A CHALLENGE
The Charlottesville Robbery Case was one of no great importance save to
those directly concerned. It had to do with a forged note, a robbery by
night, and an absconding trusted clerk of a company of British
Merchants. When the case came up for trial on this October day, the
Court House was well filled indeed, but rather on account of the lawyers
engaged than because of the matter's intrinsic interest. The British
Merchants had retained Mr. Ludwell Cary. The side of the prisoner,
mentioning that fact in a pitiful scrawl addressed to the law office of
Messrs. Rand and Mocket, found to its somewhat pathetic surprise that
Mr. Rand himself would take the case and oppose Mr. Cary.
The two had fought it with a determination apparent to every bystander,
and now, on the last day of the trial, the counsel for the prosecution
rose to sum up his case. He was listened to with attention, and his
speech was effective. The theme was the individual who, after forgery
and embezzlement, had taken French leave, quitting a post of trust and
credit for regions where he hoped to enjoy his ill-gotten gains in peace
and quietness. The regions had proved inhospitable, and a sheriff had
escorted the unlucky adventurer with that which was not his own back to
the spot whence he had started. His transgression was now to be traced
from the moment--day or night, or sunrise or sunset; what mattered the
moment?--when the thought passed through his brain, "Why should I plod
on like other men?"
"'Passed through,' did I say?--nay, it tarried; at first like a visitor
who will one day take his leave, then a cherished inmate, and at last
lord and master of every crevice of that petty mansion! It _dwelled_
there, and day by day it fed itself with remembered examples. 'There was
Tom, over on the Eastern Shore, grew tired, too, of working for his
employers,--and he robbed the till one night, and got off on a sloop to
the Havana, and now they say he has a pirate ship of his very own! And
Dick. Dick got tired, too, in a tan-yard in Alexandria, and when his
master sent him on a mission to Washington, he took his foot in his hand
and went farther. He had his expenses in his pocket, so why not? He's
prospering now in a bigger and gayer town than Alexandria! And Harry.
Harry was more trusted than them all, but he, too, got tired--in a
warehouse at Rocket's--of plod, plod, plod! serve, serve, serve! So he
forged a name, and took the gold that lay beneath his hand, tore up his
indentures, and fled in the night-time--over the hills and far away!
He's a rich man now, somewhere near the sunset, rich and great, with
clerks of his own. He had the advantage of education, had Harry!
Examples! Examples thick as hops! What's Buonaparte himself but a poor
Corsican lieutenant that stole an empire? I'll be bold, too. I'll steal,
and then I'll steal away!'
"So scullion soul to pliant body. His thought is father to his deed, and
there is the usual resemblance between son and parent. What matters it
that he has lived in his employer's house, and has found him no Egyptian
taskmaster, but a benefactor, lavish of favours? What matters it that he
has in charge things of trust and moment which, by miscarrying, will
work distress to many? What matters it that others are about him,
engaged in this same drudgery of doing one's duty, to whom, should he
succeed in villainy as he trusts to do, his example will remain, a
wrecker's light to entice the storm-tossed upon a rocky shore? What
matters it,--I am told, gentlemen, that the prisoner has a good and
industrious sister,--what matters it that rarely, rarely, is there
ill-doing without, somewhere in the shadowed background, some bruised
and broken heart? What does it matter that he betrays his trust, breaks
his oath, blackens his name, slurs his friends, and recruits the army,
wan and sinister, of all the fallen since time began? To him,
apparently, it matters less than a drifting leaf in the wind of this
October day. He remembers all that he should forget, and forgets all
that should be remembered. There pass by him in long parade Tom and Dick
and Harry and others of their ilk. He sees them, and he sees little
else. It is a host of choice spirits, and they have banners flying. His
courage mounts. Brave emulation! noble rivalry! He, too, will be bold;
he, too, will join their regiment! For him, too, the spoils of
opportunity and a daughter of the game! He feels the summer in the air,
and all Brummagem rises upon his horizon. Farewell to patient drudgery
and the slow playing over of the tune of life! He's for a brisker air,
he's for 'Over the hills and far away.'
"His little plans are laid. I say 'little,' gentlemen, advisedly, for in
all this there is no greatness. We speak of a self-seeker here, and all
the ends of such an one are small, and he himself has not attained the
full stature of a man. The ambitious soul before us! By stealth he
practises until he can sign his employer's name, more lifelike almost
than life! By stealth he gains impressions of the keys. By stealth he
eyes the only wealth that his mole mind can value! By stealth he makes
his preparations, and by stealth he cons the miles and the post-houses
between him and the country to which he means to carry himself and his
stolen goods! He is assiduous at his desk; his employers nod approval,
praise him for a lad of parts, and hold him up for emulation. In his
brain one air continues,--'Over the hills and far away.'
"The day approaches. The forgery is done, the accustomed hand slips
easily in and out of the golden drawer, and all the roads are got by
heart. We have the loan of a horse--before another dawn we will be gone.
O Fortune of great thieves, stand pat! and kindly tune run on! 'Over the
hills and far away.'
"We have been told by the worthy gentlemen, his employers, that so
trustworthy did they consider the prisoner at the bar, so able in their
affairs and assiduous in their service, that this very day it was in
their minds to increase his pay and to raise him quite above his fellow
clerks to an honourable post indeed. He did not give them time,
gentlemen, he did not give them time! The hour is here, the notes are
sewn within the lining of our well-brushed riding-coat, the master key
is in our itching palm! We'll lurk until midnight, then in the dark room
we will unlock the drawer. If we are heard, softly as we step in the
silence of the night--if a watchman come--the worse for the watchman! We
carry pistols, and the butt of one against his forehead will do the
work. For we are bold, gentlemen, we are as bold as Cæsar or Buonaparte!
We won't be stopped--we won't! We're for 'Over the hills and far away.'"
The counsel for the prisoner addressed the Judge. "Your Honour, no
watchman, dead or alive, being among the witnesses, and there being no
capable proof of what were or were not my client's thoughts upon the
night in question, I indignantly protest--"
The objection was sustained. The interruption over, the attorney for the
British Merchants went evenly on. "We have Mr. Rand's word for it that
the prisoner had no thought of the watchman, and no intention of using,
even in case of need, the weapons with which it has been proved he was
provided. Mr. Rand must know. As a rule, gentlemen bearing arms about
their persons may be considered the potential users of said arms,
whether the antiquated rapier or the modern pistol--but then, I bethink
me, we are not speaking of men of honour. We are speaking of a small
criminal in a small way, and Mr. Rand assures us that his thoughts
matched his estate--they were humble, they were creeping. Headstrong,
proud, and bold are words too swelling for this low and narrow case. To
wear a weapon with intent to use is one thing, to buckle it on as a mere
trivial, harmless, modish ornament and gewgaw is quite another! We have
Mr. Rand's word for it that it was so worn. Gentlemen, the prisoner,
armed, indeed, as has been proved, was absolutely innocent of even the
remotest intent to use under any provocation beneath high heaven the
pistols--oiled, primed, and duelling type--with which, by chance or for
the merest whim of ornament, he had decked his person upon this eventful
night. Mr. Rand tells us so, and doubtless he knows whereof he speaks.
"So armed and so harmless, gentlemen, the prisoner, having committed
forgery, does now his second crime--the pitiful robbery. The key that he
has forged with care is true to him, the gold lies at his mercy,
underneath his hand; he lifts it up, the shining thing; he bears it
away. The hour has struck, the deed is done; irrevocable, it takes its
place upon the inexpugnable record. He has stolen, and there is no power
in heaven or earth to change that little fact. We are grown squeamish in
these modern days, and no longer brand a thief with heated iron. No
letter will appear, seared on his shoulder or his hand, but is he less
the thief for that? He himself has done the branding, and Eternity
cannot wear out the mark. He goes. With his stolen gold he steals away.
It is night. There are only the stars to watch his flight, and he cares
not for the stars--they never tell. Have they not, time out of mind,
stood the friend of all gentlemen of the road? He quits the house that
has seen his crime; he leaves dull and honest men asleep; he bestows no
parting glance upon the dim, familiar ways. His native land is
naught--he's for green fields and pastures new--he's for Tom and Dick
and Harry, and all their goodly company--he's for 'Over the hills and
far away.'"
The counsel for the prosecution finished his speech. The judge summed up
the case, the jury retired, and very shortly returned with the expected
verdict of Guilty. The chalk-white and shaking prisoner stood up, was
sentenced and removed, and, the business of the day being over, the
court adjourned.
Good-naturedly, laughing and talking after the morning's restraint, the
crowd, gentle and simple, from the lower part of the room, was in the
course of jostling toward the door, when there came a sudden check
coupled with exclamations from those nearest the bar, and with a general
turning of heads and bodies in that direction.
The lawyer for the prosecution and the lawyer for the defence stood
opposed, a yard of court-room floor between them, and around them a ring
of excited friends and acquaintances. There had been high voices, but
now a silence fell, and the throng held its breath in cheerful
expectation of the bursting of a long predicted storm.
"This," said Cary's clear and even voice, not raised, but smoothly
distinct,--"this is a challenge, sir. I take it rightly, Mr. Rand?"
"You take it rightly, Mr. Cary. I shall presently send a friend to wait
upon you."
"He will find me, sir, at the Swan. As the challenged party, it is my
prerogative to name hour and place. You shall shortly be advised of
both."
"I am going to my office, sir, where I will await your messenger. You
cannot name an hour too soon, a place too near for me."
"Of that I am aware, Mr. Rand. I will make no delay that I conceive to
be unnecessary. I am, sir, your very humble servant."
"I am yours, Mr. Cary."
The two bowed profoundly and parted company, making their several ways
through the throng to the Swan and to the office with the green door.
With them went their immediate friends and backers. The crowd of
spectators, talking loud or talking low, conjecturing, explaining, and
laying down the law, jesting, disputing, hotly partisan, and on the
whole very agreeably excited, finally got itself out of the Court House
and the Court-House yard, and the autumn stillness settled down upon the
place.
At Roselands, in the late afternoon, Jacqueline came out upon the
doorstone and sat there, listening for Selim's hoofs upon the road. The
weather was Indian summer, balmy, mild, and blue with haze. On the great
ring of grass before the stone yellow beech leaves were lying thick, and
the grey limbs of the gigantic, solitary tree rose bare against the
blue. Jacqueline sat with her chin in her hand, watching the mountains,
more visible now that the leaves were gone. She saw the cleft through
which ran the western road, and she thought with pleasure of the days
before her. She loved the journeys to Richmond, and this one would be
more beautiful, and new. They would be gone ten days, perhaps,--ten days
of slow, bright travel through sumptuous woods, of talk close and dear.
She was exquisitely happy as she sat there with her eyes upon the Blue
Ridge. The last fortnight of her stay at Fontenoy had been almost a
blissful time. Her uncles changed, and no longer passed her with averted
eyes, or, when they spoke, used so cold a ceremony as to chill her
heart. They grew almost natural, they seemed even tender of her. Uncle
Dick had once again called her "My little Jack," though he groaned
immediately afterwards and, getting up, looked out of the window, and
Uncle Edward left the library door ajar. Jacqueline laid her head upon
her arm and laughed. It was coming right--it was coming right!--and next
year they would all dance at Fontenoy with light hearts, at Unity's
wedding. It had begun to come right the evening of the day that she had
met Ludwell Cary in the cedar wood. She wondered, slightly, at that
coincidence, and then she fell again to dreaming.
Lewis was coming; he had passed through the gate--and she started up. He
rode on to the back of the house, left his horse there, and, striding
through the hall and down the three stone steps, joined her where she
stood upon the greensward, among the fallen leaves. "Good-evening to
you!" she said, touched his shoulder with her hand, and raised her face
to his. He drew her to him, kissed her with fierce passion, and let her
go, then walked to the beech tree and stood with his back to the house,
staring at the long wall of the mountains, dark now against a pale gold
sky. She followed him. "Lewis! what is the matter?"
He answered without turning, "We are not going, quite yet awhile, over
the mountains. Man proposes, and Ludwell Cary disposes. Well! we will
stay merrily at home. But he shall pay the score!"
"What do you mean?"
"Two weeks! What may not happen over there in two weeks? And I bound
here, hard and fast, hand and foot! By what?--by the plaything code of a
plaything honour! Now, if he were any other man under the canopy, I
would not stay! The question is, is it imaginable that all this was of
set purpose?"
"Lewis, what is the matter?"
Rand turned. "The matter, child? The matter is that you may unpack, and
that we will give a dinner party! We do not travel to-morrow; no, nor
the next day, nor the next! I have to await a gentleman's leisure."
She hung upon his arm. "Lewis, Lewis, what is it? You are trembling--"
He laughed. "Do you think it is with fear?"
"Don't, don't!" she cried. "Don't be so angry--don't look so black! I am
afraid of you. What is it, dearest, dearest?"
"Wait," he said harshly. "Wait, Jacqueline, a moment."
He put her abruptly from him, walked to the doorstone, and, sitting
down, bowed his face upon his hands. For some moments he remained thus,
while she stood under the beech tree, her hand upon her heart, watching
him. At last he lifted his head, rose, and came back to her. "To-day, in
the court room, I challenged Ludwell Cary. He has named, as is his
right, time and place of our meeting. The time, something more than two
weeks from to-day; the place, five miles from Richmond. I confess that I
was taken by surprise. I had expected to-morrow morning and the wood
beyond the race-course. If I thought--what, by all the gods, I do
think!--that he had dared--that he had done this deliberately, with
intent to keep me here, I--Jacqueline! why, Jacqueline!"
"I'm--I'm not going to swoon," said Jacqueline, with difficulty. "Air,
that is all--let me sit down a moment on the grass. A duel--you and
Ludwell Cary."
"I and Ludwell Cary." Rand uttered his short laugh. "How steadily have
we been coming just to this! I think I knew it long ago. I have in me so
much of the ancient Roman that I prize him, now that we are at grips,
and think him a fair enemy. If I did not hate him, I would love him. But
it is the first, and I'll not forgive this pretty trap he's laid! What
does he think will come after these two weeks he has me shackled? Does
he think that he can always keep me here?--or only until--until it is
too late to go?" He struck his hand against the beech tree. "Well, well,
mine enemy, we will try conclusions."
Jacqueline rose from the grass, came to him, and laid her head upon his
breast. "Lewis, is there no way out with honour? Must it be? He is my
friend and you my husband whom I love. Will you face each other there
like--like General Hamilton and Aaron Burr? Oh, break, my heart!"
Rand kissed her. "There is no way out. He means me to stay, and I will
do it--for this while, Cary, for this while! Look, Jacqueline; the sun
is setting over the road we should have gone! I have been a fool. Six
weeks ago should have seen us far, far upon that shining track! Now the
world is spinning from me, the glory rolling under, and I feel the dark.
Adam is right; once started on this trail, I should have gone like the
strong arrow's flight. I knew the warriors were behind me, and yet I
idled,--waited first to break with my old chief,--as if my going would
not have done that work, as short, as clean!--and waited last because of
a sick woman's whim! If I had not let you go to Fontenoy, we might
to-day have heard the rushing of a mightier river than the Rivanna
yonder! Delay, delay, where haste itself should have felt the spur!"
"If I had not gone to Fontenoy," cried Jacqueline, "my aunt might have
died with her last wish ungratified! If I had not gone, oh, what would
they not have thought of me, most rightly, most justly! Now we are
almost friends again,--the thing I've prayed for, longed for, wept for,
since that June! Was this not worth the waiting? There is something here
that I do not understand. Why should you so greatly care to see these
lands? Say that there is some money lost and some vexation--what does
that count against this nearing home--this making friends?" She struck
her hands together. "And yet--and yet if we had gone, there would not
have been this day, this quarrel, and this challenge! There would not be
this day to come, when I shall hear what, from now till then I'll dream
I hear! O Christ, I heard them then, the pistol shots! Why did we not
go, Lewis, days ago?"
"Now you are weeping," said Rand, "and that will ease your heart. Could
I have helped it, I would not have told you of this quarrel. You could
not, however, have failed to hear; it was a public thing, and the town
is buzzing with it. See, Jacqueline, I am no longer passionate. The dog
is down. The mistake, if mistake it was, is made; we are not over the
mountains; we are here in Albemarle, at Roselands, underneath the beech
tree. I was never one to weep for spilt milk. This way is stopped, and
this moment foreclosed. Well, there are other moments and other ways!
The sun is down and the night falls dark and cold. Come, dry your eyes!"
"That is soon done. The thorn is in my heart."
"I will draw it out," he answered. "I'll draw it out with love. Don't
think that Ludwell Cary can hurt me; it's not within his kingdom. Do not
grieve that men are enemies; smile and say, 'It will be so a few years
longer!' I am glad with all my heart that you are friends again with all
at Fontenoy. As for this journey, I stayed for you, Jacqueline. It was
needful for me to go, but I stayed that you might part friends with your
kindred. Remember it one day."
"Why," she cried,--"why did you not go without me? You would not have
been long gone, and I should have waited your return there at Fontenoy!
Then this day and this quarrel would not have come! Ludwell Cary and you
to meet--O God!"
"I did not wish to go without you. You do not understand--but trust me,
Jacqueline; trust me, trust me!" He took her in his arms. "Come, now! It
is twilight, and there's a dreariness in these fallen leaves. Come
indoors to the fire and the light, and the books and the harp. Deb
arrived to-day, did she not?"
"Yes; she is somewhere with Miranda. They have been playing dolls with
the last flowers."
He stopped a moment as they were moving over the grassy ring. "Flower
dolls! They were playing flower dolls that morning in June when I came
down from the blue room and out into the garden. There they sat, on the
red earth in the little cedar wood, with their bright ladies. Deb told
me all their names. She told me more than that--she told me you were
reading in the arbour. Jacqueline, are you sorry that I found you
there?"
"No, I am not sorry; I am glad. You could make me wretched, but you
could not make me repentant. Oh, Lewis! I shall hear those shots
to-night--"
"No, you will not--I shall read you to sleep. Why, if you were a
soldier's wife, would you hear all the bullets flying? There, the last
red has faded, and I hear the children's voices! Come in; come in out of
the dark."