“I thanked him, and told him I had a case of pistols.
“I could have sworn it, he replied, with a droll look. “You wouldn’t be Charles Clitheroe’s son if you travelled without them. I don’t mean to set up your gallant father as an example to you in this particular, but he was one of the six combatants I have alluded to. In fact, he was the first person I had the honour to take into the field.”—’
“And possibly I may be the last,” I observed, in a nonchalant tone.
“That you undoubtedly will be if any mishap befalls you. And this brings me to another point,” he said, glancing at the letters on the table. “Have you any instructions to give me in regard to these letters?”
“I have only to beg you to take charge of them,” I replied. “ If I fall, you will kindly cause them to be sent as addressed.” And placing them in his hands, I explained their purport to him. He seemed at first disposed to offer some objections to the draft I had enclosed to Mrs. Mervyn; but he presently altered his opinion, and expressed approval of the step. It would, at all events, put the sincerity of my gratitude beyond question, he said.
“As to the letters,” he continued, putting them by carefully, “you may rest easy they shall be delivered, if circumstances require it; but I trust I shall have to return them to you.”
Saying which, he warmly squeezed my hand.
“I don’t like to ask any questions of a painful nature,” he observed, after a pause; “but I suppose you saw Apphia Brideoake this morning?”
I told him I had done so, and had ascertained that my letters written to her from the Continent had been kept back. He looked very grave on receiving this piece of information, but made no comment upon it, simply saying we must talk it over hereafter.
Hereafter! I could not help echoing with a sigh.
“I will not charge you with any message to Apphia,” I said, in a melancholy tone, “but if I fall, my last thoughts are sure to be of her.”
“Pshaw! you mustn’t be despondent,” Cuthbert Spring cried, putting on a more lively air. “You are not the first man who has lost his lady-love — I was jilted myself in my younger days — and if you come out of this duel with the credit I anticipate, you will find no difficulty in filling up the void in your heart. Plenty of pretty girls are to be found. But I must now leave you for a short time, as I have some arrangements of my own to make. I will take care that Mr. Rushton, the surgeon, is in attendance. A post-chaise shall be in readiness in an hour. We will drive to Dunton, and dine quietly at the Stamford Arms. This will be better for you than remaining in this noisy inn, and we shall only have a mile or two to go to the place of rendezvous.”
I quite approved of the plan he proposed, and he took his departure. I occupied the interval of his absence in making such further preparations as I deemed necessary.
At the time appointed, Cuthbert Spring returned, and informed me that the chaise was at the door; whereupon I took up my cloak, in which I had enveloped the green baize bag containing my pistol-case, and declining the waiter’s offer of assistance, marched forth with my friend.
We were soon rattling over the granite-paved streets of Cottonborough, and forcing our way through the strings of waggons and carts, all laden with bales of the staple merchandise of the place.
Ere long, we gained the Chester road. Hot that we were even then in the open country, for rows of low brick habitations, with little gardens in front, lined the way for miles. At last, we came upon well-cultivated fields, skirted by tall poplars, but I took little note of any object we passed, being absorbed in reflection, and my companion, reading perhaps, what was passing in my breast, did not disturb me. Suddenly, I was aroused, as from a troubled dream, by finding we had arrived at Dunton.
The Stamford Arms, where we alighted, was a comfortable country inn of the good old kind — now sadly too rare — and noted for its excellent cookery, its old port wine, and its well-kept bowling-green. It had been much frequented in former days by rollicking Cheshire squires. We were shown into a pleasant room on the ground floor, with windows looking upon the bowling-green, and walls adorned with pictures of hunters celebrated in the county. In due time a nice little dinner was served. My companion did full justice to the good cheer, and, all things considered, seemed in excellent spirits. I am convinced he did not dislike the excitement of the affair. For my own part, whatever my secret sensations might be, I managed to preserve a tolerably cheerful exterior. After dinner, our host brought us a bottle of the famous old port, and appeared very proud of its brilliancy and bee’s-wing. I contented myself with a single glass, which I took to please the landlord; but Cuthbert Spring, who smacked his lips over the wine, and declared it to be in superb condition, would have had me drink a pint to steady my nerves.
It was a delicious evening, with a clear atmosphere and cloudless sky, that gave us assurance of a fine night. We sat with the Windows wide open, and enticed forth by the beauty of the evening, I left my friend to enjoy his wine alone; continuing to walk backwards and forwards on the smooth velvet sod, until a sudden burst of radiance falling upon me through a break in the trees that sheltered the garden, told me the moon had arisen. For some time before this I had heard voices proceeding from the room I had quitted, and returning thither, I found Mr. Rushton, the surgeon, conversing with Cuthbert Spring. He shook hands with me as I entered, but made no allusion to the affair on which we were engaged. Soon afterwards, a waiter came in to say the chaise was ready, and we all prepared to depart. Mr. Rush ton’s private carriage was waiting for him at the door, and it was arranged that he should follow us.
While I was getting into the chaise, having previously deposited the pistol-case within it, Cuthbert Spring approached the postilion, and gave him some directions inaudible to the bystanders. The man touched his hat in token of acquiescence, and the next moment my friend was by my side, the steps were put up, the whip cracked, and we set off along the Chester-road. The sound of other wheels informed us that the surgeon was close behind.
It was a lovely night, almost as bright as day. The road we were pursuing ran along high ground, and the wide vale below was steeped in moonlight. Some three miles off I could discern the shimmering expanse of Marston Mere, with the old church tower just above it. As we approached Dunton Park, and passed through part of it, its noble woods and long sweeping glades derived wonderful effect from the medium through which they were viewed. In places, the road was completely overshadowed by enormous beech-trees, which flourished vigorously in the sandy soil, and quite intercepted the moon-beams by their thick foliage.
We were mounting a slight ascent, where one side of the road, being comparatively free from timber, admitted the full radiance of the moon, while the other was cast into deep shade by a thick grove of black pines, when I noticed two dark figures standing on a high sand-bank, under the shadow of the sombre trees. Even in that imperfect light, I could tell that they were gipsies, and I pointed them out to Cuthbert Spring. Both of the men were armed with bludgeons. I could not help watching their movements, and when we came close upon them I thought I recognised the swarthy lineaments of my old acquaintance Phaleg, who, it would appear, had returned to his former haunts; while in the lithe young man by his side I had no doubt that I beheld Phaleg’s son Obed. My face was turned towards them, and as the moon lighted up my features, I am sure Phaleg knew me, for he bent eagerly forward, and pointed me out to his son. If the gipsies meditated an attack, they abandoned the design on seeing the other carriage approach; but they looked after us, as if half disposed to follow. They were soon, however, out of sight, owing to a turn in the road, and I thought no more about them.
A rapid descent brought us to the foot of a hill, and in a few minutes more we had reached the entrance of a narrow lane, about a bow-shot from the little stone bridge crossing the Rollin. Here we alighted, and leaving the postilion in care of the chaise, proceeded on foot towards the place of rendezvous, which was not very far off. Mr. Rushton followed more leisurely.
We were first in the field. Cuthbert Spring looked at his watch, and said it wanted five minutes to eleven — in five minutes more they would be here.
While he went to select a favourable piece of ground, I walked towards the banks of the river, and remained gazing at its current as it flowed tranquilly by. More than half the stream was in deep shade, and looked black as ink, but just beneath me the circling eddies glittered brightly in the moonlight. The serene beauty of the night had gradually softened my heart, and, as I looked down on that quiet stream, the thirst of vengeance, which had hitherto consumed me, subsided, and I felt reluctant to take the life of him who had so deeply injured me.
Hearing sounds as of persons approaching along the lane leading to the green, I returned to Cuthbert Spring, whom I found on a perfectly bare piece of ground, about fifty yards in front of the scathed oak. Mr. Rushton was standing by himself, a little way off nearer the cottage, with a case of instruments under his arm.
The next moment, Colonel Harbottle and Malpas Sale were seen advancing, and as they drew near they both saluted us ceremoniously, and we returned the greeting in the same formal manner. Colonel Harbottle then took Mr. Spring aside, and conferred with him for a few moments.
While this was passing, I glanced at Malpas, who stood opposite to me in a careless attitude. The moon was shining full upon us, and it might be the effect of its pallid light, but I thought his features looked ghastly.
Presently, the seconds returned, and Colonel Harbottle approaching me, inquired in a very courteous manner if there was any possibility of the matter being accommodated. I answered sternly in the negative, and as I spoke Malpas cast a sharp look at me. He then stood erect, with compressed lip and knitted brow.
The seconds now retired, and the pistols were loaded. This done, the distance was measured; we were respectively placed; and the weapons were delivered to us. It was arranged that the signal to fire should be a white handkerchief waved by Colonel Harbottle.
Once more the seconds withdrew. Just then, two ravens flew over our heads, croaking hoarsely and angrily, evidently disturbed from their roost in the scathed oak-tree. I could not help glancing at them, and, in doing so, perceived that another couple of ravens had put the legitimate occupants of the old oak-tree to flight. The younger gipsy, Obed, it seemed had climbed the antique tree, and taken up his station on one of its mighty arms. Phaleg himself was standing beneath, leaning against the massive trunk, and watching us composedly. I should have drawn the attention of the seconds to these unlicensed intruders, but ere I could do so Colonel Harbottle coughed loudly to call attention. On the instant I became fixed with my eye upon my antagonist, yet watching for the signal. It was a trying moment, and I could scarcely draw breath. But I never swerved from the resolution I had formed while gazing at the river.
The handkerchief was waved, and we both fired at the same moment. I am certain I could have killed my adversary; but I had no such intention. I raised my arm aloft, and discharged my pistol into the air.
The seconds ran towards us, making anxious inquiries, accompanied by Mr. Rushton, who had drawn near before the encounter took place.
I was hit. A sharp knock, just above the right elbow, had quite numbed my arm, and the pistol dropped from my grasp.
CHAPTER V.
I RENEW MY ACQUAINTANCE WITH PHALEG.
BOTH the seconds seemed greatly relieved by the assurance I was able to give them that I was not much hurt, and having seen me fire into the air, they declared that the duel was at an end. Leaving me in the hands of the surgeon, Colonel Harbottle went to confer with his principal, while Mr. Rushton commenced an examination of my arm, and finding I could not take off my coat, he instantly slit up the sleeve, and then discovered a severe contusion just above the elbow, where the ball had struck me. Owing to my arm being raised at the moment of receiving the shot, the ball had glanced off without doing much damage except to the muscles, which it had battered and benumbed, and then running along, had lodged itself in my dress, behind the shoulder. The surgeon took it from my shirt, and laughingly presented it to me, at the same time giving me the comfortable assurance that the hurt would be well in a few days, though my arm might probably continue stiff for a somewhat longer period.
At this juncture, Colonel Harbottle and Malpas came up.
“I am rejoiced to hear such a good report of you, Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe,” the colonel said, with great politeness, “and so, I am quite sure, is my principal. After the magnanimity you have displayed, it would have been matter of deep regret to him, as well as to all engaged in this affair, if any ill consequences had resulted from his shot. This, sir, I beg you to believe. And now that the quarrel is adjusted, and you have so gallantly received your adversary’s fire (which I trust I may construe into a tacit admission that you were somewhat hasty in your expressions concerning him), let me hope that a reconciliation may take place between you and my friend. It will gratify me extremely to see you shake hands together before we quit the field.”
Cuthbert Spring was about to make an observation, but I checked him, and addressing Colonel Harbottle with some warmth, said: “You are entirely mistaken in concluding, that because I did not choose to make Mr. Malpas Sale my mark, I admit that I was in the wrong. No such thing, sir. I regret the occasion of the quarrel; but my opinion of Mr. Malpas Sale is unchanged, and I do not mean to retract anything I have said of him.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Colonel Harbottle rejoined, rather nettled. “It is scarcely what I expected from you.”
A flush had spread over Malpas’s face while I was speaking, and it was with evident discomposure that he now remarked: “I should have been quite willing to shake hands with MIL Mervyn Clitheroe, had he been so inclined; but since he rejects all friendly advances, and refuses to place me upon an equality with himself in a meeting like the present, I trust he will give no further license to his tongue.”
“Softly, sir — softly,” Cuthbert Spring interposed. “My principal has’ offered you full satisfaction, and you ought to be content. Colonel Harbottle, I am sure, must be of my opinion.”
“I am, sir,” the colonel rejoined. “We can ask no more than we have obtained. Still, I may be permitted to observe—”
“Hay, colonel, you must perceive that nothing can be gained by prolonging this discussion,” Cuthbert Spring interrupted. “I must positively put a stop to it.”
“I have done,” Colonel Harbottle rejoined. “In taking leave, I can only repeat my regret that we are no nearer a settlement than when we began. It is no compliment to Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe, but the pimple expression of truth, to say that he has conducted himself throughout the affair like a man of honour. Good night, gentlemen.” Whereupon he and Malpas formally saluted us, and withdrew.
They had not, however, proceeded far, when they were brought to a halt. Two dark figures were seen hurrying towards them. I had been so completely engrossed by what had occurred during the last ten minutes, that I had taken no note of the pair of gipsies; and I should have expected them to disappear when their curiosity was gratified, rather than to come forward in this manner.
“Holloa! who the deuce are you? —
what d’ye want?” Colonel Harbottle exclaimed, facing them.
“I wants a word wi’ his honour, Capt’n Sale, afore he goes,” Phaleg replied. “He knows Phaleg, the gipsy. I did a little job for him some years ago. His honour win recollect it, I dar say,” he added, with some significance.
“His honour has no desire to recollect his boyish follies,” Malpas replied, evidently annoyed by the interruption. “What are you doing here at this time of night, fellow?”
“Nay, I might put that question to your honour,” Phaleg rejoined, drily; “but I needn’t ax when my eyes and ears ha’ gied me information. If gen’l’folk chooses to settle their quarrels wi’ pistols or swords, Ize nivir interfere wi’ um — not I. I likes the sport too well.”
“You had better be off to your tent, wherever it may be pitched,” Malpas rejoined. “And here, you shan’t go empty-handed,” he added, giving him a piece of gold, as I conceived the coin to be from the eagerness with which the gipsy took it.
“Thank your honour!” Phaleg cried. “Obed and me win drink your honour’s health, an’ wishin’ you better luck next time.”
“I can’t have better luck than to come off scot-free myself, and hit my adversary,” Malpas rejoined, with a laugh.”
“Yea, you might have better luck nor that,” Phaleg replied.
“I don’t understand you, fellow,” Malpas rejoined, sternly. “Hark ye, sirrah, if you value your safety, you won’t remain in this neighbourhood. Once before you made it too hot for you, and you may do so again, and not get off so easily.”
“Bless your honour, capt’n, I’ve nowt to fear. I’ve left off poachin’ this many a day. I be an honest tinker now by trade, and so be my son Obed.”
“Yes, we both of us be tinkers, at your honour’s sarvice,” Obed chimed in.—’
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 462