Ethel Churchill/Chapter 107
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE DUEL.
The moonlight falleth lovely over earth;
And strange, indeed, must be the mind of man
That can resist its beautiful reproach.
How can hate work like fever in the soul
With such entire tranquillity around?
Evil must be our nature to refuse
Such gentle intercession.
The garden of Sir George Kingston communicated with the park; and through it the four gentlemen passed, brushing the dew from the drooping roses as they went. The night was singularly lovely:
"Such and so beautiful was that fair night,
It might have calmed the gay amid their mirth,
And given the wretched a delight in tears;"
but it had no soothing influence over human anger. Not an eye rested on the moon, whose sad, spiritual light has so little in common with the world on which it looks.
None listened to the low, soft music in the trees, every leaf of which, instinct with separate harmony, was like a soft note on a mysterious lyre. None of the four spoke till they arrived at a space open to the moonlight, but yet sheltered by the elms. There was little chance of being overlooked or interrupted. The park was locked; there was no entrance unless from the gardens of the houses; and from the houses themselves they were at a distance, besides having the elms between them.
"I will allow you to beg pardon even now," said Sir George, insolently.
Walter made no reply but by withdrawing his sword from the sheath; and in a few moments the seconds had placed them, and stood to see fair-play.
I can understand the feeling of the duellist when really fierce and bitter—there are injuries only to be washed out in blood; but I have always thought, that the seconds must, or ought, to feel very uncomfortable. They stand by in cold blood to watch the glittering steel, whose shimmer may every moment be quenched in blood. If the eye be dropped for an instant, the next it may look on death, and death in its most fearful shape—one human being dying by the rage, the evil passion, or the unforgivable fault of another.
The suspense in the present instance was of short duration. Maynard was no match for Sir George. The clicking of the swords smote on the silent night, the moonlight glanced from the blade ere it reached the dewy grass; but, ere a bird disturbed from its roost was out of sight in the air, Walter had fallen; and the grass, silvery with dew and moonlight, ran red with human blood.
"Will you beg my pardon?" said Sir George, setting his foot on the body of his prostrate enemy.
Walter could only look denial and defiance; and Sir George had raised his arm to plunge his sword again through the enemy at his feet, when a female figure darted from behind one of the trees, and arrested his arm.
The surprise gave Walter time to spring up; he did so, but staggered with weakness, and leant for support against one of the elms. Still Kingston called upon him to take up his sword; but Lord Alfred interfered.
"It would be murder in cold blood: I will not stand by and witness it. One of you, at all events, has had enough:" and he went to Maynard, who leant, pale and faint, with the blood slowly welling from his side. "It is not much, however," said the kind-hearted young nobleman, as he stanched the wound with his handkerchief.
Lavinia, for she was the intruder, had watched the whole proceeding; her keen eye was for an instant softened with anxiety; but whatever might be the feelings which were passing through her mind, she showed no outward sign. If she was pale, it was hidden by her rouge; and her lip curled with its usual careless smile.
"And what the devil brought you here?" cried Sir George Kingston.
"What the devil brought you?" replied she, mimicking his manner.
"Well," said he, "I suppose I must excuse it, on account of the devotion it shows to myself."
"It shews no such thing," answered she, with the most provoking carelessness. "It was sheer curiosity brought me here—a few hints from actual life are always useful in my profession; and I wanted to see a real duel."
"I hope you are satisfied," said Sir George, "and now, I suppose, you will return with myself and Mr. Shelburne to supper."
"You are wrong in all your suppositions to-night," replied she: "I am going away at once; the coach is waiting for me now. I was coming down stairs to get into it, when I saw you all hurrying off—I guessed the cause, and thought I might as well see you fight."
"Who has a coach waiting?" asked Alfred, this being the only part of the dialogue which had caught his attention. "Will they let it set down Mr. Maynard at the inn where he tells me he was to sleep?"
"Oh, certainly," replied the actress, "provided he will promise not to die on the way."
"Madam!" exclaimed Sir George, almost breathless with anger, "I insist upon knowing the cause of your extraordinary conduct!"
"Extraordinary, do you call it?" returned she, with a look of comic surprise: "there is nothing extraordinary in any one's getting tired of you; and I am very tired indeed."
"Impertinent fool!" muttered Kingston, between his clenched teeth, feeling the more enraged because he saw Shelburne could scarcely repress his laughing.
"Lord, Sir George!" continued she, taking an air of arch simplicity, and looking very pretty, "one would think no one had ever tired of you before; and yet you must have found it a very common occurrence. You are neither amusing nor interesting: how can you wonder that women find you very tiresome?"
Lavinia knew the object of her sarcasm well—
"She was wreaking
More revenge in bitter speaking"
than any thing else could have done. A woman's tears would have been to him a triumph; her reproaches would, at the very worst, only have bored him; but a sneer touched Achilles on the heel. He shrank from being ridiculed; he knew he had no ready wit to turn it.
"Do let us go home," exclaimed he, turning emphatically to his companion.
"It is so late that I must wish you 'good night!'" replied Mr. Shelburne, who, late as it was, secretly did not despair of finding some one to whom he could tell the adventure in which he had so suddenly found himself engaged. Why, it was worth while sitting up all night, if it were only to narrate Sir George's unceremonious dismissal by the pretty actress.
"Surely," said Lavinia, extending her hand, "you have too much gallantry, Mr. Shelburne, not to put me into the coach."
Lord Alfred and Maynard were already nearly out of sight; of course, Mr. Shelburne could only take the hand offered, and not sorry so to do, as he hoped to hear a little more.
"Oh," said Sir George, "I see that I am to congratulate Mr. Shelburne on being my successor."
"No such thing," replied Lavinia; "I never allow my peace of mind to run any risk, which it would do with Mr. Shelburne after yourself—the contrast would be too dangerous."