As the others ran in, the surgeons quickly and silently, Lord Almeric more slowly, and with exclamations, Sir George lowered his burden gently to the ground. The instant it was done, Morris touched his arm and signed to him to stand back. ‘You can do no good, Sir George,’ he urged. ‘He is in skilful hands. He would have it; it was his own fault. I can bear witness that you did your best not to touch him.’
‘I did not touch him,’ Soane muttered.
The second looked his astonishment. ‘How?’ he said. ‘You don’t mean to say that he is not wounded? See there!’ And he pointed to the blood which dyed the shirt. They were cutting the linen away.
‘It was the pistol,’ Sir George answered.
Major Morris’s face fell, and he groaned. ‘Good G — d!’ he said, staring before him. ‘What a position I am in! I suppose — I suppose, sir, his pistol was not primed?’
‘I am afraid not,’ Soane answered.
He was still in his shirt, and bareheaded; but as he spoke one of several onlookers, whom the clatter of steel had drawn to the spot, brought his coat and waistcoat, and held them while he put them on. Another handed his hat and wig, a third brought his shoes and knelt and buckled them; a fourth his kerchief. All these services he accepted freely, and was unconscious of them — as unconscious as he was of the eager deference, the morbid interest, with which they waited on him, eyed him, and stared at him. His own thoughts, eyes, attention, were fixed on the group about the fallen man; and when the elder surgeon glanced over his shoulder, as wanting help, he strode to them.
‘If we had a chair here, and could move him at once,’ the smug gentleman whispered, ‘I think we might do.’
‘I have a chair. It is at the gate,’ his colleague answered.
‘Have you? A good thought of yours!’
‘The credit should lie — with my employer,’ the younger man answered in a low voice. ‘It was his thought; here it comes. Sir George, will you be good enough—’ But then, seeing the baronet’s look of mute anxiety, he broke off. ‘It is dangerous, but there is hope — fair hope,’ he answered. ‘Do you, my dear sir, go to your inn, and I will send thither when he is safely housed. You can do no good here, and your presence may excite him when he recovers from the swoon.’
Sir George, seeing the wisdom of the advice, nodded assent; and remarking for the first time the sensation of which he was the centre, was glad to make the best of his way towards the gates. He had barely reached them — without shaking off a knot of the more curious, who still hung on his footsteps — when Lord Almeric, breathless and agitated, came up with him.
‘You are for France, I suppose?’ his lordship panted. And then, without waiting for an answer: ‘What would you advise me to do?’ he babbled. ‘Eh? What do you think? It will be the devil and all for me, you know.’
Sir George looked askance at him, contempt in his eye. ‘I cannot advise you,’ he said. ‘For my part, my lord, I remain here.’
His lordship was quite taken aback. ‘No, you don’t?’ he said. ‘Remain here! — You don’t mean it,’
‘I usually mean — what I say,’ Soane answered in a tone that he thought must close the conversation.
But Lord Almeric kept up with him. ‘Ay, but will you?’ he babbled in vacuous admiration. ‘Will you really stay here? Now that is uncommon bold of you! I should not have thought of that — of staying here, I mean. I should go to France till the thing blew over. I don’t know that I shall not do so now. Don’t you think I should be wise, Sir George? My position, you know. It is uncommon low, is a trial, and—’
Sir George halted so abruptly that will-he, nill-he, the other went on a few paces. ‘My lord, you should know your own affairs best,’ he said in a freezing tone. ‘And, as I desire to be alone, I wish your lordship a very good day.’
My lord had never been so much astonished in his life. ‘Oh, good morning,’ he said, staring vacantly, ‘good morning!’ but by the time he had framed the words, Sir George was a dozen paces away.
It was an age when great ladies wept out of wounded vanity or for a loss at cards — yet made a show of their children lying in state; when men entertained the wits and made their wills in company, before they bowed a graceful exit from the room and life. Doubtless people felt, feared, hoped, and perspired as they do now, and had their ambitions apart from Pam and the loo table. Nay, Rousseau was printing. But the ‘Nouvelle Héloïse,’ though it was beginning to be read, had not yet set the mode of sensibility, or sent those to rave of nature who all their lives had known nothing but art. The suppression of feeling, or rather the cultivation of no feeling, was still the mark of a gentleman; his maxim; honoured alike at Medmenham and Marly, to enjoy — to enjoy, be the cost to others what it might.
Bred in such a school, Sir George should have viewed what had happened with polite indifference, and put himself out no further than was courteous, or might serve to set him right with a jury, if the worst came to the worst. But, whether because he was of a kindlier stuff than the common sort of fashionables, or was too young to be quite spoiled, he took the thing that had occurred with unexpected heaviness; and, reaching his inn, hastened to his room to escape alike the curiosity that dogged him and the sympathy that, for a fine gentleman, is never far to seek. To do him justice, his anxiety was not for himself, or the consequences to himself, which at the worst were not likely to exceed a nominal verdict of manslaughter, and at the best would be an acquittal; the former had been Lord Byron’s lot, the latter Mr. Brown’s, and each had killed his man. Sir George had more savoir faire than to trouble himself about this; but about his opponent and his fate he felt a haunting — and, as Lord Almeric would have said, a low — concern that would let him neither rest nor sit. In particular, when he remembered the trifle from which all had arisen, he felt remorse and sorrow; which grew to the point of horror when he recalled the last look which Dunborough, swooning and helpless, had cast in his face.
In one of these paroxysms he was walking the room when the elder surgeon, who had attended his opponent to the field, was announced. Soane still retained so much of his life habit as to show an unmoved front; the man of the scalpel thought him hard and felt himself repelled; and though he had come from the sick-room hot-foot and laden with good news, descended to a profound apology for the intrusion.
‘But I thought that you might like to hear, sir,’ he continued, nursing his hat, and speaking as if the matter were of little moment, ‘that Mr. Dunborough is as — as well as can be expected. A serious case — I might call it a most serious case,’ he continued, puffing out his cheeks. ‘But with care — with care I think we may restore him. I cannot say more than that.’
‘Has the ball been extracted?’
‘It has, and so far well. And the chair being on the spot, Sir George, so that he was moved without a moment’s delay — for which I believe we have to thank Mr. — Mr.—’
‘Fishwick,’ Soane suggested.
‘To be sure — that is so much gained. Which reminds me,’ the smug gentleman continued, ‘that Mr. Attorney begged me to convey his duty and inform you that he had made the needful arrangements and provided bail, so that you are at liberty to leave, Sir George, at any hour.’
‘Ah!’ Soane said, marvelling somewhat. ‘I shall stay here, nevertheless, until I hear that Mr. Dunborough is out of danger.’
‘An impulse that does you credit, sir,’ the surgeon said impressively. ‘These affairs, alas! are very greatly to be de—’
‘They are d — d inconvenient,’ Sir George drawled. ‘He is not out of danger yet, I suppose?’
The surgeon stared and puffed anew. ‘Certainly not, sir,’ he said.
‘Ah! And where have you placed him?’
‘The Honourable Mr. — , the sufferer?’
‘To be sure! Who else, man?’ Soane asked impatiently.
‘In some rooms at Magdalen,’ the doctor answered, breathing hard. And then, ‘Is it your wish that I should report to you to-morrow, sir?’
CHAPTER VI
A FISH OUT OF WATER
Sir George spent a long day in his own company, and heedless that on the surgeon’s authority he passed abroad for a hard man and a dashed unfeeling fellow, dined on Lord Lyttelton’s ‘Life of King Henry the Second,’ which was a new book in those days, and the fashion; and supped on gloom and good resolutions. He proposed to call and inquire after his antagonist at a decent hour in the morning, and if the report proved favourable, to go on to Lord — — ‘s in the afternoon.
But his suspense was curtailed, and his inquiries were converted into a matter of courtesy, by a visit which he received after breakfast from Mr. Thomasson. A glance at the tutor’s smiling, unctuous face was enough. Mr. Thomasson also had had his dark hour — since to be mixed up with, a fashionable fracas was one thing, and to lose a valuable and influential pupil, the apple of his mother’s eye, was another; but it was past, and he gushed over with gratulations.
‘My dear Sir George,’ he cried, running forward and extending his hands, ‘how can I express my thankfulness for your escape? I am told that the poor dear fellow fought with a fury perfectly superhuman, and had you given ground must have ran you through a dozen times. Let us be thankful that the result was otherwise.’ And he cast up his eyes.
‘I am,’ Sir George said, regarding him rather grimly. ‘I do not know that Mr. Dunborough shares the feeling.’
‘The dear man!’ the tutor answered, not a whit abashed. ‘But he is better. The surgeon has extracted the ball and pronounces him out of danger.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Soane answered heartily. ‘Then, now I can get away.’
‘À volonté!’ cried Mr. Thomasson in his happiest vein. And then with a roguish air, which some very young men found captivating, but which his present companion stomached with difficulty, ‘I will not say that you have come off the better, after all, Sir George,’ he continued.
‘Ah!’
‘No,’ said the tutor roguishly. ‘Tut-tut. These young men! They will at a woman by hook or crook.’
‘So?’ Sir George said coldly. ‘And the latest instance?’
‘His Chloe — and a very obdurate, disdainful Chloe at that — has come to nurse him,’ the tutor answered, grinning. ‘The prettiest high-stepping piece you ever saw, Sir George — that I will swear! — and would do you no discredit in London. It would make your mouth water to see her. But he could never move her; never was such a prude. Two days ago he thought he had lost her for good and all — there was that accident, you understand. And now a little blood lost — and she is at his pillow!’
Sir George reddened at a sudden thought he had. ‘And her father unburied!’ he cried, rising to his feet. This Macaroni was human, after all.
Mr. Thomasson stared in astonishment. ‘You know?’ he said. ‘Oh fie, Sir George, have you been hunting already? Fie! Fie! And all London to choose from!’
But Sir George simply repeated, ‘And her father not buried, man?’
‘Yes,’ Mr. Thomasson answered with simplicity. ‘He was buried this morning. Oh, that is all right.’
‘This morning? And the girl went from that — to Dunborough’s bedside?’ Sir George exclaimed in indignation.
‘It was a piece of the oddest luck,’ Mr. Thomasson answered, smirking, and not in the least comprehending the other’s feeling. ‘He was lodged in Magdalen yesterday; this morning a messenger was despatched to Pembroke for clothes and such-like for him. The girl’s mother has always nursed in Pembroke, and they sent for her to help. But she was that minute home from the burial, and would not go. Then up steps the girl and “I’ll go,” says she — heaven knows why or what took her, except the contrariness of woman. However, there she is! D’ye see?’ And Mr. Thomasson winked.
‘Tommy,’ said Sir George, staring at him, ‘I see that you’re a d — d rascal!’
The tutor, easy and smiling, protested. ‘Fie, Sir George,’ he said. ‘What harm is in it? To tend the sick, my dear sir, is a holy office. And if in this case harm come of it—’ and he spread out his hands and paused.
‘As you know it will,’ Sir George cried impulsively.
But Mr. Thomasson shrugged his shoulders. ‘On the contrary, I know nothing,’ he answered. ‘But — if it does, Mr. Dunborough’s position is such that — hem! Well, we are men of the world, Sir George, and the girl might do worse.’
Sir George had heard the sentiment before, and without debate or protest. Now it disgusted him. ‘Faugh, man!’ he said, rising. ‘Have done! You sicken me. Go and bore Lord Almeric — if he has not gone to Paris to save his ridiculous skin!’
But Mr. Thomasson, who had borne abuse of himself with Christian meekness, could not hear that unmoved. ‘My dear Sir George, my dear friend,’ he urged very seriously, and with a shocked face, ‘you should not say things like that of his lordship. You really should not! My lord is a most excellent and—’
‘Pure ass!’ said Soane with irritation. ‘And I wish you would go and divert him instead of boring me.’
‘Dear, dear, Sir George!’ Mr. Thomasson wailed. ‘But you do not mean it? And I brought you such good news, as I thought. One might — one really might suppose that you wished our poor friend the worst.’
‘I wish him no worse a friend!’ Sir George responded sharply; and then, heedless of his visitor’s protestations and excuses and offers of assistance, would see him to the door.
It was more easy, however, to be rid of him — the fine gentleman of the time standing on scant ceremony with his inferiors — than of the annoyance, the smart, the vexation, his news left behind him. Sir George was not in love. He would have laughed at the notion. The girl was absolutely and immeasurably below him; a girl of the people. He had seen her once only. In reason, therefore — and polite good breeding enforced the demand — he should have viewed Mr. Dunborough’s conquest with easy indifference, and complimented him with a jest founded on the prowess of Mars and the smiles of Venus.
But the girl’s rare beauty had caught Sir George’s fancy; the scene in which he had taken part with her had captivated an imagination not easily inveigled. On the top of these impressions had come a period of good resolutions prescribed by imminent danger; and on the top of that twenty-four hours of solitude — a thing rare in the life he led. Result, that Sir George, picturing the girl’s fate, her proud, passionate face, and her future, felt a sting at once selfish and unselfish, a pang at once generous and vicious. Perhaps at the bottom of his irritation lay the feeling that if she was to be any man’s prey she might be his. But on the whole his feelings were surprisingly honest; they had their root in a better nature, that, deep sunk under the surface of breeding and habit, had been wholesomely stirred by the events of the last few days.
Still, the good and the evil in the man were so far in conflict that, had he been asked as he walked to Magdalen what he proposed to do should he get speech with the girl, it is probable he would not have known what to answer. Courtesy, nay, decency required that he should, inquire after his antagonist. If he saw the girl — and he had a sneaking desire to see her — well. If he did not see her — still well; there was an end of a foolish imbroglio, which had occupied him too long already. In an hour he could be in his post-chaise, and a mile out of town.
As it chanced, the surgeons in attendance on Dunborough had enjoined quiet, and forbidden visitors. The staircase on which the rooms lay — a bare, dusty, unfurnished place — was deserted; and the girl herself opened the door to him, her finger on her lips. He looked for a blush and a glance of meaning, a little play of conscious eyes and hands, a something of remembrance and coquetry; and had his hat ready in his hand and a smile on his lips. But she had neither smile nor blush for him; on the contrary, when the dim light that entered the dingy staircase disclosed who awaited her, she drew back a pace with a look of dislike and embarrassment.
‘My good girl,’ he said, speaking on the spur of the moment —
for the reception took him aback— ‘what is it? What is the matter?’
She did not answer, but looked at him with solemn eyes, condemning him.
Even so Sir George was not blind to the whiteness of her throat, to the heavy coils of her dark hair, and the smooth beauty of her brow. And suddenly he thought he understood; and a chill ran through him. ‘My G — d!’ he said, startled; ‘he is not dead?’
She closed the door behind her, and stood, her hand on the latch. ‘No, he is not dead,’ she said stiffly, voice and look alike repellent. ‘But he has not you to thank for that.’
‘Eh?’
‘How can you come here with that face,’ she continued with sudden passion — and he began to find her eyes intolerable— ‘and ask for him? You who — fie, sir! Go home! Go home and thank God that you have not his blood upon your hands — you — who might to-day be Cain!’
He gasped. ‘Good Lord!’ he said unaffectedly. And then, ‘Why, you are the girl who yesterday would have me kill him!’ he cried with indignation; ‘who came out of town to meet me, brought me in, and would have matched me with him as coolly as ever sportsman set cock in pit! Ay, you! And now you blame me! My girl, blame yourself! Call yourself Cain, if you please!’
‘I do,’ she said unblenching. ‘But I have my excuse. God forgive me none the less!’ Her eyes filled as she said it. ‘I had and have my excuse. But you — a gentleman! What part had you in this? Who were you to kill your fellow-creature — at the word of a distraught girl?’
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 298