HOW KITTY PREVENTED A DUEL.
The agitation of spirits into which I was thrown by this interview with
the Doctor, blinded me for the moment to the fact that Harry Temple,
of whose pretensions I thought I had disposed, was still an angry and
rejected suitor. Indeed, for a few days he had ceased to persecute me.
But to-night he manifested a jealousy which was inexcusable, after all
I had said to him. No one, as I had gone so far as almost to explain
to him, had a better right to give me his hand for the evening than
my lord; yet this young man, as jealous as the blacksmith god whom he
personated, must needs cross our steps at every turn, throwing angry
glances both upon me and my partner. He danced with no one; he threw
away his hammer, left off limping, consorted with none of the gay
company, but nursed his wrath in silence.
Now the last dance of the evening, which took place at two o'clock in
the morning, was to be one in which all the ladies threw their fans
upon the table, and the gentlemen danced each with her whose fan he
picked from the pile. My lord whispered to me that I was first to
let him see my fan, whereupon, when the fans lay upon the table, he
deliberately chose my own and brought it to me.
I took off my domino, which was now useless, because all the company
knew the disguise. Everybody laughed, and we took our places to lead
off the country-dance.
It was three o'clock when we finished dancing and prepared to go home.
Harry Temple here came up to me and asked if he might have the honour
of escorting me to my lodgings. I answered that I had already promised
that favour to Lord Chudleigh.
"Every dance, the whole evening: the supper, the promenade: all given
to this happy gentleman! Surely, Kitty, the Queen of the Wells might
dispense her favours more generously."
"The Queen," said Lord Chudleigh, "is the fountain of honour. We have
only to accept and be grateful."
I laughed and bade Harry good-night, and offered him my hand, which he
refused sullenly; and murmuring something about pride and old friends,
turned aside and let us go.
Everybody, it seems, noticed the black looks of Harry Temple all the
evening, and expected, though in my happiness I thought not of such a
thing, that high words would pass between this sulky young gentleman
and his favoured rival, to whom he was so rude and unmannerly. Now,
by the laws of the Wells, as laid down strictly in the rules of the
great Mr. Nash for Tunbridge Wells and Bath, and adopted at all
watering-places, the gentlemen wore no swords on the Parade and in the
card-rooms; yet it was impossible to prevent altogether the quarrels of
hot-blooded men, and the green grass of the Downs had been stained with
the blood of more than one poor fellow, run through as the consequence
of a foolish brawl. When will men cease to fight duels, and seek to
kill each other for a trifling disagreement, or a quarrel?
Generally, it takes two to make a quarrel, and few men are so perverse
as deliberately to force a duel upon another against his will. Yet
this was what Harry Temple, my old schoolfellow, my old friend, of whom
I once held so high an opinion, so great a respect, actually did with
Lord Chudleigh. He forced the quarrel upon him. My lord was always a
gentleman of singular patience, forbearance, and sweetness, and one
who would take, unprovoked, a great deal of provocation, never showing
the usual sign of resentment or anger, although he might be forced
to take up the quarrel. He held, indeed, the maxim that a man should
always think so well of himself as to make an insult impossible, unless
it be deliberate, open, and clearly intended. As for his courage, he
went on to say that it was a matter of self-respect: if a man's own
conscience approve (which is the ultimate judge for all but those whose
consciences are deadened by an evil life), let him fear not what men
say, knowing full well that if they dare say more than the customs of
the polite world allow, it is easy for every man to prove that he is no
coward.
Lord Chudleigh, then, having led us to the door of our own lodging,
unfortunately returned to the Assembly Rooms, where--and outside upon
the Terrace--some of the gentlemen yet lingered. I say unfortunately,
because, as for what followed, I cannot believe but that poor Harry,
whose disposition was not naturally quarrelsome, might have been
inflamed by drinking wine with them when he ought to have gone to bed.
Now wine, to one who is jealous, is like oil upon fire. And had my
lord, for his part, retired to Durdans--as he might very properly have
done, seeing the lateness of the hour--the morning's reflection would,
I am sure, have persuaded Harry that he had been a fool, and had no
reasonable ground for quarrel with his lordship or with me.
The sun was already rising, for it was nearly four o'clock in the
morning; the ladies were all gone off to bed; those who lay about the
benches yawned and stretched themselves; some were for bed, some for
another bottle; some were talking of an early gallop on the Downs; the
lamps yet glimmered in their sockets; the Terrace looked, with its oil
lamps still burning in the brightness of the morning sunshine, with
the odds and ends of finery, the tattered bravery of torn dresses, gold
and silver lace, tinfoil, broken paper crowns and helmets, as sad as a
theatre the morning after a performance; the stalls of the Wizard, the
Italian performers, and the dancing girl, were empty and open; their
hangings were already torn down, the stand for the horses beside the
pond was broken in parts.
When Lord Chudleigh came back he found waiting for him, among the
latest of the revellers, Harry Temple, his face pale, his lips set, his
manner agitated, as of one who contemplates a rash act.
My lord threw himself upon a bench under the trees, his head upon his
hand, pensive, thinking to calm the agitation of his spirits by the
freshness of the morning air. Harry began walking up and down in front
of him, casting angry glances at him, but as yet speaking not. Now,
within the deserted card-room when the lights had all burned out, and
the windows were wide open, sat all by himself Sir Miles Lackington,
turning over a pack of cards at one of the empty tables, and thinking
over the last night's play, at which he had won some money, and
regretted to have been stopped just when he was in luck. There were now
only a few gentlemen left, and these were one by one dropping off.
Presently, with an effort, Harry Temple stopped in front of his
lordship and spoke to him.
I declare that up to this time poor Harry had always been the most
peaceful of creatures, though strong, and well accustomed to hold bouts
with Will, in which he proved almost equal to that stalwart competitor,
at wrestling, singlestick, quarterstaff, or boxing. Also, as was proved
by the affray of the Saturday evening, already related, not unready on
occasion. But a bookish youth, and not one who sought to fix quarrels
upon any man, or to commit murder in the name of honour. And this
shows how dangerous a passion is thwarted love, which can produce in a
peaceful man's bosom jealousy, hatred, rage, and forgetfulness of that
most sacred commandment which enjoins us not to slay.
"I trust, my lord," he said, laughing and blushing, as if uncertain of
himself, "that your lordship hath passed a pleasant evening with the
Queen of the Wells."
Lord Chudleigh looked up, surprised. Then he rose, for there was a look
in Harry's eyes which meant mischief. The unlucky love-sick swain went
on--
"Lord Chudleigh and Miss Kitty Pleydell. The very names seem made for
one another; no doubt his lordship is as fine a gentleman as the lady
is beautiful."
"Sir!" said Lord Chudleigh quietly, "you have perhaps been drinking.
This is the only excuse for such an association of my name with that
young lady's in a public assembly."
"Oh!" he said, "I want no excuse for addressing your lordship. The
Temples were gentlefolk before the Chudleighs were heard of."
"Well, Mr. Temple, so be it. Enjoy that superiority. Shall we close
this discussion?"
"No, my lord; there is more to be said."
He spoke hotly, and with an anger which ought surely to have been
simulated, such small provocation as he had received.
"Then, sir, in Heaven's name, let us say it and have done with it."
"You have offended me, my lord--you best know how."
"I believe I know, Mr. Temple. You also know what grounds you have for
believing that to be an offence."
"I say, my lord," his voice rose and his eyes flashed, "that you have
offended me."
"Had I done so wittingly," returned Lord Chudleigh, "I should willingly
ask pardon. But I deny your right to take offence."
"You have offended me highly," he repeated, "and that in a manner which
makes an apology only a deeper insult. You have offended me in a manner
which only one thing can satisfy."
"Before we go any farther, Mr. Temple," said my lord, sitting down
again calmly and without heat, "I would know exactly the nature of my
offence, and your reasonable right to regard it as such."
"It needs not, my lord. You know well enough what I mean."
"I know that, of course; I would wish to know, as well, your right to
be offended."
"I say, my lord, that it is enough."
Harry, being in the wrong, spoke still more loudly, and those who were
left drew near to see the quarrel.
"You need not raise your voice, sir," said Lord Chudleigh; "I like any
altercation in which I may be unhappily engaged to be conducted like
the rest of my business in life, namely, with the decorum and quietness
which become gentlemen like the Temples, and those of that younger
family the Chudleighs. You have, I believe, travelled. You have,
therefore, without doubt, had opportunities of observing the well-bred
and charming quietness with which gentlemen in France arrange these
little matters, particularly when, as now, the dispute threatens to
involve the name of a lady. Now, sir, that we understand each other,
I must inform you that unless I know the exact nature of my offence
to you, which I have the right to demand, this affair will proceed no
further. I would as soon accept a quarrel from a mad Malay running
amuck at all he meets."
"My lord!" cried Harry, with red face and trembling fingers.
"Of course I do not pretend to be unable to form a guess," Lord
Chudleigh went on gravely; "but I must beg you to instruct me exactly
what you mean. You will observe, sir, that I am here, as a visitor,
previously unknown to yourself. It is therefore strange to learn that
one has offended a gentleman towards whom my behaviour has been neither
less nor more guarded than towards others."
"My lord, you have offended me by the attentions you have paid to a
young lady."
"Indeed, sir! So I believed. But permit me to ask if the young lady is
connected with you or with your house by any ties of relationship or
otherwise?"
"She is not, my lord."
"Further: have you any right of guardianship over this young lady?"
"None, my lord. But yet you have offended me."
"The young lady is free to accept the attention of any man she may
prefer; to show her preference as openly as she considers proper. I
conclude this to be the case. And, if so, I am unable to perceive in
what way I can wilfully have offended you."
"Your lordship," said Harry Temple, enraged by his adversary's
calmness, but yet with sufficient self-command to speak in lower tones,
"has offended me in this: that if you had not paid those attentions to
Miss Pleydell, she might have accepted those courtesies which I was
prepared to offer her."
"Indeed, sir! that is a circumstance with which I am wholly
unconcerned. No doubt the same thing might be said by other gentlemen
in this company."
"I knew that young lady, my lord, long before you did. It was my
deliberate purpose, long ago, to make her my wife when the opportunity
arrived----"
"The time has come," resumed Lord Chudleigh, "but not the man----"
"I say, it was my fixed intention to marry Miss Pleydell. I did not,
my lord, form these resolutions lightly, nor abandon them without
sufficient reason. It is still my resolution. I say that you shall not
stand between me and my future wife!"
"Indeed! But suppose Miss Pleydell refuses to give her consent to this
arrangement? Surely such a resolve, however laudable, demands the
consent of the other party."
"Miss Pleydell will not refuse my hand when you have left her. Abandon
a field, my lord, which never belonged to yourself----"
"Tut, tut!" said Lord Chudleigh. "This, sir, is idle talk. You cannot
seriously imagine----"
"I seriously imagine that, if necessary, I will make my way to that
young lady over your lordship's body, if you stand in my way."
Lord Chudleigh took off his hat and bowed low.
"Then, sir, the sooner you take the first step in the pursuance of your
resolution the better. I will bar your way upon the Downs at any time
you may appoint."
Harry returned the obeisance.
"I wait your lordship's convenience," he said.
"My convenience shall be yours, Mr. Temple. For it is you who desire to
run me through, not I you. Have your own way."
"It is late to-night," said Harry, now quite calm, though with a hot
flush upon his cheek. "Your lordship would like to rest. Perhaps
to-morrow, after breakfast, while the ladies are at morning prayer."
Oh, the bloodthirsty wretch!
Lord Chudleigh bowed again.
"That time, Mr. Temple, will I dare say suit the convenience of my
second."
The code of honour, be it observed, does not allow the exhibition of
any emotion of horror, remorse, or repugnance, when you arrange to
commit that private murder which gentlemen call a duel.
Lord Chudleigh bowed once more, and left his adversary. He walked
across the Terrace to the card-room, where Sir Miles was alone with
the scattered packs of cards. When he came out, he bowed a third time,
and walked slowly away. I hope that, in his own chamber, he reflected
on the wickedness of the appointment he had made, and on its possible
consequences.
Sir Miles threw away the cards, and came out rubbing his eyes.
"Ods my life, sir!" he said, addressing Harry Temple, who, now that the
mischief was done, looked somewhat sheepish, though dignified.
The few gentlemen who were left drew nearer, anxious to lose nothing of
what might happen. English people of all ranks love above all things to
watch a quarrel or a fight, whatever be the weapons.
"Ods my life, sir!" repeated Sir Miles. "This is a pretty kettle of
fish! Here we have all spent a pleasant night--dancing, playing, and
making love, every one happy, even though some gentlemen did lose their
mistresses or their money, and here you spoil sport by quarrelling at
the end of it. What the Devil, sir, does it concern you whether my lord
talks gallantry with one young lady or another?"
"That, Sir Miles, allow me to tell you, is my business. If you are his
lordship's second, let us arrange accordingly. If a principal, let us
fight afterwards."
"No, sir," replied the baronet. "It is everybody's business. It
concerns the cheerfulness, the security, the happiness of all this
honourable company. What! if I amuse myself, and a young lady too, by
writing poems on her dainty fingers, must I needs go out and measure
swords with every young hot-head who would fain be doing the same?
Seconds and principals? Have we nothing to do but to fight duels? Mr.
Temple, I thought better things from a gentleman of your rank and
family. What! any jackanapes lawyer--any pert young haberdasher--might
think it fine thus to insult and challenge a harmless nobleman of
great name and excellent qualities! But for _you_, Mr. Temple! you,
sir, a gentleman of your county, and of ancient and most honourable
stock----Fie, sir, fie!"
"I think, Sir Miles," said Harry, who wished now to have the
preliminaries settled without more ado, "that things having so far
advanced, these reproaches may be spared. Let us proceed to business."
"A girl can choose, I suppose," Sir Miles went on, "without the
interference or the objection of a man who is neither her father, her
guardian, her brother, nor her cousin? Why, as for this young lady,
whose name, I say, it is not respectful to name in this business--I
myself, sir, I myself paid her attentions till she bade me go about my
business. What, sir! do you think I should have suffered any man to
question my right to make a Lady Lackington where I choose, and where I
could! She laughed in my face. Mighty pretty laughing lips she has, and
teeth as white as pearls; and a roguish eye when she chooses, for all
she goes so grave. Did I, then, go snivelling in the dumps? Did I take
it ill that she showed a liking for Lord Chudleigh, who is worth ten of
me, and a dozen of you? Did I hang my chops and wipe my eyes? Did I,
therefore, insult his Lordship, and call him out?"
"All this, Sir Miles," Harry replied impatiently, "has nothing to do
with the question which lies between Lord Chudleigh and myself."
"What I argued, for my own comfort, when sweet Kitty said me nay, was
this: that the marriage condition hath many drawbacks, as is abundantly
evident from history and poetry, while freedom hath many sweets--that
a man may tire of a Beauty and a Toast in a month, but he never tired
of liberty--that children often come after matrimony, and they are
expensive--that, as for the lady's good looks, why, as many pretty
women are in the sea as ever came out of it. And as for my wounded
feelings, why, what is it but so much vanity? Granted that she is the
Toast this year: prithee who will be the Toast next? Last year, they
tell me, it was Peggy Baker--and a monstrous pretty woman, too, though
not to compare with Kitty. Now her nose is out of joint. Who next? Some
little miss now getting rapped over the knuckles in the nursery, Mr.
Temple; and she will be, in her turn, quite as fine a woman as we shall
live to see. That is to say, as I shall live to see, because you, of
course, will be no more. At eleven o'clock upon the Downs you will get
your quietus; when my lord's sword has once made daylight through your
fine waistcoat. 'Tis pity, but yet what help? Mighty little looking
after pretty women where you are going to, Mr. Temple. I advise you
to consider your earthly concerns before you go out. Well, 'tis a
shame, it is, a well-set-up man like you, with a likely face and pretty
fortune, to throw all away because a woman says nay:
'Shall I wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?'
Tilly vally! A pretty reason why two tall fellows should stick swords
into each other. I have a great mind, sir, not to allow my principal
to go out on such a provocation."
"I can easily give him more, Sir Miles," said Harry hotly, "or you
either, as soon as you have finished your sermon."
"Oh, sir!" Sir Miles laughed and bowed. "Pray do not think that I
desire to fight on that or any other provocation. We gentlemen of
Norfolk sometimes try conclusions with the cudgel before the rapier
comes into play. Therefore, sir, having given you my mind on the
matter, and having nothing more to say at this moment, you may as well
refer me at once to your friend."
Harry turned to the group of lookers-on.
"Gentlemen," he said, "an unhappy difference, as some of you have
witnessed, has arisen between the Lord Chudleigh and myself. May I
request the good offices of one among you in this affair?"
One of them, an officer in the king's scarlet, stepped forward and
offered his services. Harry thanked him, briefly told him where he
lodged, introduced him formally to Sir Miles, and walked away. A few
minutes' whispered consultations between Sir Miles and this officer
concluded the affair. The principals were to fight on the Downs at
eleven o'clock, when there are generally, unless a match is going on,
but few people up there. This arranged, Sir Miles walked away to tell
Lord Chudleigh; and Harry, with his second, left the Terrace.
Thus the affair, as gentlemen call an engagement in which their own
lives and the happiness of helpless women are concerned, was quietly
arranged on the well-known laws of "honour," just as if it were nothing
more than the purchase of a horse, a carriage, or a house; we at home
sleeping meanwhile without suspicion, dreaming, very likely, of love
and joy, even when death was threatening those dearest to us. Sometimes
when I think of this uncertain life, how it is surrounded by nature
with unknown dangers--how thoughtless and wicked men may in a moment
destroy all that most we love--how in a moment the strongest fortune is
over-thrown--how our plans may be frustrated--how the houses of cards
(which we have thought so stable) tumble down without a warning, and
all our happiness with them--when, I say, I think of these things I
wonder how any one can laugh and be merry, save the insensate wretches
whose whole thought is of their own enjoyment for the moment. Yet the
Lord, our Father, is above all; in whose hand is the ordering of the
smallest thing--the meanest life. Moreover, He hath purposed that youth
should be a time of joy, and so hath wisely hidden away the sources of
evil.
* * * * *
Cicely Crump was stirring betimes in the morning, and before six was
in the market buying the provisions for the day. And as she passed
the door of the Assembly Rooms, she looked in to see the dipper, a
friend of hers, who sat at the distribution of the water, though but
few of the visitors took it regularly. This good woman, Phoebe Game
by name, had kept the secret for more than an hour, having heard it,
under promise of strictest secrecy, from one of the late revellers when
she took her place among the glasses at five o'clock in the morning.
She was a good woman and discreet according to her lights; but this
dreadful secret was too much for her, and if she had not told it to
Cicely, must have told it to some one else. At sight of her visitor,
therefore, discretion abandoned this good woman, and she babbled all
she knew. Yet not in a hurry, but little by little, as becomes a woman
with such a piece of intelligence, the parting of which is as the
parting with power.
"Cicely," she said, shaking her forefinger in an awful and threatening
way, "I have heard this very morning--ah! only an hour or so
since--news which would make your poor young lady jump out of her
pretty shoes for fright. I have--I have."
"Goodness!" cried Cicely. "Oh, Phoebe! whatever in the world is it?"
"I dare not tell," she replied. "It is as much as my place is worth to
tell. We dippers are not like common folk. We must have no ears to hear
and no tongue to speak. We must listen and make no sign. The quality
says what they like and they does what they like. It isn't for a
humble dipper to speak, nor to tell, nor to spoil sport--even if it is
murder."
"Oh, tell me!" cried Cicely. "Why, Phoebe, your tongue can run twenty
to the dozen if you like. And if I knew, why there isn't a mouse in all
Epsom can be muter, or a guinea-pig dumber. Only you tell me."
Thus appealed to, Mrs. Game proceeded (as she had from the first
intended) to transfer her secret to Cicely, with many interjections,
reflections, sighs, prayers, and injunctions to tell no one, but to
go home and pray on her bended knees that Lord Chudleigh's hand might
be strengthened and his eye directed, so that this meddlesome young
gentleman might be run through in some vital part.
Cicely received the intelligence with dismay. The good girl had more
of my confidence than most ladies give to maids: but she was above the
common run and quick of apprehension. Besides, she loved me.
"What use," she asked bitterly, "for Mr. Nash to prohibit the gentlemen
from wearing their swords when they have got them at home ready for
using when they want? Mr. Temple, indeed! To think that my young lady
would look at him when my lord is about!"
"Well--go, child," said the dipper. "You and me, being two poor women
with little but our characters, which are, thank the Lord, good so far
as we have got, cannot meddle nor make in this pie. I am glad I told
you, though. I felt before you came as if the top of my head was being
lifted off with the force of it like a loaf with the yeast. Oh, the
wickedness of gentlefolk!"
Cicely walked slowly back, thinking what she had best do--whether to
keep the secret, or to tell me. Finally she resolved on telling me.
Accordingly she woke me up, for I was still asleep, and communicated
the dreadful intelligence. There could be no doubt of its truth. Sir
Miles, she told me, had expostulated with Harry Temple, who would hear
no reason. They would meet to kill each other at eleven o'clock, when
the ladies were at prayers, on the Downs behind Durdans.
I thanked her, and told her to leave me while I dressed; but not to
awaken Mrs. Pimpernel, who would be the better for a long sleep after
her late night, while I thought over what was to be done.
First of all I was in a mighty great rage with Harry; the rage I was in
prevented me from doing what I ought to have done--viz., had I been in
my right mind, I should have gone to him instantly, and then and there
I should have ordered him to withdraw from the Wells. Should he refuse,
I would have gone to Sir Robert, a Justice of the Peace, and caused the
duel to be prevented.
I could find no excuse for Harry. Even supposing that his passion was
so violent (which is a thing one ought to be ashamed of rather than to
make a boast of it), was that any reason why my happiness was to be
destroyed? Men, I believe, would like to carry off their wives as the
Romans carried off the Sabine women, and no marriage feast would be
more acceptable to their barbarous hearts than the one in which these
rude soldiers celebrated this enforced union.
Cicely and I looked at each other. It was seven o'clock. The duel was
to take place at eleven. Could I seek out Lord Chudleigh? No; his
honour was concerned. Or Sir Miles? But the honest baronet looked on
a duel as a necessity of life, which might happen at any time to a
gentleman, though he himself preferred a bout with cudgels.
Presently Cicely spoke.
"I once heard," she said, "a story."
"Child, this is no time for telling stories."
"Let me tell it first, Miss Kitty. Nay, it is not a silly story. A
gentleman once had planned to carry off a great heiress."
"What has that to do with Lord Chudleigh? He does not want to carry me
off."
"The gentleman was a wicked man and an adventurer. He only wanted the
lady's money. One of her friends, a woman it was, found out the plot.
She wanted to prevent it without bloodshed, or murder, or duelling,
which would have happened if it had been prevented by any stupid
interference of clumsy men----"
"O Cicely! get on with the story."
"She did prevent it. And how do you think?"
"How?"
Cicely ran and shut the door, which was ajar. Then she looked all about
the room and under the bed.
"It was a most dreadful wicked thing to do. Yet to save a friend or a
lover, I would even do it."
"What was it, Cicely?"
"I must whisper."
* * * * *
"Quick! give me my hood, child."
She put it on and tied it with trembling fingers, because we were
really going to do a most desperate thing.
"Is the house on the road, Cicely? Cannot he go by another way?"
"No; he cannot go by any other way."
"Say not a word, Cicely. Let not madam think or suspect anything."
On the road which leads from the town by a gentle ascent to the Downs,
there stood (on the left-hand side going up) a large square house in
red brick, surrounded by a high wall on which were iron spikes. The
door of the wall opened into a sort of small lodge, and the great
gates were strong, high, and also protected by iron spikes. I had
often observed this house; but being full of my own thoughts, and not
a curious person always wanting to discover the business of others, I
had not inquired into the reason of these fortifications. Yet I knew
that the house was the residence of a certain learned physician, Dr.
Jonathan Powlett by name, who daily walked upon the Terrace dressed in
black, with a great gold-headed cane and an immense full periwig. He
had a room in one of the houses of the Terrace in which he received
his patients, and he made it his business to accost every stranger on
his arrival with the view of getting his custom. Thus he would, after
inquiring after the stranger's health, branch off upon a dissertation
on the merits of the Epsom waters and an account of the various
diseases, with their symptoms (so that timid men often fancied they had
contracted these disorders, and ran to the doctor in terror), which the
waters would cure. Mrs. Esther was pleased to converse with him, and
I believe spent several guineas in consultations on the state of her
health, now excellent.
I had never spoken to him except once, when he saluted me with a finely
pompous compliment about youth and beauty, the twin stars of such a
company as was gathered together at Epsom. "Yet," he said, "while even
the physician cannot arrest the first of these, the second may be long
preserved by yearly visits to this invigorating spot, not forgetting
consultations with scientific and medical men, provided they are
properly qualified and hold the license of the College of Physicians,
without which a so-called doctor is but a common apothecary,
chirurgeon, or leech, fit only to blister and to bleed."
I made my way to his house, hoping to catch him before he sallied forth
in the morning. The place was, as I have said, hidden by high brick
walls, and the gate was guarded by a lodge in which, after ringing a
great bell, I found a man of rough and strong appearance, who asked me
rudely what was my business.
I told him my business was with his master.
After a little demur, he bade me wait in the lodge while he went away,
and presently returned with the doctor.
"My dear young lady," he cried. "I trust there is nothing wrong with
that most estimable lady, Mrs. Pimpernel?"
"Indeed, doctor," I replied, "I come on quite a different errand. And
my business is for your ear alone."
Upon this he bade the fellow retire, and we were left alone in the
little room of the lodge.
Then I exposed my business.
He looked very serious when he quite understood what I wanted him to do.
"It is very dangerous," he said.
I then told him how it might be so managed as that there should be no
danger in it at all. He thought for a little, and then he laughed to
himself.
"But, madam," he said, "suppose I do this for you safely and snugly.
What reward am I to have for my trouble and risk?"
"What do you think the business is worth?"
He looked curiously in my face as if wondering how much he could safely
say. Then he replied--
"I believe it is worth exactly twenty guineas."
"I can spare no more than ten," I replied.
"Well," he said, "ten guineas is a trifle indeed for so great a risk
and so great a service. Still, if no more is to be had, and to oblige
so sweet a young lady----"
Here he held out a fat white hand, the fingers of which were curled as
if from long habit in clutching guineas.
I gave him five as an instalment, promising him the other five when the
job was done.
All being safely in train, I returned home to breakfast; but after
breakfast I returned to the physician's house, and sat down in the
lodge, so placed that I could see without being seen, and looked down
the road.
After the bell for morning prayers had stopped, I began to expect my
friends. Sure enough the first who came into sight were my lord and
Sir Miles, the former looking grave and earnest. A little while after
them came a gentleman whom I knew to be one of the company at Epsom.
He was alone. Now this was the most fortunate accident, because had
the gentleman, who was none other than Harry's second, accompanied
his principal, my plot had failed. But fortunately (as I learned
afterwards) they missed each other in the town, and so set off alone.
This, at the time, I knew not, being ignorant of the laws of the
duello. And last there came along Harry himself, walking quickly as if
afraid of being late.
I gave a signal which had been agreed upon, and as he approached
the house, the great gates were thrown open, and two strapping tall
fellows, stepping quickly into the road, caught poor Harry (the
would-be murderer) by the arms, ran a thick rope round him before he
had time to cry out, and dragged him into the gates, so quickly, so
strongly, and so resolutely, that he had not the least chance of making
any resistance. Indeed, it was done in so workmanlike a fashion that it
seemed as if the rogues had done the same thing dozens of times before.
Heavens! To think that a man brought up so virtuously as Harry Temple,
a young man of such excellent promise, so great a scholar, and one who
had actually studied Theology, and attended the lectures of a Lady
Margaret Professor, should, under any circumstances of life, abandon
himself to language so wicked and a rage so overwhelming. Nothing ever
surprised me so much as to hear that gentle scholar use such dreadful
language, as bad as any that I had ever heard in the Fleet Market.
Caught up in this unexpected way, with his arms tied to his sides,
carried by two stout ruffians, Harry had, to be sure, some excuse for
wrath. His wig had fallen to the ground, his face was red and distorted
by passion, so that even I hardly knew him, when Doctor Powlett came
out of his house and slowly advanced to meet him.
"Ay, ay, ay!" he asked slowly, wagging his head and stroking his
long chin deliberately, in the manner of a physician who considereth
what best treatment to recommend. "So this is the unfortunate young
gentleman, is it? Ay, he looks very far gone. Nothing less, I fear,
than _Dementia acuta cum rabie violentâ_. Resolute treatment in
such cases is the best kindness. You will take him, keepers, to the
blue-room, and chain him carefully. Your promptitude in making the
capture shall be rewarded. As for you, sir"--he shook his forefinger at
the unlucky Harry as if he was a schoolmaster admonishing a boy--"as
for you, sir, it is lucky, indeed, that you have been caught. You were
traced to this town, where, I suppose, you arrived early this morning.
Ha! I _have_ known madmen to be run through their vitals by some
gentlemen whom they have accosted; or smothered between mattresses--a
reprehensible custom, because it deprives the physician of his dues--or
brained with a cudgel. You are fortunate, sir. But have a care; this
house is remarkable for its kindness to the victims of mania! but have
a care."
Here Harry burst into a fit of imprecations most dreadful to listen to.
"Anybody," said the Doctor, "may swear in this house; a good many do:
that often relieves a congested brain, and does no harm to me and my
attendants. But disobedience or violence is punished by cold-water
baths, by being held under the pump, by bread and water, and by other
methods with which I hope you will not make yourself better acquainted.
Now, keepers!"
For the truth is that the doctor kept a house for the reception
of madmen and unhappy lunatics, and I had persuaded him to kidnap
Harry--by mistake. In four-and-twenty hours, I thought, he would have
time to repent. It was sad, however, to see a man of breeding and
learning so easily give way to profane swearing, and it shows the
necessity of praying against temptation. Women, fortunately, do not
_know_ how to swear. It was, I confess, impossible to pity him. Why, he
was going up the hill and on to the Downs with no other object than to
kill my lover!