THE thirtieth November came at last, and found DeVare, Ned and myself
on the train for Wilmington.
The fall session had closed that afternoon, and we had gone up to
Durham’s to take the night train. DeVare was going home with me, and
would remain till the 3d December, when we were to go over to South
Carolina, that Brazon might prove himself a gentleman by trying to take
DeVare’s life.
He and Ellerton were on the same train, in company with Frank, but
there was no intercourse between any of us.
We reached Wilmington late the next evening, and were heartily welcomed
by every one. It was delightful to be in my dear home again, every one
so glad to see me, and all interested in the merest little detail of
my experience. Carlotta was far more beautiful than when I had left
her, and I thought, if years improve her as months have done, she
will be the most superbly beautiful woman the world has ever seen.
DeVare was perfectly enraptured with her, and vowed that were his
affections free he would lay them at her feet. In fact, everything was
made so pleasant to both of us that he declared my home the happiest
he had ever known. My spirits were very much depressed. Do what I
would I could not shake off a dull, heavy foreboding that seemed to
shroud my heart in perpetual gloom. Even when I would forget it for a
while, there was the same unrest, the same consciousness of something
unpleasant, ever resting on my mind. Whatever were the consequences of
the dreaded affair to the others, to myself they could be nothing else
but disagreeable. If there were no bloodshed, I would incur father’s
displeasure to the last degree. I would be liable to indictment in law,
and would, perhaps, be expelled from the University; while if DeVare
was killed,—— but I could not allow myself to think of such a horror
for the slightest moment.
Every day I prayed, with all the faith I could command, that it might
not occur, and, if it did, that no blood might be spilled. I would have
informed the authorities had I not promised DeVare to keep it secret.
All this dread of it arose from the fact that I was only the second.
Had I been one of the principals in it the romance of excitement would
have kept up my spirits, and the necessity for heroic demeanor would
have nerved me into nonchalance. DeVare seemed perfectly cheerful, and
scarcely ever gave the subject a thought, but my loss of spirits was so
perceptible that father rallied me in regard to it, and mother became
really solicitous.
The night of the 2d December came round, and DeVare and I went to
our rooms to make preparations for our trip next morning. I had told
them down stairs that DeVare had a little matter of business in South
Carolina, and that I had agreed to accompany him thither. We had very
few preparations to make, as we expected to return on the evening
train. As I said this to DeVare, when he suggested that we had best
carry a valise, I remember the peculiar smile with which he replied:
“Perhaps _we_ may not return at all, at least together. One of us may
be in the baggage car.”
“Oh, Ramie, for the love of Heaven do not speak in that way. If you
have any love for me let me take your place to-morrow. I had rather die
a thousand deaths than feel the dreadful gloom I do to-night,” and I
bowed my face upon the table, while my frame shook with emotion.
“Why, Jack,” said Ramie fondly, laying his hand on my arm, “you unnerve
me. What have you to fear?”
“More than you, Ramie! I had a hundred fold rather face death than the
remorse I must feel if anything happens to you.”
“Your youth and inexperience shrink from the responsibility of the
position; but look on the bright side and hope for the best. Now come,
sit here by the fire with me, while I give you some directions about
what I want done in case I——. You understand.”
“Don’t mention that horrid possibility, Ramie. I cannot bear it.”
“Yes; but it must be mentioned,” he said, crimping a strip of paper
between his thumb and forefinger, while he gazed pensively at the coals
flickering their red horoscope deep in the grate. “If I fall,” he at
length said, “have my body brought back to town and carried to the
hotel; I do not wish to shock the feelings of your kind family by being
brought here.”
“It shall go nowhere else,” I replied, impetuously, forgetting that the
neuter “_it_” might grate harshly on his ear.
“Then have a metallic case,” he went on, without noticing my
interruption, “and have it expressed to New Orleans, telegraphing
Mr. Dixon, our agent, to meet it and make necessary arrangements for
interment. I expected my mother here soon, but I wrote her a few days
since to remain in New Orleans till she heard from me again. I made
my will yesterday, and had it signed and sealed, but there are a few
articles of personal property I wish you to dispose of for me. My ring,
with Lillian’s and my own likeness in it, together with the box of
trinkets and souvenirs you will find in my trunk, please give to her;
my watch and chain send to my mother, and this I wish you to keep,”
and he placed in my hand a beautiful emerald cross, which he wore as a
scarf pin.
He gazed again for some time in the fire, and then looked up and
continued:
“And, John, write to mother and explain all the circumstances and
reasons of the affair—omitting, of course, the slight connection
you had with its beginning; and tell her that I die in the faith and
communion of the Church, and in the hope of Heaven. I am speaking
thus in case the worst happens. I trust, though, there may be no
occasion for your carrying out these instructions. Now complete your
arrangements and let’s go to sleep; I want to feel well in the morning.”
He retired to his room, which adjoined mine; and having occasion to
go in there a few moments afterwards, I found that he was sleeping as
peacefully as if on his mother’s bosom. I could not sleep, but tossed
from side to side in a fever of restless apprehension.
About day I fell into a doze, from which I was awakened by father’s
tapping at our door and telling us it was nearly train time. I found
DeVare already up and dressed, and I rose, and hurriedly, shiveringly,
slipped on my clothes and went down with him to the dining room, where
mother had prepared an early breakfast for us.
“What time will you return?” asked father, as we got into the carriage.
“Don’t look for us until you see us,” I said, slamming the carriage
door, and concealing beneath my shawl my case of Derringers, which
Ellerton had agreed to use.
A thought of coming back alone flitted like a raven of despair across
my mind, but I shook it off and assumed cheerfulness.
As we entered the boat I noticed Ellerton and Brazon on the forward
deck, smoking with affected _sang froid_. We sat down near the wheel
house, and watched the paddles as they churned the bluish-green water
into white foam, and rocked the little skiffs passing near, with
refluent waves. Across the river a short dash on the cars took us over
the line and into the little town of C——.
Here we hired hacks and drove out to the place Ellerton and I had
agreed on—a picturesque spot, and one which Frank and I had visited
when we were boys. It was a beautiful grass plat, of half an acre,
lying between two hills, and bordered with a little gurgling branch.
We had hardly gotten out and dismissed the driver for half an hour,
when the other carriage drove up, and Brazon and Ellerton got out, and
with them a surgeon from the town.
We bowed to each other, and Ellerton and I stepped forward to measure
the ground. We divided the sun and shade as equally as possible between
them, Ellerton examined and loaded the pistols, and we arranged to
place our men. Brazon was smoking with apparent indifference, but that
it was assumed could be seen from the nervous, trembling way he would
take his cigar from his mouth, and from the frequent yawns he made.
DeVare was leaning against a tree in an abstracted manner, and started
when I touched his arm.
“All is ready, Ramie,” I said, conducting him to the spot assigned him.
“Here, take this pistol, be cool and aim well.”
He only looked at me and smiled, but said nothing. I told Ellerton he
must give the word to fire, as I dared not, and I withdrew a short
distance, and stood with uncovered head, breathing a prayer which I
felt was a mockery.
Ellerton raised his handkerchief while I quivered with suspense; his
voice rang out loud and clear:
“Ready! aim! fire!—one, two, three!”
At the word “one” Brazon fired, his ball cutting the foliage a yard
over DeVare’s head, while the echoes rolled in solemn groans through
the woods around.
After the word “three” Ramie raised his pistol and fired into the air,
the smoke curling gracefully up towards Heaven, as if from the altar of
a peace offering.
We each ran to our principals.
“Ramie! Ramie!” I exclaimed, “this will never do; why on earth did you
not fire at him? I am afraid now he will want another shot, as he sees
your harmless intentions. A shot pretty close would have frightened him
off.”
“Perhaps you are right,” he said quietly; “but then I might have killed
him, and that is not my object.”
Ellerton now approached, and, bowing, said:
“My principal claims another shot, as Mr. DeVare promised him
satisfaction.”
“He can get it,” said DeVare, before I could interpose.
“He also begs,” said Ellerton, addressing DeVare, “that you will do him
the honor to fire at him, as he dislikes to aim at one who preserves
your peaceful attitude.”
“I shall do as I think best,” replied DeVare, with so much dignity that
Ellerton withdrew in some confusion.
Again were the pistols loaded and placed in their hands, and again rang
out those deadly words, “Fire!—one, two, three!”
Brazon, who had become very nervous and excited, fired while the word
“one” was yet on Ellerton’s lips. DeVare gave a slight start, raised
his pistol and aimed upward, then lowered his hand without firing,
deliberately uncocked his weapon and dropped it beside him, then,
closing his eyes with a sudden tightness, fell in a doubled-up heap to
the ground. The heavy manner in which he fell, without regard to easing
himself down, told me all.
I ran to him, and raised his head upon my arm; his eyes were still
closed, and his face was pale as marble. He was drawing his breath in
short gasps, at long intervals, while the blood was oozing from his
lips, and trickling in little red streams down his chin and throat. The
ball had entered below the right armpit, and ranged straight across
toward the heart, and I supposed that internal hemorrhage caused the
flow of blood from the mouth.
“Ramie! Ramie!” I called frantically, “are you hurt much? Speak to me,
Ramie.”
His eyes opened feebly on mine, and with considerable effort he
whispered:
“I am almost gone, Jack.”
The surgeon now approached with his case of instruments, and tearing
open DeVare’s coat, vest and shirt, examined the wound. A round spot,
closed up with blood and torn flesh, showed where the death messenger
had entered, and rose and fell with every labored breath. He contracted
his brow as if in pain as the surgeon ran his probing wire in, but
otherwise remained quiet and passive. The surgeon, as he drew his wire
out and wiped it, put his mouth close to my ear and whispered:
“He cannot possibly live more than ten minutes. If he wishes to speak,
tell him to cough up the blood from his throat and take a swallow of
this,” handing me a small vial that contained some powerful stimulant,
“the ball has severed one of the large arteries directly at the heart,
and he must soon bleed to death.”
I put my mouth close to DeVare’s ear and said:
“Ramie, do you wish to speak?”
He opened his eyes languidly, and with a motion of his brow signified
yes. I wiped his lips and put the vial to his mouth. He swallowed a
little of the liquid, which seemed to revive him for a moment. He
tightened his clasp on my hand and said feebly:
“It is as I expected, John. Tell mother——” but the flow of blood
choked his utterance again. I again put the vial to his lips, but he
turned his head away from it, and in a whisper said:
“No, ‘tis useless. Oh, my lonely mother, forgive me! Dear Christ have
mercy——” A shuddering clasp of the white fingers locked in mine, a
paler hue on the pallid face, and only Raymond DeVare’s _body_ lay in
my arms. The great weight of impending evil I had so much dreaded had
crushed down upon me, and I was almost senseless beneath the blow. I
could not realize the fact, but sat in stupid wonderment, gazing at the
lifeless features. Ramie, my fond, true friend, dead! So full of life
and activity but a moment ago; now dead! Dead for my sake; dead because
I was insulted; dead for a hasty word; dead on the warrant of cowardly
society, that would now shrink from the poor fool who killed him at its
behest. Dead! _dead!_ DEAD!
I leaned my cheek down on the forehead, already growing cold, and
murmured, weeping like a woman:
“No, no, Ramie, you are not dead? Speak to me, Ramie, one word, open
your eyes; one more look, Ramie!
The surgeon touched my arm and said:
“The carriages have returned, as you ordered; we had better get the
body in and drive back to C——, where you can telegraph to Wilmington
for a case, and carry him home to-morrow.”
I rose from the ground, laying Ramie’s head gently on my handkerchief,
and calling the coachman we lifted him up and laid him as well as we
could across the seats of the carriage.
Ellerton and Brazon, who had been standing some distance off, smoking
and talking carelessly, got into the other carriage, and, bowing as
they passed us, drove rapidly on to the station. The doctor kindly
asked, as we drove slowly on, what I intended to do.
“I don’t know,” I replied, vacantly.
“If you will allow me to suggest a plan, I would say go to our little
hotel here, get a room for to-night, and telegraph immediately for a
metallic case, which will, perhaps, come out on the evening train. The
undertaker will seal it up for you, and you can carry it in to-morrow.”
I thanked him for his kind advice, but told him that as I knew the
conductors on the road I could take the body into the mail car with me
till we got to Wilmington. I lowered the carriage curtains, and ordered
the driver to go as close as possible to the track at the station and
wait for the train. It was a very short time before the train came in,
and I immediately sought out the conductor, who had known me since I
was a boy, my father being one of the directors of the road. I told
him my friend DeVare had been killed in a duel, and asked permission
to carry the body in the mail car. He readily accorded it, and had the
carriage driven close up to the door. But with all our precaution,
quite a crowd gathered around as we lifted poor Ramie from the carriage
and laid him on some cushions in the car. Some one had heard me call
his name to the conductor, and it passed from mouth to mouth that “a
young man named DeVare was killed this morning near here in a duel, and
they are carrying him home.”
The passengers in the coaches got hold of it, and I was very much
annoyed by the impertinent yet natural curiosity with which one after
another came to the door and looked at myself and the corpse. At last
the whistle sounded, the train got under way, and I was free from
interruptions. I leaned my face against a pile of mail bags, and gave
way to miserable reflection. The present was too horrible to dwell
on, and the future nothing but remorse and gloom. Remorse that I had
not prevented the fatal affair at all hazards. Remorse that I had
not conquered pride and satisfied Brazon with my own apologies and
explanation; gloom that my prospects were blighted, father deceived,
and angered into dislike of me, mother surprised and grieved beyond
expression, and Carlotta horrified into repelling me; my career at the
University, which I had resolved, after Lillian had discarded me, to
make brilliant, now cut short in disgrace, and my hitherto exuberant
spirits damped by an ever vivid remembrance of the terrible tragedy, in
which I had taken so large a part. Then I thought of the shock I would
give them at home as I drove up to the door with DeVare’s dead body,
and as I fancied the faces of horror and words of reproach, I shrank
from the ordeal. My bitter reflections were interrupted by a hand laid
on my shoulder. I looked up and found the conductor standing by me.
“There is a lady in the rear coach wishes to speak with you,” he said,
counting over some tickets he took from his pocket.
“Who is it?” I asked, looking at him vacantly.
“Don’t know her. Perhaps she’s some kin to you. She’s a fine looking
old lady, a little gray, sitting two seats from the back of the coach.”
I begged that my friend might be unmolested, and made my way through
the coaches to the last one. A lady was sitting two seats from the
back, and the instant my eyes fell upon her I had to grasp the arm of a
seat for support. The same noble features that were now lying so rigid
in the car ahead; the same dark eye that I had so recently closed with
a sorrowing hand! I knew in a moment it was his mother. I strengthened
myself as well as I was able, and approaching her, bowed and said:
“Did you wish to see me, madam?”
She looked at me earnestly, as she replied:
“Pardon me, sir, but are you the gentleman whose friend has just been
killed?”
“I am, madam.”
“I heard a gentleman, a few seats from me, say the unfortunate man’s
name was DeVare. As that is my own name, and I have a dear boy who has
been at college in North Carolina, I felt a restless anxiety to know
more, and ventured to intrude on your grief.”
I made no reply, and she continued:
“It was a silly fear in me, I’m sure. It could not have been Raymond,
for he would have written to me.”
I still said nothing, for the simple reason I did not know what to say,
and, after a pause, she asked:
“What was your friend’s given name, sir?”
Driven to a corner by her question, I made a stammering attempt to
evade.
“It could not have been your son, madam,” I said, with evident
confusion; “my friend’s name was Lionel.”
Ramie’s full name was Lionel Raymond, but he always signed his name
simply as Raymond.
Her piercing gaze read my flimsy deception in a moment, and a quick
pallor ran over her face, as if her heart had ceased beating for a
while.
“My son’s name was also Lionel. Surely, sir, you would not trifle with
my feelings? I must go into the front car and satisfy myself,” she
said, rising from her seat.
“Madam,” I said, putting out my hand to detain her, “I implore you to
be seated. The train will reach Wilmington in a few moments, and you
can then see for yourself. Heaven forbid that it should be your son!”
At this moment the conductor approached, gathering up the tickets
for the last station. She called him to her and said, with an air of
command it was impossible to resist:
“I wish to go to the front car and look at the corpse there. You will
go with me, sir?”
“I should advise you, ma’am, to sit still,” said the conductor,
snipping a hole in the last ticket he had taken; “it’s not a pleasant
sight for a lady, and we’ll soon get to Wilmington any how.”
“I only wished your aid in crossing the platforms, but I will go
alone,” she said firmly, passing us both and walking rapidly up the
aisle.
I followed mechanically, feeling that nothing could add to the
intensity of my wretchedness. I assisted her from car to car, till,
passing through heaps of mail bags, we reached the end of the coach
where lay the still form of Ramie, wrapped in my travelling shawl. She
kneeled by its side, and, turning back the shawl, gazed for a moment
on the pallid face, and then, with a shriek that often now rings in my
ears, fell forward insensible on the breast of her dead child. The mail
agent came forward, and we tried all the usual restoratives without
the slightest effect. No sign of returning animation responded to our
efforts, and, making the best couch we could, we were about to lay
her by Ramie’s side when the whistle sounded for Wilmington, and the
train drew up close to the boat that was to take us over the river.
The conductor and the captain of the boat aided me so kindly that the
body of Ramie and his unconscious mother were conveyed on board without
attracting very much attention. A carriage on the other side took us
to the hotel, where I had concluded it was best to go since Mrs. DeVare
had become unconscious. I ordered rooms, despatched one messenger for
a physician and another for father; then, without waiting for them
to come, I left the hotel and walked rapidly homeward, for I began
to experience very singular sensations in mind and body—a tingling
numbness, that deadened my extremities; and alternations of sudden
forgetfulness of all that had occurred, and vivid remembrance of it. I
reached our door, and pushing it open, found Carlotta in the hall. She
started at my haggard face, and exclaimed:
“Oh! John, what is the matter? where is Mr. DeVare? what has happened?”
“He is dead!” I said, with a vacant stare; then, turning, rushed up
stairs, heedless of her calls for mother. I managed to reach my bed,
when I fell across it into a great black chasm of oblivion.