Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  CHAPTER XIV.

  A MAD ACT.

  An all-important dinner was this dinner at the Star and Garter at Richmond, its anticipation having kept the partakers of it in town longer than they would otherwise have remained. It was the settlement of a bet, which Lord Sandlin had lost to Sir Robert Payn. Of the twelve to assemble, one had been kept away by a death, and Lord Temple was invited to supply his place. They were all of the species denominated “fast,” and not one but was a tolerably hard drinker. Had Lord Temple been solicited to join these men in a midnight revel, he might now possibly have declined, from fear of contagion, but to refuse, on that score, the dining with them in open daylight, never entered his mind. It was a splendid feast, both as to wines and viands, and they all ate and drank well save one, and that one was — not Lord Temple.

  It was Sir Robert Payn. He was suffering from illness, and took scarcely any thing. The rest drank deeply; deeply even for them. After dinner (because they had not taken enough) they began upon cigars and punch and brandy; in Shorty upon any thing that their hot throats fancied; and when they started for London they were gloriously uproarious, and terrified quiet dwellings as they passed by their noisy shouting.

  Lord Temple had some very slight sense left in him, and told Earl Sandlin’s groom, who then had the reins, to drive to his house. The earl whispered a contrary order, and the man of course obeyed his master. Lord Temple subsided into sleep, and when he woke he was stumbling up some stairs. He soon saw, though imperfectly, where he was: at the gaming-house in St. James’s Street Some half dozen of the diners had agreed to resort thither: Lord Sandlin was one, and he had carried his friend with him.

  “I must go home, Sandlin,” hiccupped Lord Temple. “My wife is alone. I told you she’d be home early.”

  “She is not alone,” returned the earl. “I sent to ask, and they said she was stopping for the night where she went to dinner.”

  “No!” uttered Lord Temple.

  “Fact,” stuttered the earl. “She stopped because she did not expect you back.”

  Of course this was an impromptu invention of the earl’s; but Lord Temple, perfectly truthful himself, and most imperfectly in his faculties, took it in. Down he sat on a sofa. Somebody mixed him a glass of brandy and water. He drank it mechanically, simply because it was put into his hands, and in five minutes was asleep again. The others were helping themselves to brandy and water.

  It was not very dear how long he remained there. Two or three hours. The room was in an uproar the whole of the time: laughing, talking, drinking, gambling, stupefying, and sleeping. Some went in, some went out; and Lord Temple slept through it.

  He was aroused by some one roughly awaking, him. He got his eyes open after a struggle, his senses partially so, and looked up. It was Major Anketel. Lord Temple rose into a standing posture, cast aside the major’s help with unmistakable scorn, and steadied himself on the arm of the sofa.

  “S — S — Sandlin, is the ca — cab waiting? I’m going.”

  “Sit down again,” said Lord Sandlin, “and don’t bother.”

  “I — I — I’m going, I tell you, Sandlin. I can’t sit down with blacklegs. There’s one in the room.” His lordship would probably have said “two,” but his eye had not yet caught sight of Swallowtail.

  A consternation. All fumed round to gaze.

  “You are dreaming,” observed Lord Sandlin.

  “Come along,” said Major Anketel, in a coaxing tone, as be laid hold of Lord Temple. “I’ll give you a hand at—”

  “Off, sir!” shouted Lord Temple, livid with scorn and rage, in the midst of his brain’s confusion, “how dare you touch me? Gentlemen,” he stuttered, this man, whom we have suffered so long to associate with us, is a cheat and a swindler, a man to herd with roues and felons. He gets his living by his tricks, and we suffer. Off, I say, fellow! Do not presume to touch me: I am a peer of the realm.”

  Poor Lord Temple! had he been sober, he would have contented himself with walking out of the room as Major Anketel walked into it. Certainly he never would have said the half or the quarter of what he did say, but for the demon he had imbibed into him: that spoke; he did not. What followed, none of them could have told distinctly afterward: Anketel gave Lord Temple the lie, and the room was a Bedlam; shouts, oaths, questions. Some espoused Lord Temple’s part, one or two Major Anketel’s. Lord Sandlin, thinking, as he said afterward, that the viscount had got a sudden attack of brain fever, dashed over his head, a large decanter of water. As if feeling that water was what he wanted, Lord Temple seized another decanter, and drank glass after glass of it. And tins partially sobered him.

  What was to be done?

  He mast either make good his charges, or go out with Major Anketel.

  No, he would not. He, Lord Temple, go out with a blackleg!

  “Will you go out with me?” cried Colonel Groves. “I espouse Anketel’s quarrel. I am no blackleg.”

  As he spoke, he struck Lord Temple on the cheek; his fist was keen, and the blood trickled down. The colonel was a dose and intimate friend of Anketel’s. “Birds of a feather flock together.” Not very long after this period, the two were caught out in a disreputable transaction — and then people remembered the Words of Viscount Temple.

  A hostile meeting was hastily arranged: they would go out with the first glimmer of the dawn, and fight it out. Sir Robert Payn was the only one cool enough to raise his remonstrances against it. Duels were no longer “in,’’ he said, they had been put down by public opinion. Let them stop till to-morrow, when they should be calm, and no doubt Temple’s words would be explained away. He was drunk, and not responsible for what he said. Would they go out like madmen, and shoot each other to blazes? Nobody did it now, but French students at St. Cyr, or Austrian gamblers.

  Sir Robert Payn’s words were wasted, his advice unheeded. All around were little better than what he said, madmen: their blood was fired. Earl Sandlin proposed to second Lord Temple; and the Honourable George Eden, Colonel Groves.

  It was carried out. With the gray break of early morning, they started: Lord Sandlin driving his friend, and somebody else driving Colonel Groves. Others followed in the rear; not many. Eager, frantic, as they all had been in urging it on, they were too wary to expose themselves to consequences, even as spectators.

  Earl Sandlin had, first of all, proceeded to his home, Lord Temple with him. There the former got his pistols, and each drank a cup of coffee black with strength. The French call it café noir. As they were starting off in the dog-cart, Lord Sandlin exclaimed that they must take a surgeon.

  “We sha’n’t find one at this hour,” cried Lord Temple, who was now three parts sobered. “Don’t wait; let’s get it over.” It is probable that be would be glad to escape it now, for his wife’s sake; but no possibility of escape presented itself; no alternative.

  “I know a man who will do,” returned the earl, “and we shall pass his rooms. He used to be attached to the — regiment.”

  A little farther the earl pulled up. It was the place he spoke of. A load alarm was sounded on the night-bell, which brought forth a face in a nightcap at the second-floor window.

  “There he is; I could swear to him by his gray whiskers. Halloa, Moore! put that window up.”

  Accordingly the window was put up, and the gray whiskers and the nightcap looked out.

  “What’s the matter, my lord?” was the demand, in a strong Irish accent.

  “Dress yourself in a brace of shakes, and come down and see. A five-guinea job. Now don’t be an hour. He’d sell his mother for half-a-crown,” added the earl to Lord Temple, “so he won’t wait to shave. He’s often hard up for a aspens: clever in his profession, but drinks like a fish. I say, Temple I shaking?”

  “I am as cold as charity,” explained Lord Temple. “The dawn is keen.”

  No more was said; at least by Lord Temple. The surgeon came out, took his seat by the side of the servant, and kept up a running fire of conversation with Lord Sand
lin, as they sat back to back. The earl appeared to feel no more the awful nature of the errand they were bent on, than he would the going to a wedding; he was not of the feeling sort. What Lord Temple’s reflections were, we can not tell: but certainly not pleasant ones.

  When the party had discussed the place of meeting, some proposed one place, some another. One suggested Scotland; another France; another Chalk Farm. Finally Battersea Fields was decided on, George Eden indicating a spot there “snug and safe.” To Battersea Fields, therefore. Lord Sandlin drove, and found the others were there before him. They had brought another Burgeon. No time was lost; the ground was chosen and measured; and while Lord Sandlin and Mr. Eden were conferring together. Viscount Temple looked round at the assembled faces. His eye rested on Sir Robert Payn’s — on its severe expression, betraying discontent at the whole proceedings. He went up to him, and drew him aside.

  “Payn, if I fall, will you undertake to break it to my wife? You will render me that service?”

  “Yes. I hope it will not be necessary. This has no business to take place, Temple. It was in my mind, on the way down, to look out for a policeman, and have you all taken into custody. You were a fool to get into this for that beggar Anketel. But you had no right to say what you did.”

  “I do not remember what I did say; I was half asleep and half stupid; but I was enraged at the fellow’s presuming to touch me. Whatever I may have said, let it be as bad as it will, he deserves it. Mind, Payn, I reiterate it, though they may be nearly the last words I utter; he is a gambler in the worst sense of the term, and a blackleg, and Swallowtail is his confederate; and I have, unfortunately, good cause for the assertion.”

  “This may be so,” returned Sir Robert; “but life is life, and yours ought not to be risked for them. There was no call whatever for your coming out: the age for duelling is over. It is not demanded now that a man should stand to be shut at. Anketel might have brought an action against you.”

  “I should not have come out with Anketel. Groves is different and he struck me.’’

  “You might have struck again. I should; and pummelled him till his chivalry was out of him. What need had he to take up other men’s quarrels? Groves has the character for being a crack shot.”

  “Well — if I flail, you will soften the news, in the telling, to Lady Temple. Do not let her know the worst at once, Payn. It will break her heart, I fear, when she does know it.”

  “And if it turns out the other way, and you dispatch Groves, shall you make yourself scarce for a time? Or, you may both fell.”

  “Both can not fall,” said Lord Temple. “I shall fire in the air.”

  “What!”

  “I shall. I have no quarrel with him; and if I am to be sent out of the world myself, I will not go with murder on my hand.”

  ‘‘If there were time, I’d fetch a policeman,” muttered Sir Robert to himself.

  But there was not time. The antagonists were immediately placed, and the pistols fired. Colonel Groves’s as surely as if he had taken aim — Lord Temple’s in the air. Lord Temple fell.

  The ball had entered his chest. The blood was welling out, and he lay as one dead. Colonel Groves, his second and one or two more, disappeared. They probably deemed he was dead, and hastened to secure their own safety.

  But Lord Temple was not gone; and the pulling him about by the surgeons awoke him to consciousness. They were both skilful men, and extracted the ball on the spot. The lovely morning sun was looking on them from the horizon as they dressed the wound.

  “Now, there are only two things to fear,” cried Moore, when it was over: “one is internal haemorrhage; the other is the shock to the system. I don’t think we shall have to look out for either. I believe he’ll do well. Where’s he to be moved to?”

  Lord Temple opened his eyes. “Home.”

  “Too far, my lord.”

  “Home, home,” he repeated; and the words, though faint, were eagerly uttered.

  “It may be done with care,” interrupted the other surgeon. “His mind seems set upon it.”

  Lord Temple made a movement as if he would have raised his head, and his eyes sought Sir Robert Payn’s. The latter read their anxious expression. He leaned over him.

  “I understand,” he said. “I’ll be off at once. Keep your mind easy: by the time you arrive at home she will be expecting you. This will be all right, I can see: only keep tranquil.”

  Sir Robert Payn drove leisurely to Lady Temple’s; he did not hurry, for he thought she would not be up, and did not care to disturb her earlier than was needful.

  Lady Temple had not been in bed. Full of consternation, then of alarm, she had waited hour after hour for her husband’s return. Now pacing the room with uneven steps; now leaning from the window, looking out for him in vain; now giving way to all the terrors of imaginative fear. With the gray dawn, just as they were starting on their sinful expedition, she dropped into a sleep in her bedroom, kneeling on the ground, her head resting on the sofa. The entrance of her maid aroused her, and she started up, alive with painful recollection.

  “A gentleman is below, my lady, and wishes particularly to see you. He made me give you this card.”

  Sir Robert Payn’s. On it was written in pencil, “I am deeply sorry to disturb Lady Temple at this hour, but have brought a message to her from Lord Temple.”

  Isabel glanced at the glass. To smooth her hair and her cap was the work of an instant; and she shook out the flounces of her black silk dress, and went down with quivering lips and a sinking heart. She had never seen Sir Robert Payn, and Sir Robert Payn had never seen her; but ceremony in these sterner hours of life is forgotten.

  She went up to him: she clasped his arm in her agony of suspense; her eager eyes were strained imploringly upon him, her pale lips drawn back. Sir Robert was grieved to see her — to witness her emotion; and he also saw that it was especially necessary he should be cautious not to alarm her more than was possible.

  “What have you to tell me!” she murmured; “what is it that has happened?”

  “Dear Lady Temple,” he said, feelingly leading her to an arm-chair and placing her in it, “it is not so bad as you are fearing. Compose yourself. A slight accident has happened to Lord Temple, but you need not fear.”

  “I have never been in bed all night,” she returned; “I have passed it watching, in the agony of suspense. Let me know the worst. Indeed, I can bear it; it will be less painful than the fears which have haunted me.”

  He hardly knew how to tell her; yet told she must be, for her wounded husband was even then on his road home.

  He got through the task pretty well, making light of it. A mere flesh wound, he said.

  She sat hack in the chair, her head resting on it, her hands clasped on her chest, as if to still its heavings, and her face the hue of the grave.

  “To fight a duel! to go out to fight a duel!” she wailed, in a low tone. “How could he be guilty of it? How could he be so led away?”

  “I will go and watch for them, and come in with him,” said Sir Robert, “perhaps I may be of use. You will calm yourself before him, Lady Temple: it is absolutely necessary. Were you to excite him, I can not answer for the consequences.”

  “Yes, I will; I will control myself; can you doubt it? But it is hard to bear.”

  “Can I do any thing for you? Summon any of your friends?”

  A sudden thought struck her; she looked up. “If my brother could be got here, it would be a comfort to me, and I know it would be to my husband. The telegraph would apprise him.”

  “Give me the address,” said Sir Robert. “I will dispatch a messenger instantly.”

  The Danesbury families were at breakfast that same morning, when Mrs. Danesbury happened to raise her head. “Who is this coming to the house?” she exclaimed. “A man in a blue and red cap. He has got on a sort of uniform.”

  Arthur leaned forward and looked out. “It is a porter from the telegraph office,” he observed. “He must be bring
ing a message.”

  “About that iron, no doubt,” cried Mr. Danesbury. “But why do they send here instead of to the factory?”

  The servant entered with a dispatch in his hand, and handed it according to its address—” Arthur Danesbury, Esq., Danesbury House, Eastborough.”

  “ Now, I wonder what this is?” thought Arthur, as he rose. He signed the paper, and then went to the window to open the dispatch, his back turned to the breakfast-table. An unpleasant fear had crossed his mind that something was amiss with Robert from fears of some kind or other, relating to Robert, he was rarely free.

  London, 8 o’clock A.M.

  “Sir Robert Payn to Arthur Danesbury, Esquire.

  “An accident has happened to Lord Temple. Lady Temple wishes for you here. Lose no time.”

  “What in the world is it, Arthur?” cried out William. “You are a long while studying it.”

  Arthur turned round as if in amaze, keeping the dispatch in his closed hand. Mr. Danesbury looked at him.

  “It is unpleasant news, sir. Something is—”

  “Unpleasant news!” shrieked out Mrs. Danesbury. “Robert is ill! I know he is! or else the raiment is ordered abroad!”

  “It is nothing about Robert,” answered Arthur to Mrs. Danesbury, again turning to address his father. “Something is amiss with Lord Temple. They wish me to go up.”

  “Does he telegraph?” asked Mr. Danesbury.

  “He does not. Sir Robert Payn sends. There it is,” he added, handing the ominous words to his father, now that he had, in a degree, prepared him.