Audrey

by Mary Johnston

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A DUEL

  Juba, setting candles upon a table in Haward's bedroom, chanced to spillmelted wax upon his master's hand, outstretched on the board. "Damn you!"cried Haward, moved by sudden and uncontrollable irritation. "Look whatyou are doing, sirrah!"

  The negro gave a start of genuine surprise. Haward could punish,--Juba hadmore than once felt the weight of his master's cane,--but justice hadalways been meted out with an equable voice and a fine impassivity ofcountenance. "Don't stand there staring at me!" now ordered the master asirritably as before. "Go stir the fire, draw the curtains, shut out thenight! Ha, Angus, is that you?"

  MacLean crossed the room to the fire upon the hearth, and stood with hiseyes upon the crackling logs. "You kindle too soon your winter fire," hesaid. "These forests, flaming red and yellow, should warm the land."

  "Winter is at hand. The air strikes cold to-night," answered Haward, and,rising, began to pace the room, while MacLean watched him with compressedlips and gloomy eyes. Finally he came to a stand before a card table, setfull in the ruddy light of the fire, and taking up the cards ran themslowly through his fingers. "When the lotus was all plucked and Lethedrained, then cards were born into the world," he said sententiously."Come, my friend, let us forget awhile."

  They sat down, and Haward dealt.

  "I came to the house landing before sunset," began the storekeeper slowly."I found you gone."

  "Ay," said Haward, gathering up his cards. "'Tis yours to play."

  "Juba told me that you had called for Mirza, and had ridden away to theglebe house."

  "True," answered the other. "And what then?"

  There was a note of warning in his voice, but MacLean did not choose toheed. "I rowed on down the river, past the mouth of the creek," hecontinued, with deliberation. "There was a mound of grass and a mass ofcolored vines"--

  "And a blood-red oak," finished Haward coldly. "Shall we pay closer regardto what we are doing? I play the king."

  "You were there!" exclaimed the Highlander. "You--not Jean Hugon--searchedfor and found the poor maid's hiding-place." The red came into his tannedcheek. "Now, by St. Andrew!" he began; then checked himself.

  Haward tapped with his finger the bit of painted pasteboard before him. "Iplay the king," he repeated, in an even voice; then struck a bell, andwhen Juba appeared ordered the negro to bring wine and to stir the fire.The flames, leaping up, lent strange animation to the face of the ladyabove the mantelshelf, and a pristine brightness to the swords crossedbeneath the painting. The slave moved about the room, drawing the curtainsmore closely, arranging all for the night. While he was present theplayers gave their attention to the game, but with the sound of theclosing door MacLean laid down his cards.

  "I must speak," he said abruptly. "The girl's face haunts me. You dowrong. It is not the act of a gentleman."

  The silence that followed was broken by Haward, who spoke in the smooth,slightly drawling tones which with him spelled irritation and sudden,hardly controlled anger. "It is my home-coming," he said. "I am tired, andwish to-night to eat only of the lotus. Will you take up your cardsagain?"

  A less impetuous man than MacLean, noting the signs of weakness, fatigue,and impatience, would have waited, and on the morrow have been listened towith equanimity. But the Highlander, fired by his cause, thought not ofdelay. "To forget!" he exclaimed. "That is the coward's part! I would haveyou remember: remember yourself, who are by nature a gentleman andgenerous; remember how alone and helpless is the girl; remember to ceasefrom this pursuit!"

  "We will leave the cards, and say good-night," said Haward, with a strongeffort for self-control.

  "Good-night with all my heart!" cried the other hotly,--"when you havepromised to lay no further snare for that maid at your gates, whose nameyou have blasted, whose heart you have wrung, whose nature you havedarkened and distorted"--

  "Have you done?" demanded Haward. "Once more, 't were wise to saygood-night at once."

  "Not yet!" exclaimed the storekeeper, stretching out an eager hand. "Thatgirl hath so haunting a face. Haward, see her not again! God wot, I thinkyou have crushed the soul within her, and her name is bandied from mouthto mouth. 'T were kind to leave her to forget and be forgotten. Go toWestover: wed the lady there of whom you raved in your fever. You are herdeclared suitor; 'tis said that she loves you"--

  Haward drew his breath sharply and turned in his chair. Then, spent withfatigue, irritable from recent illness, sore with the memory of themeeting by the river, determined upon his course and yet deeply perplexed,he narrowed his eyes and began to give poisoned arrow for poisoned arrow.

  "Was it in the service of the Pretender that you became a squire ofdames?" he asked. "'Gad, for a Jacobite you are particular!"

  MacLean started as if struck, and drew himself up. "Have a care, sir! AMacLean sits not to hear his king or his chief defamed. In future, prayremember it."

  "For my part," said the other, "I would have Mr. MacLean remember"--

  The intonation carried his meaning. MacLean, flushing deeply, rose fromthe table. "That is unworthy of you," he said. "But since before to-nightservants have rebuked masters, I spare not to tell you that you do mostwrongly. 'Tis sad for the girl she died not in that wilderness where youfound her."

  "Ads my life!" cried Haward. "Leave my affairs alone!"

  Both men were upon their feet. "I took you for a gentleman," said theHighlander, breathing hard. "I said to myself: 'Duart is overseas where Icannot serve him. I will take this other for my chief'"--

  "That is for a Highland cateran and traitor," interrupted Haward, pleasedto find another dart, but scarcely aware of how deadly an insult he wasdealing.

  In a flash the blow was struck. Juba, in the next room, hearing the noiseof the overturned table, appeared at the door. "Set the table to rightsand light the candles again," said his master calmly. "No, let the cardslie. Now begone to the quarters! 'Twas I that stumbled and overset thetable."

  Following the slave to the door he locked it upon him; then turned againto the room, and to MacLean standing waiting in the centre of it. "Underthe circumstances, we may, I think, dispense with preliminaries. You willgive me satisfaction here and now?"

  "Do you take it at my hands?" asked the other proudly. "Just now youreminded me that I was your servant. But find me a sword"--

  Haward went to a carved chest; drew from it two rapiers, measured theblades, and laid one upon the table. MacLean took it up, and slowly passedthe gleaming steel between his fingers. Presently he began to speak, in alow, controlled, monotonous voice: "Why did you not leave me as I was? Sixmonths ago I was alone, quiet, dead. A star had set for me; as the lightsfail behind Ben More, it was lost and gone. You, long hated, long lookedfor, came, and the star arose again. You touched my scars, and suddenly Iesteemed them honorable. You called me friend, and I turned from my enmityand clasped your hand. Now my soul goes back to its realm of solitude andhate; now you are my foe again." He broke off to bend the steel within hishands almost to the meeting of hilt and point. "A hated master," he ended,with bitter mirth, "yet one that I must thank for grace extended. Fortystripes is, I believe, the proper penalty."

  Haward, who had seated himself at his escritoire and was writing, turnedhis head. "For my reference to your imprisonment in Virginia I apologize.I demand the reparation due from one gentleman to another for theindignity of a blow. Pardon me for another moment, when I shall be at yourservice."

  He threw sand upon a sheet of gilt-edged paper, folded and superscribedit; then took from his breast a thicker document. "The Solebay,man-of-war, lying off Jamestown, sails at sunrise. The captain--CaptainMeade--is my friend. Who knows the fortunes of war? If by chance I shouldfall to-night, take a boat at the landing, hasten upstream, and hail theSolebay. When you are aboard give Meade--who has reason to oblige me--thisletter. He will carry you down the coast to Charleston, where, if youchange your name and lurk for a while, you may pass for a buccaneer and besafe enough. For this other pape
r"--He hesitated, then spoke on with someconstraint: "It is your release from servitude in Virginia,--in effect,your pardon. I have interest both here and at home--it hath been manyyears since Preston--the paper was not hard to obtain. I had meant to giveit to you before we parted to-night. I regret that, should you prove thebetter swordsman, it may be of little service to you."

  He laid the papers on the table, and began to divest himself of his coat,waistcoat, and long, curled periwig. MacLean took up the pardon and heldit to a candle. It caught, but before the flame could reach the writingHaward had dashed down the other's hand and beaten out the blaze. "'Slife,Angus, what would you do!" he cried, and, taken unawares, there was angryconcern in his voice. "Why, man, 't is liberty!"

  "I may not accept it," said MacLean, with dry lips. "That letter, also,is useless to me. I would you were all villain."

  "Your scruple is fantastic!" retorted the other, and as he spoke he putboth papers upon the escritoire, weighting them with the sandbox. "Youshall take them hence when our score is settled,--ay, and use them as bestyou may! Now, sir, are you ready?"

  "You are weak from illness," said MacLean hoarsely, "Let the quarrel restuntil you have recovered strength."

  Haward laughed. "I was not strong yesterday," he said. "But Mr. Everard ispinked in the side, and Mr. Travis, who would fight with pistols, hath aball through his shoulder."

  The storekeeper started. "I have heard of those gentlemen! You fought themboth upon the day when you left your sickroom?"

  "Assuredly," answered the other, with a slight lift of his brows. "Willyou be so good as to move the table to one side? So. On guard, sir!"

  The man who had been ill unto death and the man who for many years hadworn no sword acquitted themselves well. Had the room been a field behindMontagu House, had there been present seconds, a physician, gapingchairmen, the interest would have been breathless. As it was, the ladyupon the wall smiled on, with her eyes forever upon the blossoms in herhand, and the river without, when it could be heard through the clashingof steel, made but a listless and dreamy sound. Each swordsman knew thathe had provoked a friend to whom his debt was great, but each, accordingto his godless creed, must strive as though that friend were his dearestfoe. The Englishman fought coolly, the Gael with fervor. The latter hadan unguarded moment. Haward's blade leaped to meet it, and on the other'sshirt appeared a bright red stain.

  In the moment that he was touched the Highlander let fall his sword.Haward, not understanding, lowered his point, and with a gesture bade hisantagonist recover the weapon. But the storekeeper folded his arms. "Whereblood has been drawn there is satisfaction," he said. "I have given it toyou, and now, by the bones of Gillean-na-Tuaidhe, I will not fight youlonger!"

  For a minute or more Haward stood with his eyes upon the ground and hishand yet closely clasping the rapier hilt; then, drawing a long breath, hetook up the velvet scabbard and slowly sheathed his blade. "I am content,"he said. "Your wound, I hope, is slight?"

  MacLean thrust a handkerchief into his bosom to stanch the bleeding. "Apin prick," he said indifferently.

  His late antagonist held out his hand. "It is well over. Come! We are notyoung hotheads, but men who have lived and suffered, and should know thevanity and the pity of such strife. Let us forget this hour, call eachother friends again"--

  "Tell me first," demanded MacLean, his arm rigid at his side,--"tell mefirst why you fought Mr. Everard and Mr. Travis."

  Gray eyes and dark blue met. "I fought them," said Haward, "because, on atime, they offered insult to the woman whom I intend to make my wife."

  So quiet was it in the room when he had spoken that the wash of the river,the tapping of walnut branches outside the window, the dropping of coalsupon the hearth, became loud and insistent sounds. Then, "Darden'sAudrey?" said MacLean in a whisper.

  "Not Darden's Audrey, but mine," answered Haward,--"the only woman I haveever loved or shall love."

  He walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. "To-night thereis no light," he said to himself, beneath his breath. "By and by we shallstand here together, listening to the river, marking the wind in thetrees." As upon paper heat of fire may cause to appear characters beforeinvisible, so, when he turned, the flame of a great passion had broughtall that was highest in this gentleman's nature into his countenance,softening and ennobling it. "Whatever my thoughts before," he said simply,"I have never, since I awoke from my fever and remembered that night atthe Palace, meant other than this." Coming back to MacLean he laid a handupon his shoulder. "Who made us knows we all do need forgiveness! Am I nomore to you, Angus, than Ewin Mor Mackinnon?"

  An hour later, those who were to be lifetime friends went together downthe echoing stair and through the empty house to the outer door. When itwas opened, they saw that upon the stone step without, in the square oflight thrown by the candles behind them, lay an Indian arrow. MacLeanpicked it up. "'Twas placed athwart the door," he said doubtingly. "Is itin the nature of a challenge?"

  Haward took the dart, and examined it curiously. "The trader growstroublesome," he remarked. "He must back to the woods and to the foes ofhis own class." As he spoke he broke the arrow in two, and flung thepieces from him.

  It was a night of many stars and a keen wind. Moved each in his degree byits beauty, Haward and MacLean stood regarding it before they should go,the one back to his solitary chamber, the other to the store which was tobe his charge no longer than the morrow. "I feel the air that blows fromthe hills," said the Highlander. "It comes over the heather; it hath sweptthe lochs, and I hear it in the sound of torrents." He lifted his face tothe wind. "The breath of freedom! I shall have dreams to-night."

  When he was gone, Haward, left alone, looked for a while upon the heightsof stars. "I too shall dream to-night," he breathed to himself. "To-morrowall will be well." His gaze falling from the splendor of the skies to theswaying trees, gaunt, bare, and murmuring of their loss to the hurryingriver, sadness and vague fear took sudden possession of his soul. He spokeher name over and over; he left the house and went into the garden. It wasthe garden of the dying year, and the change that in the morning he hadsmiled to see now appalled him. He would have had it June again. Now, whenon the morrow he and Audrey should pass through the garden, it must bedown dank and leaf-strewn paths, past yellow and broken stalks, with hereand there wan ghosts of flowers.

  He came to the dial, and, bending, pressed his lips against the carvenwords that, so often as they had stood there together, she had traced withher finger. "Love! thou mighty alchemist!" he breathed. "Life! that maynow be gold, now iron, but never again dull lead! Death"--He paused; then,"There shall be no death," he said, and left the withered garden for thelonely, echoing house.