Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  ‘You have had no dispute with that man — that Fitzgerald, I hope,’ said I, giving utterance to the conjecture whose truth I most dreaded.

  ‘Faith, I cannot say exactly what passed between us,’ said he, ‘inasmuch as I was at the time nearly half seas over; but of this much I am certain, that we exchanged angry words last night. I lost my temper most confoundedly; but, as well as I can recollect, he appeared perfectly cool and collected. What he said was, therefore, deliberately said, and on that account must be resented.’

  ‘My dear O’Connor, are you mad?’ I exclaimed. ‘Why will you seek to drive to a deadly issue a few hasty words, uttered under the influence of wine, and forgotten almost as soon as uttered? A quarrel with Fitzgerald it is twenty chances to one would terminate fatally to you.’

  ‘It is exactly because Fitzgerald IS such an accomplished shot,’ said he, ‘that I become liable to the most injurious and intolerable suspicions if I submit to anything from him which could be construed into an affront; and for that reason Fitzgerald is the very last man to whom I would concede an inch in a case of honour.’

  ‘I do not require you to make any, the slightest sacrifice of what you term your honour,’ I replied; ‘but if you have actually written a challenge to Fitzgerald, as I suspect you have done, I conjure you to reconsider the matter before you despatch it. From all that I have heard you say, Fitzgerald has more to complain of in the altercation which has taken place than you. You owe it to your only surviving parent not to thrust yourself thus wantonly upon — I will say it, the most appalling danger. Nobody, my dear O’Connor, can have a doubt of your courage; and if at any time, which God forbid, you shall be called upon thus to risk your life, you should have it in your power to enter the field under the consciousness that you have acted throughout temperately and like a man, and not, as I fear you now would do, having rashly and most causelessly endangered your own life and that of your friend.’

  ‘I believe, Purcell, your are right,’ said he. ‘I believe I HAVE viewed the matter in too decided a light; my note, I think, scarcely allows him an honourable alternative, and that is certainly going a step too far — further than I intended. Mr. M’Donough, I’ll thank you to hand me the note.’

  He broke the seal, and, casting his eye hastily over it, he continued:

  ‘It is, indeed, a monument of folly. I am very glad, Purcell, you happened to come in, otherwise it would have reached its destination by this time.’

  He threw it into the fire; and, after a moment’s pause, resumed:

  ‘You must not mistake me, however. I am perfectly satisfied as to the propriety, nay, the necessity, of communicating with Fitzgerald. The difficulty is in what tone I should address him. I cannot say that the man directly affronted me — I cannot recollect any one expression which I could lay hold upon as offensive — but his language was ambiguous, and admitted frequently of the most insulting construction, and his manner throughout was insupportably domineering. I know it impressed me with the idea that he presumed upon his reputation as a DEAD SHOT, and that would be utterly unendurable.’

  ‘I would now recommend, as I have already done,’ said M’Donough, ‘that if you write to Fitzgerald, it should be in such a strain as to leave him at perfect liberty, without a compromise of honour, in a friendly way, to satisfy your doubts as to his conduct.’

  I seconded the proposal warmly, and O’Connor, in a few minutes, finished a note, which he desired us to read. It was to this effect:

  ‘O’Connor, of Castle Connor, feeling that some expressions employed by Mr. Fitzgerald upon last night, admitted of a construction offensive to him, and injurious to his character, requests to know whether Mr. Fitzgerald intended to convey such a meaning.

  ‘Castle Connor, Thursday morning.’

  This note was consigned to the care of Mr. M’Donough, who forthwith departed to execute his mission. The sound of his horse’s hoofs, as he rode rapidly away, struck heavily at my heart; but I found some satisfaction in the reflection that M’Donough appeared as averse from extreme measures as I was myself, for I well knew, with respect to the final result of the affair, that as much depended upon the tone adopted by the SECOND, as upon the nature of the written communication.

  I have seldom passed a more anxious hour than that which intervened between the departure and the return of that gentleman. Every instant I imagined I heard the tramp of a horse approaching, and every time that a door opened I fancied it was to give entrance to the eagerly expected courier. At length I did hear the hollow and rapid tread of a horse’s hoof upon the avenue. It approached — it stopped — a hurried step traversed the hall — the room door opened, and M’Donough entered.

  ‘You have made great haste,’ said O’Connor; ‘did you find him at home?’

  ‘I did,’ replied M’Donough, ‘and made the greater haste as Fitzgerald did not let me know the contents of his reply.’

  At the same time he handed a note to O’Connor, who instantly broke the seal. The words were as follow:

  ‘Mr. Fitzgerald regrets that anything which has fallen from him should have appeared to Mr. O’Connor to be intended to convey a reflection upon his honour (none such having been meant), and begs leave to disavow any wish to quarrel unnecessarily with Mr. O’Connor.

  ‘T —— Inn, Thursday morning.’

  I cannot describe how much I felt relieved on reading the above communication. I took O’Connor’s hand and pressed it warmly, but my emotions were deeper and stronger than I cared to show, for I was convinced that he had escaped a most imminent danger. Nobody whose notions upon the subject are derived from the duelling of modern times, in which matters are conducted without any very sanguinary determination upon either side, and with equal want of skill and coolness by both parties, can form a just estimate of the danger incurred by one who ventured to encounter a duellist of the old school. Perfect coolness in the field, and a steadiness and accuracy (which to the unpractised appeared almost miraculous) in the use of the pistol, formed the characteristics of this class; and in addition to this there generally existed a kind of professional pride, which prompted the duellist, in default of any more malignant feeling, from motives of mere vanity, to seek the life of his antagonist. Fitzgerald’s career had been a remarkably successful one, and I knew that out of thirteen duels which he had fought in Ireland, in nine cases he had KILLED his man. In those days one never heard of the parties leaving the field, as not unfrequently now occurs, without blood having been spilt; and the odds were, of course, in all cases tremendously against a young and unpractised man, when matched with an experienced antagonist. My impression respecting the magnitude of the danger which my friend had incurred was therefore by no means unwarranted.

  I now questioned O’Connor more accurately respecting the circumstances of his quarrel with Fitzgerald. It arose from some dispute respecting the application of a rule of piquet, at which game they had been playing, each interpreting it favourably to himself, and O’Connor, having lost considerably, was in no mood to conduct an argument with temper — an altercation ensued, and that of rather a pungent nature, and the result was that he left Fitzgerald’s room rather abruptly, determined to demand an explanation in the most peremptory tone. For this purpose he had sent for M’Donough, and had commissioned him to deliver the note, which my arrival had fortunately intercepted.

  As it was now past noon, O’Connor made me promise to remain with him to dinner; and we sat down a party of three, all in high spirits at the termination of our anxieties. It is necessary to mention, for the purpose of accounting for what follows, that Mrs. O’Connor, or, as she was more euphoniously styled, the lady of Castle Connor, was precluded by ill-health from taking her place at the dinner-table, and, indeed, seldom left her room before four o’clock.(4) We were sitting after dinner sipping our claret, and talking, and laughing, and enjoying ourselves exceedingly, when a servant, stepping into the room, informed his master that a gentleman wanted to speak with him.

  (4)
It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that at the period spoken of, the important hour of dinner occurred very nearly at noon.

  ‘Request him, with my compliments, to walk in,’ said O’Connor; and in a few moments a gentleman entered the room.

  His appearance was anything but prepossessing. He was a little above the middle size, spare, and rawboned; his face very red, his features sharp and bluish, and his age might be about sixty. His attire savoured a good deal of the SHABBY-GENTEEL; his clothes, which had much of tarnished and faded pretension about them, did not fit him, and had not improbably fluttered in the stalls of Plunket Street. We had risen on his entrance, and O’Connor had twice requested of him to take a chair at the table, without his hearing, or at least noticing, the invitation; while with a slow pace, and with an air of mingled importance and effrontery, he advanced into the centre of the apartment, and regarding our small party with a supercilious air, he said:

  ‘I take the liberty of introducing myself — I am Captain M’Creagh, formerly of the — infantry. My business here is with a Mr. O’Connor, and the sooner it is despatched the better.’

  ‘I am the gentleman you name,’ said O’Connor; ‘and as you appear impatient, we had better proceed to your commission without delay.’

  ‘Then, Mr. O’Connor, you will please to read that note,’ said the captain, placing a sealed paper in his hand.

  O’Connor read it through, and then observed:

  ‘This is very extraordinary indeed. This note appears to me perfectly unaccountable.’

  ‘You are very young, Mr. O’Connor,’ said the captain, with vulgar familiarity; ‘but, without much experience in these matters, I think you might have anticipated something like this. You know the old saying, “Second thoughts are best;” and so they are like to prove, by G — !’

  ‘You will have no objection, Captain M’Creagh, on the part of your friend, to my reading this note to these gentlemen; they are both confidential friends of mine, and one of them has already acted for me in this business.’

  ‘I can have no objection,’ replied the captain, ‘to your doing what you please with your own. I have nothing more to do with that note once I put it safe into your hand; and when that is once done, it is all one to me, if you read it to half the world — that’s YOUR concern, and no affair of mine.’

  O’Connor then read the following:

  ‘Mr. Fitzgerald begs leave to state, that upon reperusing Mr. O’Connor’s communication of this morning carefully, with an experienced friend, he is forced to consider himself as challenged. His friend, Captain M’Creagh, has been empowered by him to make all the necessary arrangements.

  ‘T —— Inn, Thursday.’

  I can hardly describe the astonishment with which I heard this note. I turned to the captain, and said:

  ‘Surely, sir, there is some mistake in all this?’

  ‘Not the slightest, I’ll assure you, sir.’ said he, coolly; ‘the case is a very clear one, and I think my friend has pretty well made up his mind upon it. May I request your answer?’ he continued, turning to O’Connor; ‘time is precious, you know.’

  O’Connor expressed his willingness to comply with the suggestion, and in a few minutes had folded and directed the following rejoinder:

  ‘Mr. O’Connor having received a satisfactory explanation from Mr. Fitzgerald, of the language used by that gentleman, feels that there no longer exists any grounds for misunderstanding, and wishes further to state, that the note of which Mr. Fitzgerald speaks was not intended as a challenge.’

  With this note the captain departed; and as we did not doubt that the message which he had delivered had been suggested by some unintentional misconstruction of O’Connor’s first billet, we felt assured that the conclusion of his last note would set the matter at rest. In this belief, however, we were mistaken; before we had left the table, and in an incredibly short time, the captain returned. He entered the room with a countenance evidently tasked to avoid expressing the satisfaction which a consciousness of the nature of his mission had conferred; but in spite of all his efforts to look gravely unconcerned, there was a twinkle in the small grey eye, and an almost imperceptible motion in the corner of the mouth, which sufficiently betrayed his internal glee, as he placed a note in the hand of O’Connor. As the young man cast his eye over it, he coloured deeply, and turning to M’Donough, he said:

  ‘You will have the goodness to make all the necessary arrangements for a meeting. Something has occurred to render one between me and Mr. Fitzgerald inevitable. Understand me literally, when I say that it is now totally impossible that this affair should be amicably arranged. You will have the goodness, M’Donough, to let me know as soon as all the particulars are arranged. Purcell,’ he continued, ‘will you have the kindness to accompany me?’ and having bowed to M’Creagh, we left the room.

  As I closed the door after me, I heard the captain laugh, and thought I could distinguish the words— ‘By —— I knew Fitzgerald would bring him to his way of thinking before he stopped.’

  I followed O’Connor into his study, and on entering, the door being closed, he showed me the communication which had determined him upon hostilities. Its language was grossly impertinent, and it concluded by actually threatening to ‘POST’ him, in case he further attempted ‘to be OFF.’ I cannot describe the agony of indignation in which O’Connor writhed under this insult. He said repeatedly that ‘he was a degraded and dishohoured man,’ that ‘he was dragged into the field,’ that ‘there was ignominy in the very thought that such a letter should have been directed to him.’ It was in vain that I reasoned against this impression; the conviction that he had been disgraced had taken possession of his mind. He said again and again that nothing but his DEATH could remove the stain which his indecision had cast upon the name of his family. I hurried to the hall, on hearing M’Donough and the captain passing, and reached the door just in time to hear the latter say, as he mounted his horse:

  ‘All the rest can be arranged on the spot; and so farewell, Mr. M’Donough — we’ll meet at Philippi, you know;’ and with this classical allusion, which was accompanied with a grin and a bow, and probably served many such occasions, the captain took his departure.

  M’Donough briefly stated the few particulars which had been arranged. The parties were to meet at the stand-house, in the race-ground, which lay at about an equal distance between Castle Connor and the town of T —— . The hour appointed was halfpast five on the next morning, at which time the twilight would be sufficiently advanced to afford a distinct view; and the weapons to be employed were PISTOLS — M’Creagh having claimed, on the part of his friend, all the advantages of the CHALLENGED party, and having, consequently, insisted upon the choice of ‘TOOLS,’ as he expressed himself; and it was further stipulated that the utmost secrecy should be observed, as Fitzgerald would incur great risk from the violence of the peasantry, in case the affair took wind. These conditions were, of course, agreed upon by O’Connor, and M’Donough left the castle, having appointed four o’clock upon the next morning as the hour of his return, by which time it would be his business to provide everything necessary for the meeting. On his departure, O’Connor requested me to remain with him upon that evening, saying that ‘he could not bear to be alone with his mother.’ It was to me a most painful request, but at the same time one which I could not think of refusing. I felt, however, that the difficulty at least of the task which I had to perform would be in some measure mitigated by the arrival of two relations of O’Connor upon that evening.

  ‘It is very fortunate,’ said O’Connor, whose thoughts had been running upon the same subject, ‘that the O’Gradys will be with us tonight; their gaiety and goodhumour will relieve us from a heavy task. I trust that nothing may occur to prevent their coming.’ Fervently concurring in the same wish, I accompanied O’Connor into the parlour, there to await the arrival of his mother.

  God grant that I may never spend such another evening! The O’Gradys DID come, bu
t their high and noisy spirits, so far from relieving me, did but give additional gloom to the despondency, I might say the despair, which filled my heart with misery — the terrible forebodings which I could not for an instant silence, turned their laughter into discord, and seemed to mock the smiles and jests of the unconscious party. When I turned my eyes upon the mother, I thought I never had seen her look so proudly and so lovingly upon her son before — it cut me to the heart — oh, how cruelly I was deceiving her! I was a hundred times on the very point of starting up, and, at all hazards, declaring to her how matters were; but other feelings subdued my better emotions. Oh, what monsters are we made of by the fashions of the world! how are our kindlier and nobler feelings warped or destroyed by their baleful influences! I felt that it would not be HONOURABLE, that it would not be ETIQUETTE, to betray O’Connor’s secret. I sacrificed a higher and a nobler duty than I have since been called upon to perform, to the dastardly fear of bearing the unmerited censure of a world from which I was about to retire. O Fashion! thou gaudy idol, whose feet are red with the blood of human sacrifice, would I had always felt towards thee as I now do!

  O’Connor was not dejected; on the contrary, he joined with loud and lively alacrity in the hilarity of the little party; but I could see in the flush of his cheek, and in the unusual brightness of his eye, all the excitement of fever — he was making an effort almost beyond his strength, but he succeeded — and when his mother rose to leave the room, it was with the impression that her son was the gayest and most lighthearted of the company. Twice or thrice she had risen with the intention of retiring, but O’Connor, with an eagerness which I alone could understand, had persuaded her to remain until the usual hour of her departure had long passed; and when at length she arose, declaring that she could not possibly stay longer, I alone could comprehend the desolate change which passed over his manner; and when I saw them part, it was with the sickening conviction that those two beings, so dear to one another, so loved, so cherished, should meet no more.