THE morning after our visit I was in DeVare’s room, waiting for him
to come in from lecture, when some one knocked, and, in answer to my
invitation, Ellerton, a Sophomore, who had been kind to me at first,
entered, and asked for DeVare. Finding that I expected him in soon, he
took a seat, and commenced some trivial talk about college matters.
He had had nothing to do with me since I joined DeVare’s club, and a
salutation when we passed had been the extent of our intercourse since
early in the session.
He spoke with regret of the last night’s affair, and said DeVare ought
not to have been so quick to resent the fellows’ fun. This, of course,
nettled me, and I was about to make an angry reply, when DeVare himself
came in. He bowed to Ellerton, who rose and handed him a note. DeVare’s
brow contracted as he read it, and as soon as he finished he tossed
it to me, and sitting down to his writing table, commenced his reply.
The note he had received was from Brazon, demanding a retraction of
the language used last evening, and an apology in the presence of both
ladies, or the usual satisfaction. Ere I had finished reading DeVare
folded and addressed his answer, and Ellerton, receiving it, bowed
himself out.
DeVare looked at me and smiled as I asked him what he intended to do.
“My self-respect forbids that I should entertain a thought of yielding
to the first demand; custom and public opinion compel me to grant the
second. I wrote, therefore, that I had no remark to regret, and no
retraction to make; and that I would accord him any satisfaction he
might desire I took the liberty of referring him to you, as my friend.”
“You were perfectly right in that; but, DeVare, I must take your place,
and be the principal in this affair, as it was all undertaken on my
account.”
“That could not be, Jack, even if I were willing, which I certainly am
not. Do not trouble yourself about it, for I do not feel one particle
of concern or uneasiness in reference to it. You had best now go to
Ellerton’s room, and confer with him in regard to the arrangements. One
thing I will mention: if there has to be a meeting get it put off till
the end of the session, as the laws of the University require instant
expulsion for any one in anywise connected with a duel.”
I had scarcely risen from my seat when Ellerton again tapped at the
door, to request me to walk with him over to his room.
I rose and followed him, feeling, I must confess, somewhat important
as second in a duel which would create quite a stir, and yet feeling
sadly conscious that it was a strange manifestation of friendship to be
arranging preliminaries for my friend’s possible and probable death.
When we reached Ellerton’s room he motioned me to take a seat, and said:
“Brazon has read DeVare’s note, and as he refuses to apologize, I wish
to know when he will meet him, and with what weapons?”
“O! Ellerton!” I said, thoroughly unmanned, “cannot this wretched
affair be settled without recourse to arms? I was the unintentional
cause of it all, and, as DeVare will not hear of my taking his place on
the field, I will submit to any humiliation to save him.”
“I don’t think your humiliation would do much good,” he remarked,
coolly, sticking his knife through a match lying on the table, and
splitting the phosphorus into a blaze. “DeVare is the man who insulted
him, and Brazon will alone be satisfied with his blood.”
“I’ll have his if he gets it,” I said, savagely, recalled to myself by
his words.
“Well, well, do not threaten,” he said, throwing the match on the floor
and rubbing it out with his boot; “let’s proceed to business.”
He got paper and pens, and we agreed on the following arrangements:
Time of meeting, the 3d of December; place, just in the South Carolina
line; weapons, Derringer pistols; distance, ten paces.
“Is that all, now,” I said, rising to leave.
“I believe so,” he said, running his finger down the paper. “It’s
pretty far off now, and we’ll have to keep our principals up to the
point. I’m afraid they’ll cool off and make friends yet.”
“You need have no fears in regard to mine,” I said, haughtily, “he’ll
make no overtures, and will certainly be ready when the time comes.”
I reported all to DeVare, who expressed himself satisfied with the
arrangements, and apparently dismissed the subject from his mind for
any allusion he made to it during the days and weeks following.
The same evening I walked out, and received a very gracious bow
from Miss Carrover, which set my heart in a flutter, though I was
considerably troubled at seeing Ellerton in the porch with her.
That night I wrote to father, with many excuses and reasons for the
request, to send me my horse and Reuben; and feeling perfectly assured
they would come, made up my mind what to do when they did.
After a day or two I called again on Miss Carrover, and was fortunate
this time in finding her alone. I enjoyed a very delightful
_tete-a-tete_ with her, and, among other things, told her that I
had sent for my horse, and that when he came I would claim the ride
she had so cruelly refused me the evening I had first called. She
readily assented, and expressed the wish to ride him herself. Then she
consented to sing for me; and, having been assured that her favorite
would be mine, selected Meyerbeer’s “Robert le Diable.” Though her
voice was very fine, yet it had been trained in such affectation of
the opera that the song lost all of its melody and pathos in her
rendition. She got up so high in her screams for _grace_ that it was
only possible to descend by a ladder, which, like Brother Weekly, she
constructed of “er,” and came hopping down with such an impenitent
_gra-er-a-er-a-er-ce pour moi_ that no one could have blamed Robert for
his inexorable “_Non, non, non._” At the conclusion of the piece I was,
of course, profuse in my thanks and praise; but, fearing another such
infliction, I begged for some instrumental music, and was tested, as to
patience, by ten or twelve pages of banging and scaling.
Yet my visit was very delightful, and I departed more enraptured than
ever, if such a thing was possible.
When I recounted my visit to Ned, he only laughed, and advised me
seriously to attend more closely to my books.
“You know how much your father expects of you,” he said; “and you may
be sure this Miss Carrover does not care a fig for you.”
“I know she does,” I responded, warmly. “Even on this, my second visit,
she has shown me plainly that she likes me well. I’ll bet we are
engaged before three months. Won’t that be glorious, Ned? Surely, man,
you have no eyes, or you would be enslaved yourself by her beauty.”
“My vision is very good,” said Ned, “but I don’t see any thing
enslaving about her. She is pretty, without doubt, and is probably
entertaining; but there are others equally as good looking, and more
capable of rendering you happy. Besides, do you suppose that a lady who
has been the object of a great city’s adulation can be pleased with any
one in this little village of students—half of whom she regards as
mere boys?”
“Umph, we are as good as any Adonis of Broadway. And then, Ned, a lady
who felt at all bored by our presence would evince it in some way. A
look, a careless word or a sneer would betray her feelings. No, Ned,
you are surprised at my success, and only predict evil because you hate
to confess the contrary is true.”
“Well,” said Ned, turning over the leaves of his lexicon in search of a
flea of a word, “go on; but you will find she is only amusing herself
with you during her rustication.”
“But, Ned, I know she likes me; and won’t it be splendid to call the
beauty of Gotham mine?”
“Go your way, old fellow,” said Ned, catching the flea and pinning it
with his pencil on the margin of his text-book; “but, mark my words, in
three months from to-day your adored will have discarded you, and you
will then be regretting the moments you have wasted on her.”
“That reminds me,” I said, taking down my book, “I must cram Greek for
to-morrow.”
After an hour’s study we retired—Ned well prepared, I just half.