The Duel.
The dinner-table was full. Old Felix, the head waiter, had caused a
separate table to be laid for the party of which Sir Simon Orville was
regarded as the head; it included the Galls, the Loftus's, young
Paradyne, and a friend of Mr. Gall's, named Bouncely, just arrived by
the train from Paris; all, in fact, save the resuscitated Dick, who had
been brought home, and was upstairs between a few hot blankets.
It was a very singular thing that the conversation at this side table
of theirs should turn on duelling. Bertie Loftus, recounting it later
to Onions, called it a "droll chance." But nothing happens by chance in
life. Mr. Bouncely, a ponderous gentleman in black, with gold
spectacles, a huge bunch of seals hanging down from a chain in a
by-gone fashion, and who was an alderman or sheriff, or something grand
and great of that nature in the City, had recently been enjoying a
brief sojourn at Frankfort-on-the-Maine. He was brim-full of a duel
just fought there; had not, as he expressed it, got over the horror
yet.
"It arose out of a quarrel at the gaming-table; as quite three parts of
these duels do arise," said he, tasting his fish. "Two young fellows of
most respectable connections, students yet, one training for medicine,
the other for the bar, went out with their seconds in the early
morning, and shot each other. One died on the spot, the other is lamed
for life."
"Ugh!" exclaimed Sir Simon. "One can hardly believe such a thing in
these sensible matter-of-fact days." And Gall and Loftus, seated at
opposite corners of the table, glanced accidentally at each other, and
dropped their eyes again.
"The one, killed, was an only son—an only child—and his mother is a
widow," continued Mr. Bouncely, bending his spectacles on something
just placed before him, if by good luck they could distinguish what the
compound might be. "She has been nearly out of her mind since; all her
enjoyment in life is gone. It is very awful when you reflect upon it."
"Poor thing; yes, it is indeed," interposed Mrs. Loftus with
compassion. "Every mother must feel for her."
"Ma'am, I spoke of the thing itself; not of the poor mother. _That_ is
not the awful part of it."
William Gall, passing the water, which somebody asked for, happened to
catch sight of his mother's bent eyes; bent to hide the tears that had
gathered in them.
"I was alluding to _him_, ma'am; the young man himself," resumed Mr.
Bouncely, willing that Mrs. Loftus should be fully enlightened. _"What
is his future fate to be?_ Where is he now? _now_, at this very time,
let us ask, when we are left on the earth here, eating a good dinner?
God placed him in the world to do his duty usefully and faithfully, and
to fit himself for a better; not to hurry himself out of it at his own
will and pleasure, a suicide."
"A suicide," repeated Mrs. Loftus, who was apt to take things
literally. "I thought the other killed him."
"Why, dear me, madam, what can you call it but a case of suicide; what
else is it?" asked the City man. "They stand up deliberately, the pair
of them, to shoot, and be shot at; each one, no doubt, hoping and
striving to get the other dead first. I should not like to rush into
the presence of my Maker uncalled for, with murder on my hand, and
passion in my heart."
"Ah, no!" shuddered Mrs. Loftus. "It is very dreadful."
"He was about half an hour dying; perfectly sensible and conscious that
life was ebbing away fast, past hope," resumed Mr. Bouncely. "What
could his sensations have been as he lay there?—what awful despair must
have reached him; what bitter repentance! It makes one shudder to think
of it."
It seemed as though Mr. Bouncely were imparting somewhat of his own
strong feeling on the subject to the table. And, in truth, such
reflections were enough to make even the careless shudder.
"What would he have given, in that one half hour of agony, to undo his
act of folly, that poor young dying man!" he continued. "He was a
Lutheran, and had been religiously trained: 'the child of many
prayers,' said a friend of the mother to me. Ah, what petitions of
imploring anguish, as he lay in his remorse, must have gone up to his
Saviour for pardon! for grace even for him."
And so the conversation continued, this duel being the topic to the end
of dinner. It seemed to Gall and Loftus that Mr. Bouncely kept it up on
purpose: when anybody strayed to a different subject, he recurred to
this. As they were crossing the court-yard after rising, to go into the
public drawing-room, or to their rooms up stairs, as inclination led,
some one touched Gall on the arm. It was Talbot, who had been waiting
under the porte-cochère. Gall stepped aside with him, apparently just
taking a look at the street and at the library windows opposite,
lighted up.
"I thought I'd come and tell you, Gall, that the wind's gone down,"
whispered Talbot. "I have been on the pier with Onions, and it's
nothing like as high; so there will be no impediment on that score. We
got talking to an old fisherman, and he says it will be calm by
morning. How's Dick?"
"Oh, he's all right," answered Gall, speaking more as if he were in a
dream than awake. At least, it sounded so, and Talbot glanced at him.
"Are you going to the ball to-night?" asked Talbot, the whirling by of
a carriage with flashing lamps probably suggesting the remembrance of
the ball to him.
"No," said Gall; and for the life of him he could not have helped the
sudden sense of the general unfitness of things that just then came
over him. Balls in one place, duels and death in another.
"Onions is gone. His mother made him go. At least he's gone in to dress
for it. She wants to be there once, just to see what it's like, she
says. Onions was very mad, but he couldn't get off it."
"Ah, yes," answered Gall, thinking how much happier Onions was than
himself. "I must go in, earl; I promised Dick I'd sit with him after
dinner. Good night."
Talbot put out his hand; an unusual occurrence, for the college boys
were not given to ceremony between themselves, either at meeting or
parting. Gall responded to it mechanically.
"I say, Gall," he said, as he held it, and his voice dropped to a sort
of solemn, concerned tone, as if _this_, that he was about to say, were
serious and what had gone before was froth, "must this go on?"
"Must what go on?"
"The business of to-morrow morning."
"Why you know it must."
"I don't like it."
"Neither do I particularly."
"Then put an end to it before mischief comes."
"How?"
"Why, shake hands; you and Loftus. You are both good fellows, as all
the world knows. It's a miserable thing that you should quarrel and
bring things to this pitch."
"I have not sought the quarrel. Loftus has forced it upon me."
"Well, you did knock him down, you know. Go to him and apologize for
_that_, and perhaps between you things may be made up."
"And be branded by him afterwards as a coward—as no gentleman!" was
Gall's irritable and indignant answer. "Talbot, there's not another
word to be said. This was forced upon me in the first instance; but I
have taken it up, and, having done so, there's no retreat."
"Then of course I can say no more; but I wish it were otherwise. At
five o'clock in the morning, I'll be at the door here waiting for you.
Good night. I've got a bet with Onions that he oversleeps himself. What
fun if he should! He brings the pistols."
Talbot walked away in the direction of the Hotel des Bains; he had to
see Leek yet; and Gall went up stairs to Dick's chamber in pursuance of
his promise. Dick, however, proved to be in a sound sleep, so he turned
to his mother's sitting-room. Mrs. Gall was seated at one end of the
crimson-velvet sofa, complaining of a headache.
He had a headache, too, or perhaps it was a heartache; and he sat down
on the sofa by her, and let his head fall upon her shoulder. Mrs. Gall
was a little shrimp of a woman, with a great deal of love for her
children and gentleness for the world in general, although the end of
her nose was so sharp and red.
"Are you not going down to the salon, mother?"
"No, dear. They will send me some tea here."
"Nor to the rooms?"
"Not to-night, William. Papa's going, I think, with the rest. You are
going too, I suppose?"
"No; I'll stay at home with you."
"Nay, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Gall, supposing his motive was to
keep her company; for she was accustomed to much consideration from her
children, as a gentle, loving mother is sure to get. "I shall be quite
well alone. You must not deprive yourself of the evening's pleasure for
me. This ball to-night is the chief one of the season."
"I am not going," he answered. "I did not intend it, mamma."
She lifted her hand as he lay there, to push the hair from his brow,
with a fond movement, and stooped to kiss him.
"How hot your forehead is, William! Have you the headache, too?"
"Not much. A little."
"I think the wind brought on mine to-day," observed Mrs. Gall. "That,
and the fright connected with Dick Loftus. William, that's a brave boy,
that young Paradyne. I'm so glad we brought him."
"First-rate."
"I cannot think why the college should dislike him: it gets more and
more of a puzzle to me. He is very good-looking. Did you notice his
beautiful eyes and his flushed face when Mr. Bouncely was giving us
that narrative at dinner? He was quite a picture then. By the way,
William, what a most shocking thing that was!"
"Not pleasant."
"Not pleasant!" repeated Mrs. Gall, rather shocked at the apparently
light tone. "Can you imagine anything more dreadful? A mistake, or
calamity, so long as it is confined to this world, is not beyond the
pale of remedy; but—when it comes to rushing into the next! William, I
am sure that thinking of that poor mistaken youth has made my head
worse."
William Gall gave no particular reply; his mother thought he was
sleepy, and said no more. Sleepy! with the consciousness on his soul of
what he was about to do! with the awful amount of responsibility,
already making itself heard, that was weighing him down! There was no
such blessing as sleep for him.
It might be the last time he should ever, in life, be thus with his
mother. It might be his last evening on earth. Oh, life looked very
fair, now that he was possibly about to quit it. Scenes of the past and
present, pleasant realities of existence, seemed to come tumbling into
his mind with strange persistency. The "old house at home," with its
home comforts and home affections; the days at Orville College with
their hopes and interests; the future career he had been rather given
in anticipation, to carve out for himself. Why, what a mockery it
seemed! Here was he, a candidate (though he had never much thought he
should get it) for the Orville prize—long before the time for bestowing
it came, he might be cold in his grave, half forgotten! What a mockery
seemed all things, if it came to that: his education at all; his
training; nay, even his having been born—were this to be the ending!
The more serious, solemn part that Mr. Bouncely had enlarged on in the
other case, of what might come after death, William Gall simply dared
not glance at. No wonder that his brow grew hotter and hotter.
"I'll go to my room, I think," he quietly said, rising, as his
reflections became keen and more keen, his assumption of calm
equanimity simply intolerable. "Good night, mother, dear."
She was surprised at the abrupt salutation; at the long, passionate
kiss he pressed upon her lips; at the yearning, singular love in his
eyes. But before she could say anything, he was gone. Gone to shut
himself in his own room, with his troubles and his fear. Not fear of
the shot itself or the pain it might bring; William Gall was of a
sufficiently brave nature; but fear of the results that might follow in
its wake—of the ETERNITY he might be flying into. And yet, so powerful
upon him was received custom, the conventionalities of the world; so
great a dread had he, in common with others, of being pointed at as a
coward, that he let the thing go on, and would not stop it. An almost
irrepressible wish had come over him, while he was with his mother, to
tell the truth to her; but that might not be, and he thrust it back
again.
And so good night to you, Mr. William Gall! Pleasant dreams! Bertie
Loftus was getting over the evening in a different way. Bertie, in full
dress, was exhibiting his handsome self at the rooms. He talked, he
laughed, he danced; he was so unusually active, so unusually gay, that
Raymond Trace, with his unfailing discernment, wondered what Bertie had
been about, and knew he was only killing care. Bertie denied it when
Trace asked; _there_ was his care, that split he had made in his
left-hand glove. "Wretched kid that it must be," he said, with a light
laugh. With a light laugh; with an assumption of careless gaiety: but
nevertheless every pulse in Mr. Bertie's inward heart was beating with
something that was more akin to pain than pleasure; and the loud notes
of the music seemed to be so many pistol-shots banging off in the air.
"Be on the ground in time, Loftus," whispered Mr. Leek, as he passed in
the wake of the Lady Sophia's scarlet cloak, who had soon had enough of
it, and was leaving early. "Five o'clock sharp, mind."
"All right, Leek." And subsequently when Bertie Loftus himself took his
departure, he and his party, a couple of coachfuls, and rattled along
the port, he looked out at the glistening water and wondered whether he
should ever see it again. He might wish the morrow over; he might wish
what was to take place in it could be stopped; but that was impossible.
Pride was in the ascendant with both him and Gall, you see; and of
course gentlemen cannot act against the _convenances_ of society.
The morning rose; warm, bright, clear; with a stiffish breeze yet, but
nothing to intercept work or pistol shots. Gall found his way out of
the hotel, and saw the faithful Talbot waiting, his back propped
against the shutters at the parfumeur's opposite. Gall felt in better
spirits than he had been last night, as most of us do when light has
chased away the darkness. And, perhaps, he was willing to show himself
gay.
"Good morning, Shrewsbury! How long have you been there?"
"Only five minutes. I say, is it not a glorious morning? Couldn't have
a better," cried the earl. He seemed in spirits too. It was well to put
a good face on what could not now be avoided.
They walked to the appointed place, commencing the route by the Rue
d'Assas, and so upwards. It was a good step, even when they had left
the town behind. Carriages had been proposed the previous day; but they
were afraid to engage any lest the affair should get known. These two
were on the spot first. Certainly the seconds had chosen well; the
place was appropriate enough to what had to be done on it. It was a bit
of flat, low ground, where the grass was short, lying rather in a
hollow, and sufficiently secluded. The sea sparkled in the distance
over the heights; the open country was stretched out on the other hand;
Boulogne lay below. A very few minutes, and Mr. Leek appeared in full
spirits, carrying the case of pistols.
"How are you, Gall, old fellow?" he asked, gingerly depositing the case
on the ground. "I'm not long after you, you see, Shrewsbury. Where's
Loftus?"
"Not come yet," answered the earl. He put his arm within Leek's, and
drew him off a little way, talking of the preliminaries in an
undertone; not so low, however, but that Gall might have heard had he
chosen to listen. Gall sat down on a gentle ridge of the land, and
waited. Soon the others came back again; Onions remarking with an
offhand manner, as if he wanted to show himself at ease, that they
should have a broiling day.
They waited on; waited and waited. Expectation grew into wonder. Loftus
and Mr. Bob Brown had arranged to come together, but neither came. Had
Loftus's valiant courage deserted him at the eleventh hour? Hardly; but
Gall felt gratified that he was not the one to be tardy.
As the clocks were striking six, a shout was heard, and three figures
bounded on to the heights. Brown major was the first—and _his_ company
had not been bargained for; on the contrary, he had been expressly told
by the seconds he was not to come. But the meeting was a great deal too
tempting to be withstood: as Brown major remarked, he might never have
the luck to get such a chance again. Bertie Loftus, in a white heat,
began explaining their unfortunate detention. He shared a double-bedded
room at the hotel with Dick, and just as he was about to get up and
dress himself, Sir Simon Orville, anxious for Dick's health, walked in
without ceremony, sat himself down on Dick's bed, talking, and never
(as Bertie phrased it) went out again.
"I _couldn't_ get up while he was there," cried Bertie, speaking
savagely in his mortification; "it might have betrayed the whole thing.
You should have seen the Guy he was; he had on grey drawers, with a
white stripe across 'em, and a long tassel hanging behind from his
cotton nightcap."
There was no time to be lost. It was already too late by a good hour,
and Leek and Talbot bestirred themselves with a will. The only one of
the party who looked grave, somewhat unwilling, was Mr. Robert Brown.
What had been great fun in prospective, was very serious now that the
time for action came; and the young doctor felt the responsibility that
his two or three years of seniority gave him. Putting out of view the
possible consequences, he saw that a large share of the blame might
afterwards rest upon him.
"I wish you would make it up, gentlemen," he urged.
Nobody listened to him. The seconds were busy pacing the ground,
looking to the pistols, holding communion in an undertone. Gall and
Loftus were exchanging a civil sentence now and then, to show their
indifference. Both were outwardly calm, though perhaps it strained
their nerves to appear so; Brown major, with a scared look in his round
eyes, went dodging about restlessly, and rather wished, than otherwise,
that he had not come.
"All's ready," cried the seconds, returning to them. Of course they
knew very little, if anything, of the executive of such meetings, but
were doing things according to their best judgment. "We are putting you
sideways to the sun, or else one of you must have had it right in his
face," said the earl.
"Do we keep our hats on?" asked Gall.
Now here was a poser. Nobody could answer the question, or say what the
custom was. Talbot thought they should be on, Leek thought they should
be off. While the duellists stood in indecision, the young surgeon
settled it.
"Keep them on," said he. "What does custom signify one way or the
other?"
"You must shake hands," said Onions. But he had no sooner spoken than
Lord Shrewsbury whispered to him that it was prize-fighters who shook
hands, not duellists. However the thing was done; and, as Mr. Brown
remarked by the other doubt, it could not matter.
They were placed facing each other, twenty paces between them, and a
pistol handed to each. Ah, how little Bertie Loftus, when he bought
those pistols in his pride a year ago, dreamt of the grief they would
bring him to! Both of them, Gall and Loftus, were now as white as
chalk. The surgeon stood on the side with a rueful face and compressed
lips; Brown major removed himself to a safe distance: with those
inexperienced shooters there was no knowing what direction the bullets
might take; and the seconds as yet were standing close, each behind his
man.
"Present!" said Leek, in so low a tone that the doctor did not hear it.
Onions might be nervous.
"Fire!" came the next word, after a moment's pause; and that was called
out loud enough.
"Not yet! not yet!" shouted Robert Brown in an agony, for the two
inexperienced seconds had not removed themselves from the place of
danger. "Come away first for the love of heaven!"
He spoke too late. The combatants had fired, each his pistol; the
reports crashing out loud enough in the morning air. There ensued some
momentary confusion, and Robert Brown's eyes were, so to say, dazzled
by anxiety and fear. When his sight came to him, he saw that the rash
seconds were uninjured; but the duellists had both fallen, and were
lying on the ground, their white faces turned up to the full blaze of
the August sun.