WHICH DESCRIBES A DUEL
Colonel Lord George Cleeve, dozing over a bottle beside the hearth,
stirred at the heavy tread of feet, unclosed slumberous eyes at the
sudden opening of the door, glanced round sleepily, stared and sprang
to his feet, broad awake in a moment, to see the Major and Sergeant
Zebedee, wind-blown and mud-splashed, tramp heavily in bearing between
them a shapeless bundle of sodden clothes and finery the which, propped
upright in a chair, resolved itself into a human being, gagged and
bound hand and foot.
"Jack!" he gasped, his eyes rolling. "Why, Jack--good Lord!" After
which, finding no more to say he sank back into his armchair and swore
feebly.
"Off with the gag, Sergeant," said the Major serenely as he laid by his
own mud-spattered hat and riding-coat. The Sergeant obeyed; and now
beholding the prisoner's pale, contorted features, the Colonel sprang
to his feet again.
"Refuse me!" he gasped. "What the--Mr. Dalroyd!"
"Or Captain Effingham!" said the Major. "Loose his cravat and shirt,
Sergeant, and let us be sure at last." Sergeant Zebedee's big fingers
were nimble and the Major, taking one of the silver candlesticks, bent
above the helpless man for a long moment; then, setting down the light,
he bowed:
"Captain Effingham, I salute you!" said he. "To-night sir, here in
this room, I propose that we finish, once and for all, what we left
undone ten years ago, 'tis for this purpose I brought you hither,
though a little roughly I fear. My Lord Cleeve will oblige me by
acting as your second, I think. But first, take some refreshment, I
beg. We have ample leisure, so pray compose yourself until you shall
have recovered from the regrettable violence I have unavoidably
occasioned you. Loose him, Zebedee!"
Freed of his bonds, Mr. Dalroyd stretched himself, re-settled his damp
and rumpled garments, and lounged back in his chair.
"Sir," said he, viewing the Major with eyes that glittered between
languid-drooping lids, "though my--enforced presence here runs counter
to certain determined purposes of mine, yet I am so much of a
philosopher as to recognise in this the hand of Fate and to find
therein a very real satisfaction, for I have long been possessed of a
most earnest desire to kill you--as indeed I think I should ha' done
years ago but for a slip of the foot." The Major bowed:
"May I pour you a glass of wine, Captain Effingham? he enquired.
"Not now sir, I thank you," answered Mr. Dalroyd, languidly testing the
play of right hand and wrist, "afterwards, perhaps!"
"You are without your sword, I perceive sir," said the Major.
"Gad, yes sir!" lisped Mr. Dalroyd, smiling, "in our hurry we left it
behind in the coach."
"Still, you will prefer swords, of course?"
"Of course, sir."
"Go, bring the duelling-swords, Sergeant," said the Major and sitting
down filled himself a glass of wine while Mr. Dalroyd gently smoothed
and patted wrist and sword-hand with long, white fingers and the
Colonel, standing on the hearth, his feet wide apart, stared from one
serene, deadly face to the other.
"Ten years, sir, is a fair span of life," said Mr. Dalroyd musingly,
"and in that time Fortune hath been kind to you, 'twould seem. You
have here a noble heritage to--ah--leave behind you to some equally
fortunate wight!" Here he turned to glance at the wicked-looking
weapons Sergeant Zebedee had laid upon the table. "When you have
finished your wine, sir, I will play Providence to that fortunate
wight, whoever he may be, and put him in possession of his heritage as
soon as possible." The Major bowed, emptied his glass and rising,
proceeded to remove coat and waistcoat and, with the Sergeant's aid, to
draw off his long riding-boots and rolled back snowy shirt from his
broad chest while Mr. Dalroyd, having kicked off his buckled shoes, did
the same.
"We have no surgeon here, I perceive," he smiled. "Ah well, so much
the better." So saying, he took up the nearest sword haphazard,
twirled it, made a rapid pass in the air and stood waiting.
"My Lord Cleeve," said the Major as the Colonel drew his weapon and
stepped forward, "when once we engage you will on no account strike up
our swords----"
"But damme, man Jack, how if you wound each other----"
"Why then sir," murmured Mr. Dalroyd quietly, testing the suppleness of
his blade, "we shall proceed to--exterminate one another. This is to
the death, my lord!"
The library was a long, spacious chamber with the broad fireplace at
one end; moreover the Sergeant had already set back the furniture
against the wall and rolled up the rugs out of the way. Lord Cleeve
glanced round about him quick-eyed, ordered the candles to be disposed
a little differently that there might be no advantage of light, then,
folding his arms, glanced from the pale, serene face of the Major to
the cold, smiling face of Mr. Dalroyd as they fronted each other sword
in hand in the middle of the wide floor.
"Then, 'tis understood, I am not to part ya', not to interfere
until----"
"Until one of us is dead, my lord!" said Mr. Dalroyd, his nostrils
quivering.
"Exactly so!" said the Major. "Sergeant Zebedee--lock the door!"
Lord Cleeve shrugged his shoulders: "'Tis a damnably cold-blooded
business altogether!" said he as the Sergeant turned key in lock.
"Agreed, sir!" smiled Mr. Dalroyd. "But pray be so obliging as to give
the word."
The Colonel shrugged his shoulders again, cleared his throat and took a
step backwards:
"Ready, sirs!" said he curtly. "On guard!"
The narrow blades glittered, crossed, kissed lightly together and
remained for a moment rigidly motionless, then, quicker than eye could
follow, flashed into swift and deadly action. Followed the soft thud
of swift-moving feet, the quick, light beat of the blades, now ringing
sharply, now clashing and grinding, now silent altogether. Mr.
Dalroyd's white teeth were bared in a confident smile as, pressing in,
he beset the Major with thrust on thrust, now in the high line, now in
the low, constantly changing his attack, besetting him with cunning
beats and skilful twists; but cunning was met with cunning and fierce
attack with calm and unerring guard.
Thus as the moments sped, the fighting grew ever more close and deadly,
the blades darted and writhed unceasingly, they flashed and flickered
in narrow circles, while the Sergeant, leaning broad back against
locked door, watched the rapid exchanges with a fencer's eye and the
Colonel forgot all else in the world but the sublime skill of their
play. But as the moments dragged by, the Colonel's fingers began to
pull and twist irritably at one of the buttons of his coat, and about
this time too, Sergeant Zebedee's nonchalant attitude changed to one of
rigid attention, his black brows twitched and in his look was dawning
bewilderment; for while Mr. Dalroyd fought serene of face and tireless
of arm the Major seemed to have become strangely languid and
unaccountably slow, his pallid cheeks were lined with sweat and he
laboured painfully in his breathing; noting all of which the Sergeant's
bewilderment grew to anxiety, while Colonel Cleeve's fingers were
twisting and wrenching at the button harder than ever.
Without the windows was the ceaseless rush of the wind, now rising to
an angry roar, now dying to a mournful wail; within was a ceaseless
tread of shoeless feet and ring of steel, now clashing fierce and loud,
and always the Sergeant's anxiety increased, for the Major's parries
seemed slower than ever; again and again his adversary's point,
flashing perilously near, was turned only just in time, once ripping
the cambric at his neck and again at shoulder; and ever Mr. Dalroyd's
smile grew more confident and the spectators' anxious bewilderment the
keener.
All at once the Sergeant uttered a gasp, the Colonel took a quick
stride forward as Mr. Dalroyd, thrusting in tierce, flashed into carte
and drove in a vicious lunge--was met by lightning riposte and flinging
himself sideways sprang out of distance, a fleck of blood upon his
shirt-sleeve.
"You are touched, I think, sir?" enquired the Colonel.
"Thank you, 'tis nought in the world," he answered, panting a little
but with lips that curled and nostrils that quivered in his cold smile
as he watched the Major who stood, haggard of face, one hand pressed to
his side, his lips close-set, breathing hard through his nose.
"Art hurt, man Jack--art hurt?"
"Nay sir I--I am well enough!" he answered, forcing a ghastly
smile--"when Captain Effingham is ready----"
"Nay sir," answered Mr. Dalroyd, bowing, "pray take your time--you are
a little distressed I think, pray recover your breath----"
"I am quite ready, sir." So they bowed to each other, advanced upon
each other and again their weapons crossed. And now as though they
knew it was a matter of time they pressed each other more fiercely and
with a new impetuosity, yet equally alert and wary--came a whirl and
flurry of ringing steel drowned all at once in the crash of splintering
glass at one of the windows--a frenzied hand that groped, then the
casement swung wide with a rush of wind and, as though borne in upon
the raging tempest, a figure sprang into the room, long hair flying, a
cloud of tresses black as the night, silks and satins torn and
mud-splashed, one white hand grasping a silver-mounted pistol, the
other stretched out commandingly.
"Stop!" she panted. "Stop!"
At sight of her Mr. Dalroyd lowered his weapon and bowed; the Major,
with head drooping, viewed her beneath his brows, then, crossing to the
table leaned there with head averted, and Lord Cleeve, having opened
his eyes to their widest, opened his mouth also--but said not a word
and dropped a button from suddenly relaxed fingers; as for the Sergeant
he unclenched his fists, breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness and
murmured "Zounds!"
"My Lord Cleeve," said she at last, "when Mr. Dalroyd has taken his
departure, I will beg you to escort me to my house."
Lord Cleeve bowed and sheathed his sword looking foolish the while.
"A--a happiness!" he stammered.
"Mr. Dalroyd," said my lady very proudly for all her torn and muddy
gown, "I ask you to prove your manhood by setting by that sword and
leaving the house--now! You will find one of your coach horses below
the terrace. Your quicker way will be by the window yonder."
Mr. Dalroyd hesitated, his pale cheeks flushed suddenly, his sleepy
eyes opened wide, then he smiled and bowing, reached for his coat and
with the Colonel's assistance got into it, and he slipped on his shoes.
Then, heedless of the others, he caught my lady's hand to his lips and
bowing, kissed it.
"Ah, Betty," said he, "you are worth the winning--aye, upon my soul you
are!"
"Take your pistol, sir!" He took it, turned it over and laughed gently.
"My dear lady," said he, "after your exploits this night I wouldn't
forego you for any woman that ever tempted man. Your time shall be my
time and my time is--soon, Betty--ah, soon!" And bowing again, he
crossed to the open window, stepped out into the dark and was gone.
For a moment none moved, then the Sergeant crossed the room and closed
the shattered casement.
"Major d'Arcy," said my lady, and now there was a troubled quiver in
the clear voice, "upon a night not long ago you made me a promise--nay,
swore me an oath. Do you remember?" The Major was silent. "Sir," she
continued, her voice growing more troubled, "you did not give me that
oath easily and now--O is it thus you keep all your promises?" The
Major made no answer, nor did he stir, nor even lift his head.
"John," she took a quick step toward the rigid figure. "O Jack--you
are not hurt----"
"Thank you--I am--very well!" he answered, still without turning, and
gripping the sword he still held in rigid fingers. After this there
seemed a long silence filled with the rumble of wind in the wide
chimney. Then my lady stirred, sighed, and stretched out her hand to
Colonel Cleeve.
"O my lord," she said wearily, "prithee take me home." So the Colonel
took her hand, drew it through his arm and led her towards the door,
but ever as she went she gazed towards the Major's motionless back;
reaching the door she paused, but still his head was averted; then she
sighed, shivered and, despite her muddy and tattered gown, swept away
upon Lord George's arm like a young, disdainful goddess.
The Major drew a quivering breath and his sword clattered upon the
floor.
"God above!" exclaimed the Sergeant, clasping strong arms about that
rigid form, "the Captain pinked you after all, sir."
"No, Zeb, no--but I fancy I've broke a--couple of ribs or so--as
'twere, d'ye see, Zeb----" And sighing, he fell forward with his head
pillowed upon the Sergeant's shoulder.