, and the party drove away.
Laurence stood like a statue, gazing moodily upon the pistol he grasped
in his hand.
Sybil hurried down the bank, calling out:
"Laurence! Laurence!"
He turned at her approach, flung the pistol away, and caught her in his
arms.
"I am revenged," he said. "I have nothing left in the world but you,
Sybil Chase. Oh, say that you love me!"
The long expected moment had arrived, and, regardless of the sins by
which that painful bliss had been purchased, Sybil Chase folded her
white arms around his neck and gave passionate expression to the wild
love that had burned in her heart for years.
Now the great object of her misguided life was attained. She was
free from the man who had been a terrible barrier between them. The
engagement was broken by her own arts. With all this, why was there so
much pain left in her heart? Why did she tremble so violently in the
first clasp of his arms?