“FREDDY, can I have half an hour's private conversation with you?” asked I, as soon as we had exchanged salutations.
“To be sure you can; but,” he added, catching a glimpse of the anxious expression of my face, “there is nothing wrong, is there?”
I made a gesture indicative of silence, and he opened a door into a sort of lawyer's office, saying, in a low voice:—
“Come in here, we shall not be interrupted; the governor's in London, and the women are out walking”. “So much the better,” replied I, “for the business I am come upon is strictly private, and will not brook delay.” I then told him as concisely as possible the whole affair from beginning to end; he listened attentively to my recital, merely asking a question now and then to elucidate any particular point he did not clearly understand. I fancy he made a gesture of surprise when I first mentioned Wilford's name, and when I had concluded, he asked,
“Wilford, you say, this man's name is? What is his Christian name?”
“Stephen.”
“And he's a young fellow?”
“About three or four and twenty.”
“And you want to prevent his being able to shoot Harry Oaklands at five o'clock to-morrow morning?”
“I do not know the hour, but I conclude the meeting will probably take place to-morrow morning. Wilford would not wish to remain in the neighbourhood longer than necessary, lest he should attract attention.”
Coleman mused for some minutes, and then muttering as though he were thinking aloud—
“It might be done, so; yes, that would do. I suppose,” he said, at length addressing me, “if Master Wilford were taken into custody on a magistrate's warrant at half-past four a.m., that would suit your ideas very nicely? I can so arrange the matter that Wilford will never be able to trace the laying the information to our door.”
“But how can you avoid that?” inquired I.
“Why, if you must know,” replied Freddy, “I am acquainted with a man who would give a hundred pounds any day to stop our friend Stephen from fighting a duel.”
“What, do you know Wilford then?” asked I.
“Ray-ther,” was the reply, accompanied by a very significant wink—“just a very few—I should say we're not entire strangers, though I have never enjoyed the honour of much personal intercourse with him; but I do not so deeply regret that, as, from your account, it seems rather a dangerous privilege.”
“How in the world do you know anything about him?”
“Oh! it's a long story, but the chief points of it are these: The aforesaid Mr. Wilford, if he can continue to exist till he is five-and-twenty, comes into five thousand pounds a year; but if we don't interfere, and Harry Oaklands has the luck to send a bullet into him to-morrow morning, away it all goes to the next heir. Wilford is now three-and-twenty, and the trustees make him a liberal allowance of eight hundred pounds per annum, on the strength of which he spends between two thousand pounds and three thousand pounds: of course, in order to do this, he has to raise money on his expectancies. About two months ago he wanted to sell the contingent reversion of a large estate in Yorkshire, from which the greater part of his future income is to be derived; and a client of ours thought of buying it—ergo, we were set to work upon the matter: whilst we were investigating his right, title, and all that sort of thing, lo and behold! a heavy claim, amounting to some thousands, is made upon the property—by whom, do you think, of all people in the world?—none other than our old acquaintance, Richard Cumberland!”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed I, “how strange!”
“Cumberland,” continued Freddy, “has become somehow connected with a lot of bill-brokers,—low stock-jobbers,—in fact, a very shady set of people, with whom, however, in our profession, we cannot avoid being sometimes brought into contact; he appears, indeed, himself to be a sort of cross between black-leg and money-lender, improved by a considerable dash of the gambler, and presenting altogether a very choice specimen of the thorough and complete blackguard. Somehow or other he contrives to have cash at command, and, instead of being pigeoned, has now taken to pigeoning others; and, to give the devil his due, I fancy he does a very pretty stroke of business in that line. He is a good deal improved in manner and appearance since you remember him; and among people who don't know him very intimately, he affects the man about town: in short, he is quite at the top of his profession. Wilford became acquainted with him at one of the Newmarket meetings, lost money to him, and borrowed money of him, giving him as security a contingent charge upon the estate of double the amount—ergo, don't you see, if Wilford should by any chance get his quietus from Harry's pistol, he won't live to come into his property, in which case Master Dicky Cumberland is minus some thousands. Now, if I contrive to give him a hint, depend upon it he stops the duel. I will caution him not to let my name appear—he will not hear yours; so in this way I think we may manage the affair, and defy the old gentleman himself, though he's a very cunning lawyer, to trace it to us.”
“Well,” said I, “as I see no other means of saving Oaklands' life—for this Wilford is a noted duellist, and no doubt thirsts to wash out the insult he has received in blood—I suppose we must do it; but it is an underhand proceeding which I do not at all like.”
“There you go with your chivalric, high-flown, romantic notions, you would stand coolly by, and see the best friend you have in the world butchered before your eyes, rather than avail yourself of a splendid chance of saving him, which Fortune has thrown in your way, because, forsooth, it involves a little innocent manoeuvring!—for heaven's sake, my dear boy, get off your stilts, and give common sense fair play.”
“I can only repeat what I have just said,” replied I; “I will do it, because I believe it is the only thing to save Harry; but I do not like it, and never shall.”
“I cry you mercy, Signor Francisco dc Fairlegh, the veritable Don Quixote of the nineteenth century,” laughed Freddy; “and now, most chivalrous sir, where do you imagine it probable that this evil faiteur, this man of powder and pistols, hangs out?”
“He is most likely at the inn at Carsley, a village on the London road, about four miles from us,” replied I; “I don't know of any other place in the neighbourhood where he could be lodged. But I'll tell you what I'll do—the name of the inn is the White Horse—if I should prove wrong in fancying he is there, I will send a message to that inn to say where he may be found.”
“Exactly,” returned Freddy, entering the White Horse, Carsley, in his tablets; “now I think I know all about it, and it shall not be my fault if this duel comes off to-morrow morning. Good-bye, old fellow! I wish you did not look quite so grumpy about it, but it's all those mediæval prejudices of yours. I daresay you'd think it a much more manly way of stopping the business to electrotype yourself in brass and steel, throw yourself across a cart-horse plated to match, and shouting, 'Fairlegh to the rescue!' run a long pole, pointed with iron, through Wilford's jugular. Now, I consider mine much the most philosophical way of doing the trick; in fact, conducting a dodge of this kind always affords me intense satisfaction, and puts me into the highest possible spirits. Have you ever seen the war dance, in which the Hotto-potto-cum-from-the-wash-ki Indians usually indulge before they set out on an expedition?—A quarter to three,” he continued, pulling out his watch, “the coach to London passes in five minutes, I shan't have time to show it you—it begins so.” Thus saying, he flung himself into a perfectly indescribable attitude, and commenced a series of evolutions, more nearly resembling the contortions of a dancing bear, than any other Terpsichorean exhibition with which I was acquainted. Having continued this until he had made himself very unnecessarily hot, he wound up the performance by flinging a summerset, in doing which he overturned himself and the coal-scuttle into a box of deeds; whereby becoming embarrassed, he experienced much difficulty in getting right end upwards again. “There,” he exclaimed, throwing himself into an arm-chair commonly occupied by his father's portly form—“There! talk of accomplishments—show me a fashionable young lady who can do that, and I'll say she is accomplished. It's rather warm work, though,” he continued, wiping his brow, “unless one wears the appropriate costume, which, I believe, consists of a judicious mixture of red and yellow paint, three feathers, and the scalp of your opposite neighbour. Pleasant that,” he added, pointing to the reversed coal-scuttle—“that's a new addition, not of 'Coke upon Littleton,' but of Coal upon—what's the suit? aye, Buffer versus Stoker. I shall have to make out a case of circumstantial evidence against the cat, or I'm safe for a rowing from the governor. Good-bye, old boy! don't fancy I'm mad; I'm not the fool I seem, though I confess appearances are against me just at present. There's the coach, by Jingo, three bays and a grey—no chance of the box—is this a hat? off we go.” So saying, he shook my hand warmly, bounded down the steps, and the next moment was rattling away towards London as fast as four horses could hurry him.
It was with a heavy heart, and a foreboding of coming evil, that I mounted my horse, and slowly retraced my way towards Heathfield. Coleman's exuberant spirits, which, I believe, were partly assumed with a view to cheer me by diverting my attention from the painful subject which engrossed it, had produced an effect diametrically opposite to that which he had intended, and I felt dissatisfied with the step I had taken, doubtful of the success of his mission, anxious to a degree, which was absolutely painful, about the fate of Harry, and altogether thoroughly miserable. I reached home in time for dinner, during which meal my abstracted manner and low spirits were so apparent as to set my mother speculating on the chances of my having over-heated myself and “got a chill,” whilst Fanny's anxious questioning glances, to which I was well aware I could furnish no satisfactory reply, produced in me a degree of nervous excitement which was unbearable, and, the moment the cloth was withdrawn, I left the room and rambled forth into the wildest parts of the park. The quiet peaceful beauty of the scene, and the refreshing coolness of the evening air, had, in a great measure, calmed the excitement under which I laboured, and I was turning my steps towards the Hall when I met Oaklands and Archer, who, finding I was not at the cottage, had come in search of me. Half an hour's conversation served to render all my previous conjectures matters of certainty. The challenge had been given and accepted, Wentworth was to be Wilford's second, and he and his principal were staying at the inn at Carsley.
The spot chosen for the scene of action was a plot of grass-land situated about half-way between Carsley and Heathfield, so as to be equally accessible to both parties; the time appointed was five o'clock the following morning. Archer was to act as Oaklands' second; everything had been managed with the greatest caution, and they did not believe a single creature, excepting themselves, had the slightest suspicion that such an event was likely to take place. They had resolved not to tell me till everything was settled, as they feared my opposition. Having thus taken me into their confidence, Archer left us, saying, that “probably Oaklands might like to have some private conversation with me, and he would join us again in half an hour”. Rejoiced at this opportunity, I entered at once upon the subject which most interested me, and used every argument I could think of to induce Harry not to return Wilford's fire.
Oaklands heard me for some time in silence, and I began to fear my efforts would be fruitless, when suddenly he turned towards me, and said—his fine eyes beaming with an almost womanly expression of tenderness as he spoke—“Would this thing make you happier in case I fall?” A silent pressure of the hand was my only answer, and he added in a low voice, “then it shall be as you wish”. A pause ensued for my own part, the thought that this might be our last meeting completely overpowered me; I did not know till that moment the strength and intensity of my affection for him. The silence was at length interrupted by Oaklands himself, and the low tones of his deep rich voice trembled with emotion, as they fell mournfully on the stillness of the evening air. “My father!” he said, “that kind old man, whose happiness is wrapped up in my welfare—it will break his heart, for he has only me to love. Frank, my brother!” he added, passing his arm round my neck, as he had used to do when we were boys together, “you are young; your mind is strong and vigorous, and will enable you to meet sorrow as a man should confront and overcome whatever is opposed to him in his path through life. I will not disguise from you that, looking rationally and calmly at the matter, I have but little hope of quitting the field to-morrow alive. My antagonist, naturally a man of vindictive disposition, is incensed against me beyond all power of forgiveness, and his skill is fully equal to his malice: should I fall, I leave my father to your care; be a son to him in the place of the one he will have lost. This is not a light thing which I ask of you, Frank! I ask you to give up your independence, your high hopes of gaining name and fortune by the exercise of your own talents and industry, and to devote some of the best years of your life to the weary task of complying with the caprices, and bearing the sorrows, of a grief-stricken old man. Will you do this for me, Frank?”
“I will,” replied I; “and may God help me, as I execute this trust faithfully!”
“You have relieved my mind of half its burden,” returned Oaklands warmly. “I have only one thing more to mention—When I came of age last year my father's liberality made over to me an ample income for a single man to live on: excepting a few legacies to old servants, I have divided this between your good little sister and yourself, which I thought you would prefer to my leaving it to you alone.”
“Harry I indeed, I cannot allow you to do this; others must surely have claims upon you.”
“There is not a being in the world who has a right to expect a farthing at my death,” answered he; “the next heir to the entailed estates is a distant relation in Scotland, already wealthy. My father has always been a careful man, and, should he lose me, will have a larger income than he can possibly be able to spend; besides, as the duties I have led you to undertake must necessarily prevent you from engaging actively in any profession, I am bound in common fairness to provide for you.”
“Be it so, then,” replied I—inwardly breathing a prayer that I never might possess a sixpence of the promised fortune.
“One thing more,” added Harry. “When you return to Trinity—poor old Trinity, shall I ever visit you again!—find out how Lizzie Maurice is going on, and if she should marry respectably in her own rank, ask my father to give you a hundred pounds as a wedding present for her; only hint that it was my wish, and he would give twenty times the sum. And now good—pshaw!” he continued, drawing his hand across his eyes, “I shall play the woman if I talk to you much more—good-night, Frank—do you accompany us to the ground to-morrow morning?”
“I will go with you,” returned I, with difficulty overcoming a choking sensation in my throat; “I may be able to be of some use.”
“Here comes Archer,” said Oaklands, “so once more good-night; I must get home, or my father will wonder what is become of me.”
My heart was too full to speak, and pressing his hand I turned abruptly away, and walked quickly in the opposite direction.
I DID not return to the cottage until the usual hour for going to bed, as I did not dare subject myself to Fanny's penetrating glance in my present state of excitement. The moment family prayers were concluded I took my candle, and, pleading fatigue, retired to my room. Knowing that sleep was out of the question in my then frame of mind, I merely substituted the clothes I intended to wear in the morning for those I had on, and, wrapping my dressing-gown round me, flung myself on the bed. Here I lay, tossing about, and unable to compose myself for an hour or two, the one idea constantly recurring to me, “What if Coleman should fail!” At length, feverish and excited, I sprang up, and throwing open the window which was near the ground, enjoyed the fresh breeze as it played around my heated temples. It was a lovely night; the stars, those calm eyes of heaven, gazed down in their brightness on this world of sin and sorrow, seeming to reproach the stormy passions and restless strife of men by contrast with their own impassive grandeur. After remaining motionless for several minutes, I was about to close the window when the sound of a footstep on the turf beneath caught my ear, and a form, which I recognised in the moonlight as that of Archer, approached.
“Up and dressed already, Fairlegh?” he commenced in a low tone as he perceived me; “may I come in?”
In silence I held out my hand to him, and assisted him to enter.
“Like me,” he resumed, “I suppose, you could not sleep.”
“Utterly impossible,” replied I; “but what brings you here—has anything occurred?”
“Nothing,” returned Archer; “Oaklands retired early, as he said he wished to be alone, and I followed his example, but could not contrive to sleep. I don't know how it is, I was engaged in an affair of this nature once before, and never cared a pin about the matter; but somehow I have got what they call a presentiment that harm will come of to-morrow's business. I saw that man, Wilford, for a minute yesterday, and I know by the expression of his eye that he means mischief; there was such a look of fiendish triumph in his face when he found the challenge was accepted—if ever there was a devil incarnate, he is one.”
A sigh was my only answer, for his words were but the echo of my forebodings.
“Now I will tell you what brought me here,” he continued; “don't you think that we ought to have a surgeon on the ground, in case of anything going wrong?”
“To be sure,” replied I; “I must have been mad to have forgotten that it was necessary—what can be done?—it is not every man that would choose to be mixed up with such an affair. Where is it that William Ellis's brother (Ellis of Trinity Hall, you know) has settled?—he told me he had purchased a practice somewhere in our neighbourhood.”
“The very man, if we could but get him,” replied Archer; “the name of the village is Harley End; do you know such a place?”
“Yes,” returned I, “I know it well; it is a favourite meet of the hounds, about twelve miles hence. I'll find him, and bring him here—what time is it? just two—if I could get a horse I would do it easily.”
“My tilbury and horse are up at the village,” said Archer; “now Harry's horses are at home, they could not take mine in at the hall.”
“The very thing,” said I, “we shall not lose a moment in that case. Is your horse fast? I shall have to try his mettle.”
“He'll not fail you,” was the reply, “but don't spare him—I would rather you should ruin fifty horses than arrive too late.”
On reaching the inn we had to rouse a drowsy hostler in order to procure the key of the stables, and it was half-past two before I was able, to start.
The road to Harley End was somewhat intricate, more than once I took a wrong turning, and was forced to retrace my steps; being aware also of the distance I had to perform, I did not dare to hurry the horse too much, so that it only wanted a quarter to four when I reached my destination. Here, however, fortune favoured me. Mr. Ellis, it appeared, being an ardent disciple of Isaac Walton, had resolved to rise at day-break in order to beguile sundry trout, and, at the entrance of the village, I met him strolling along, rod in hand. Two minutes sufficed to make him acquainted with the object of my mission, and in less than five minutes more (a space of time which I employed in washing out the horse's mouth at an opportune horse-trough, with which I took the liberty of making free) he had provided himself with a case of instruments and other necessary horrors, all of which he described to me seriatim, as we returned, with an affectionate minuteness for which I could have strangled him.
We started at a rattling pace on our homeward drive, hedgerow and fence gliding by us like slides in a magic lantern. Archer's horse did not belie the character he had given of him. With head erect, and expanded nostril, he threw his legs forward in a long slashing trot, whirling the light tilbury along at the rate of at least eleven miles an hour; and fortunate it was that he did not flinch from his work, for we had between thirteen and fourteen miles to perform in an hour and ten minutes in order to reach the appointed spot by five o'clock. In our way we had to pass within a quarter of a mile of Heathfield Hall; all seemed quiet as we did so, and I heard the old clock over the stables strike a quarter to five.
“We shall be in capital time,” said I, drawing a long breath, as I felt relieved from an anxious dread of being too late. “It was a near thing though, and if I had not met you as I did, we should scarcely have done it.”
“Famous horse,” replied Ellis; “but you've rather over-driven him the last two or three miles; if I were Archer, I should have a little blood taken from him—nothing like venesection; it's safe practice in such cases as the present. You've a remarkably clear head, Fairlegh, I know; now I'll just explain to you the common sense of the thing: the increased action of the heart forces the blood so rapidly through the lungs, that proper time is not allowed for oxygenisation——”
“We shall be in sight of the place when we have advanced another hundred yards,” interrupted I, as we turned down a green lane.
“Shall we?” replied my companion, standing up in the gig, and shading his eyes with his hand. “Yes, I see them, they're on the ground already, and, by Jove, they are placing their men; they must have altered the time, for it wants full ten minutes of five now.”
“If they have,” replied I, lashing the horse into a gallop, as I remembered that this unhappy change would probably frustrate Coleman's scheme, “if they have, all is lost.”
My companion gazed upon me with a look of surprise, but had no time to ask for an explanation, for at that moment we reached the gate leading into the field, around which was collected a group, consisting of a gig and a dog-cart (which had conveyed the respective parties, and a servant attendant upon each, to the ground), and two or three labouring men, whom the unusual occurrence had caused to leave their work, and who were eagerly watching the proceedings—whilst, just inside the gate, a boy, whom I recognised as Wilford's tiger, was leading about a couple of saddle-horses, one of them being the magnificent black thorough-bred mare, of which mention has been already made.
Pulling up the horse with a jerk which threw him on his haunches, I sprang out, and, placing my hand on the top rail of the gate, leaped over it, gaining, as I did so, a full view of the antagonist parties, who were stationed at about two hundred yards from the spot where I alighted. Scarcely, however, had I taken a step or two towards the scene of action when one of the seconds, Wentworth, I believe, dropped a white handkerchief, and immediately the sharp report of a pistol rang in my ear, followed instantaneously by a second. From the first moment I caught sight of them my eyes had become riveted by a species of fascination, which rendered it impossible to withdraw them, upon Oaklands. As the handkerchief dropped I beheld him raise his arm, and discharge his pistol in the air, at the same moment he gave a violent start, pressed his hand to his side, staggered blindly forward a pace or two, then fell heavily to the ground (rolling partially over as he did so), where he lay perfectly motionless, and to all appearance dead.
On finding all my worst forebodings thus apparently realised, I stood for a moment horror-stricken by the fearful sight I had witnessed. I was first roused to a sense of the necessity for action by Ellis, the surgeon, who shouted as he ran past me:—
“Come on, for God's sake, though I believe he's a dead man!”'
In another moment I was kneeling on the turf, assisting Archer (who trembled so violently that he could scarcely retain his grasp) to raise and support Oaklands' head.
“Leave him to me,” said I; “I can hold him without assistance; you will be of more use helping Ellis.”
“Oh! he's dead—I tell you he is dead!” exclaimed Archer in a tone of the most bitter anguish.
“He is no such thing, sir,” returned Ellis angrily; “hand me that lint, and don't make such a fuss; you're as bad as a woman.”
Though slightly reassured by Ellis's speech, I confess that, as I looked upon the motionless form I was supporting, I felt half inclined to fear Archer might be correct in his supposition. Oaklands' head, as it rested against me, seemed to lie a perfectly dead weight upon my shoulder; the eyes were closed, the lips, partly separated, were rapidly assuming a blue, livid tint, whilst from a small circular orifice on the left side of the chest the life-blood was gushing with fearful rapidity.
“Open that case of instruments, and take out the tenaculum. No, no! not that; here, give them to me, sir; the man will bleed to death while you are fumbling,” continued Ellis, snatching his instruments from the trembling hands of Archer. “You are only in the way where you are,” he added; “fetch some cold water, and sprinkle his face; it will help to revive him.”
At this moment Wilford joined the group which was beginning to form round us. He was dressed as usual in a closely-fitting suit of black, the single-breasted frockcoat buttoned up to the neck, so as not to show a single speck of white which might serve to direct his antagonist's aim. He approached with his wonted air of haughty indifference, coolly fastening the button of his glove. On perceiving me he slightly raised his hat, saying:—
“You are resolved to see this matter to its conclusion, then, Mr. Fairlegh; no one can be better aware than you are how completely your friend brought his fate upon himself”.
He paused as if for an answer; but, as I remained silent, not being able to trust myself to speak, he added, gazing sternly at the prostrate form before him—“Thus perish all who dare to cross my path!” Then casting a withering glance around, as he marked the indignant looks of the by-standers, he turned on his heel and stalked slowly away.
“He'd best quicken his pace,” observed one of the countrymen who had joined the group, “for there's them a coming as may stop his getting away quite so easy.”
As he spoke the gate of the field was thrown open, and a couple of men on horseback rode hastily in. Wilford, however, as soon as he perceived their approach, made a sign to the boy to bring his horse, and, springing lightly into the saddle, waited quietly till they came near enough for him to recognise their faces, when, raising his voice, he said in a tone of the most cutting sarcasm:—
“As I expected, I perceive it is to Mr. Cumberland's disinterested attachment that I am indebted for this kind attempt to provide for my safety; it so happens you are a quarter of an hour too late, sir. I have the honour to wish you good-morning.”
Thus saying, he turned his horse's head, and cantered across the field. The man he had addressed, and in whom, though he was considerably altered, I recognised the well-remembered features of Richard Cumberland, paused, as if in doubt what to do; not so his companion, however, who, shouting, “Come on, sir, we may nab him yet,” drove the spurs into the stout roadster he bestrode and galloped furiously after him, an example which Cumberland, after a moment's hesitation, hastened to follow, though at a more moderate rate. Wilford suffered the foremost rider to come nearly up to him, and then, quickening his pace, led him round the two sides of the field; but perceiving the gate was closed, and that men had stationed themselves in front of it to prevent his egress, he doubled upon his pursuers, and, putting the mare for the first time to her full speed, galloped towards the opposite side of the field, which was enclosed by a strong fence, consisting of a bank with oak palings on the top and a wide ditch beyond. Slackening his pace as he approached this obstacle, he held his horse cleverly together, and, without a moment's hesitation, rode at it. The beautiful animal, gathering her legs well under her, faced it boldly, rose to the rail, and, clearing it with the greatest ease, bounded lightly over the ditch, and continued her course on the further side with unabated speed. Apparently determined not to be outdone, his pursuer, whipping and spurring with all his might, charged the fence at the same spot where Wilford had cleared it; the consequence was his horse rushed against the rail, striking his chest with so much violence as to throw himself down, pitching his rider over his head into the ditch beyond, whence he emerged, bespattered with mud, indeed, but otherwise uninjured. As he reappeared his companion rode up to him, and, after conversing with him earnestly for a minute or so, turned and left the field, without exchanging a word with any other person.
During this transaction, which did not occupy one-fourth of the time it has taken us to describe, Ellis had in a great measure succeeded in staunching the flow of blood, and a slight shade of colour became again visible in Oaklands' cheek.
“He will bear moving now,” said Ellis quickly, “but you must find something to lay him upon; take that gate off its hinges, some of you fellows—that will answer the purpose capitally. Come, bestir yourselves; every moment is of importance.”
Thus urged, five or six sturdy labourers, who had been standing round, gazing with countenances of rude but sincere commiseration on the wounded man (for Harry's kind-heartedness and liberality made him very popular amongst the tenantry), started off, and returned in an incredibly short space of time with the gate; upon this were spread our coats and waistcoats, so as to form a tolerably convenient couch, upon which, under Ellis's direction, we lifted with the greatest caution the still insensible form of Harry Oaklands.
“Now,” exclaimed Ellis, “raise him very slowly on your shoulders, and take care to step together, so as not to jolt him;—if the bleeding should break out again, the whole College of Surgeons could not save him. Where's the nearest house he can be taken to? He'll never last out till we reach the Hall.”
“Take him to our cottage,” said I eagerly; “it is more than half a mile nearer than the Hall.”
“But your mother and sister?” asked Archer.
“Of course it will be a great shock to them,” replied I; “but I know them both well enough to feel sure they would not hesitate a moment when Harry's life was in the balance. Do you want me for anything, or shall I go on and prepare them for your arrival?”
“Do so, by all means,” replied Ellis; “but stay—have you a bedroom on the ground-floor?”
“Yes,” returned I, “my own.”
“Get the bed-clothes open,” continued Ellis, “so that we can put him in at once; it will save me half an hour's time afterwards, and is a thing which should always be thought of on these occasions.”
“Anything else?” inquired I.
“Yes, send somebody for the nearest surgeon; two heads are better than one,” said Ellis.
Remembering, as I approached the cottage, that the window of my room by which Archer and I had quitted it the previous night would be unfastened, I determined I would enter there, and, proceeding to my mother's door, call her up, and break the news as gently as the exigency of the case would permit, leaving her to act by Fanny as she should think best. Accordingly, I flung up the window, sprang in, and, throwing myself on the nearest chair, sat for a moment, panting from the speed at which I had come. As I did so, a timid knock was heard at the door. I instinctively cried, “Come in!” and Fanny entered.
“I have been so anxious all night about what you told me yesterday, that I could not sleep, so I thought I would come to see if you were up,” she commenced; then, for the first time remarking my breathless condition and disordered dress, she exclaimed, “Good Heavens! are you ill? you pant for breath, and your hands and the sleeves of your coat are saturated with water—with—oh! it is blood; you are wounded!” she cried, sinking in a chair, and turning as pale as ashes.
“Indeed, darling, you are alarming yourself unnecessarily; I am perfectly uninjured,” replied I soothingly.
“Something dreadful has happened!” she continued, fixing her eyes upon me; “I read it in your face.”
“An accident has occurred,” I began; “Oaklands——”
“Stop!” she exclaimed, interrupting me, “the two shots I heard but now—his agitation—his strange manner yesterday—oh! I see it all; he has been fighting a duel.” She paused, pressed her hands upon her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful vision, and then asked, in a low, broken voice, “Is he killed?”
“No,” replied I, “on my word, on my honour, I assure you he is not; the bleeding had ceased when I left him, which is a very favourable symptom.”
Fanny sighed heavily, as if relieved from some unbearable weight, and, after remaining silent for about a minute, she removed her hands from her face, and said, in a calm tone of voice:—
“And now, what is to be done? can I be of any use?”
Astonished at the rapidity with which she had regained her self-control and presence of mind after the violent emotion she had so recently displayed, I replied:—
“Yes, love, you can, the Hall is too far off, and they are bringing him here”.
As I spoke these words she shuddered slightly, but seeing I was doubtful whether to proceed, she said, “Go on, pray”.
“Would you,” I continued, “break this to my mother, and tell her I believe—that is, I trust—there is no great danger—and—and—do that first.”
With a sad shake of the head, as if she mistrusted my attempt to reassure her, she quitted the room, whilst I obeyed Ellis's instructions by preparing the bed; after which I unclosed the hall-door, and, despatching the gardener's boy to fetch the surgeon, stood anxiously awaiting the arrival of the party. I had not done so many minutes when the measured tramp of feet gave notice of their approach, and in another instant they came in sight.
“ALL well so far,” replied Ellis, in answer to my look of inquiry; “the bleeding has ceased, and he is fast recovering consciousness. Where is the room? We must get him into bed at once.”
When we had placed him in the bed Oaklands lay for a short space with his eyelids closed, uttering a low groan at intervals; at length the quiet appeared in some measure to restore him, and, slowly opening his eyes, he gazed languidly around, asking in a low voice, “Where am I?”
“Let me beg you not to speak, Mr. Oaklands,” said Ellis; “your safety depends upon your keeping silence; you are at the cottage of your friend Fairlegh.”
As he heard these words Harry perceived me standing near the bed, and smiled faintly in token of recognition; then, making a sign for me to stoop down to him, he whispered, “My father—you must break this to him—go, Frank”.
“This instant,” replied I, and I turned to leave the room, beckoning to Ellis, as I did so, to follow me. “Tell me the truth,” exclaimed I, as he closed the door behind him, “will he live or die?”
“It is too early in the business to pronounce a decided opinion,” was the answer; “nor can I venture as yet to do so; everything depends upon the course the ball may have taken, and that, as soon as the other surgeon arrives, we must endeavour to ascertain; all I can say at present is, that I have seen worse cases recover. There is one thing,” he added, “which may be a satisfaction for you to know—if you had not brought me, or some one in my profession, to the ground, he would have bled to death where he fell; no one but a surgeon could have stopped that bleeding.”
“If we had been too late I should never have forgiven myself, and we very nearly were so,” returned I. “I cannot understand how it was.”
“I can explain it,” said Archer, who now joined us. “You left me up at the village, you remember, Fairlegh, when you started to fetch Mr. Ellis; well, just as I was leaving it to return to the Hall, a boy ran past me at the top of his speed, and began knocking at one of the cottage doors hard by; surprised to see any one about at so early an hour in the morning, I inquired what was the matter. 'Master's just had word brought him that some gem'men is a going to fight a jewel at five o'clock, and I be come to call the constable, for master to give him a warrant to take 'em hup.' 'And who is your master?' questioned I. 'Justice Bumbleby,' was the answer. This was enough for me; I made the best of my way to the Hall, woke Oaklands, who was sleeping as calmly as a child, poor fellow! and he immediately sent his own groom, the lad who went with us to the field, to inform Wilford and his second of what I had heard, and to propose that the meeting should take place a quarter of an hour earlier than the time originally agreed on, to which they willingly consented.”
“This then,” thought I, “is the reason why Coleman's scheme failed, and Cumberland arrived too late;—well, one good thing is, it will clearly prove that neither Archer nor Oaklands connived at the intended interruption.”
The deep, the agonising grief of Sir John Oaklands, on receiving from my lips the account of his son's danger, was most painful to witness, and I was obliged to yield to his desire to return with me to the cottage, although Ellis had strictly forbidden his being allowed to see Harry, lest the excitement should prove injurious to the patient in the precarious state in which he lay. On my return I found the surgeon of the neighbourhood, Mr. (or as he was more commonly styled Dr.) Probehurt, had arrived, and that they were endeavouring to extract the ball, which, after a long and painful operation, they succeeded in doing. From the marks on the coat and waistcoat, it appeared that Wilford had aimed straight for the heart; but his deadly intentions had been providentially frustrated by the accident of Oaklands having a half-crown piece in a small pocket in his waist-coat, against which the ball had struck, and, glancing off, passed between two of the ribs, finally lodging amongst the muscles immediately under the shoulder-blade. The great effusion of blood had been occasioned by its having divided one of the smaller arteries, which Ellis had succeeded in securing on the spot. The wound was, therefore, a very severe one; but it was impossible to pronounce upon the exact amount of danger at present, as the course which the ball had taken trenched closely on so many important organs, that time alone could show the extent of the injury sustained. With this opinion, in which (strange to say) both doctors agreed, we were fain to content ourselves, and we passed the rest of the day in alternately watching by the wounded man and attempting to comfort and support Sir John, whom we had the greatest difficulty in keeping out of Harry's room, till Ellis asked him abruptly “whether he wanted to murder his son?” after which nothing short of force could have induced him to enter it. One of his first acts, having consulted with Dr. Probehurt, who graciously approved of the measure, was to enter into an arrangement with Ellis, to induce him to remain constantly with Harry till his health should be perfectly re-established, if, indeed, that happy event was ever destined to occur. As Sir John's liberality was unbounded, and Ellis's professional prospects rather hazy—his practice at Harley End being chiefly confined to the very poor, who went on the advice gratis system, and expected to have medicine given them into the bargain—the negotiation was soon concluded to the satisfaction of both parties.
Towards evening Harry became more restless; the pain of his wound increased, and feverish symptoms began to make their appearance. As the night advanced he grew delirious, and before morning was in a high state of fever. For many days his life was despaired of. Ellis never left his bedside, save to snatch an occasional hour's sleep on a sofa, when I took his place. Sir Benjamin Brodie was summoned from town, and held a consultation with Dr. Probehurt and Ellis.
Sir John's grief was something fearful to witness. Although naturally a strong-minded man, this unlooked-for blow and the subsequent anxiety had completely unnerved him. At times he would cry like a child; at others he would sit for hours without opening his lips, his head resting dejectedly on his hands, the image of despair: he could with difficulty be prevailed upon to take sufficient nourishment for his support, and appeared scarcely to notice anything that was going on. On these occasions Fanny was the only person whose influence was of the slightest avail; with her own hands she would prepare some delicacy of which she knew he was fond, and when with a melancholy shake of the head he rejected it, she would seat herself at his feet, and, taking his hand within her own, whisper kind words of hope and consolation to him, till the old man's heart was softened, and he could refuse her nothing. Sometimes even this failed, and then she would begin singing in a low sweet voice some plaintive simple air that he loved to hear, till the tears would steal down his grief-worn cheeks, and, laying his hand upon her fair young brow, he would bless her, and say that the God who was about to take his noble son from him, had sent an angel to be a daughter to him in his stead. And so the weary days wore on—still vibrating between life and death, the strong man, his matchless powers now reduced to the weakness of infancy, lay stretched upon the couch of suffering, whence it appeared too probable he might never be removed, save to the last sad resting-place of frail humanity—the grave.
About the eighth day the ligature with which Ellis had tied the artery came away, and the wound assumed a rather more favourable appearance, but the fever remained unsubdued, and the delirium continued. Each day which passed without improvement added to the length of Dr. Probehurt's solemn visage, and I could see that in his own mind he had little or no hope of the patient's recovery. Ellis was by far the most sanguine of the party, and, whenever we urged our gloomy forebodings upon him, invariably replied—“Yes, I know all that—it would have killed' any other man, but it won't kill him. Wait a bit, and you'll see.”
A fortnight had now elapsed, and the continued burden of his grief began to tell visibly upon Sir John. The ruddy hue of health faded from his cheeks; his eyes grew dim with weeping, his hands shook, and his firm manly step became feeble and uncertain; it seemed as if in that short space of time he had grown ten years older. My mother also began to look ill and harassed, and Fanny, though she still kept up wonderfully, and was the life and soul of us all, waxed paler and thinner every day, while, for my own part, I could neither eat, drink, nor sleep to any efficient purpose, and divided my time between watching in the sick-room and pacing up and down the garden, beyond the precincts of which I never ventured, from a nervous dread lest anything might go wrong in my absence.
On one occasion Ellis, completely wearied out, had thrown himself on a sofa to snatch an hour's repose, while I took his place by Harry's bedside. It was between two and three o clock in the morning, and the first rays of early dawn, stealing in through the partially closed shutters, and mingling with the faint glimmer of the night-lamp, threw a pale and ghastly light over the surrounding objects, when I fancied that I heard my name pronounced in a low, scarcely audible voice. I glanced at Ellis, but his hard and regular breathing proved him to be sound asleep. I next turned towards the bed where Harry lay, and, carefully shading the lamp with my hand, advanced with noiseless step towards it. As I approached I perceived the patient's eyes were open, and, oh, happiness I once more animated by the mild light of reason.
“Harry,” whispered I, “did you call? Do you know me?”
A faint smile passed across his pallid features as he replied in a voice so weak and low, that I was obliged to stoop my head almost to a level with his lips, ere I could catch his words—“Know you, dear Frank! why not?”
“Thank heaven,” murmured I, “he is no longer delirious!”
As I again turned towards him, he endeavoured to stretch out his hand to me, but his strength was unequal even to that slight exertion, and his arm dropped heavily by his side; as it did so, he spoke again—“Frank, what is all this? I cannot—I am very weak—very tired.”
“Lie still, dear Harry, and do not try to talk—it may do you harm. You have been very ill, but God in His mercy will soon, I trust, restore you to health.” I then crossed over to Ellis's sofa, and laid my hand lightly upon his shoulder. “Oaklands is no longer delirious,” said I, as he started up; “he knows me, and has spoken to me.”
“Is he?—does he?—has he?”—exclaimed Ellis in an eager whisper. “I told you it would never kill him. Why didn't you call me before? but it's always the way; if I do by any chance fall asleep once in a week, there isn't another head properly so called in the whole house, they might as well be chair nobs—Yes, I know,” he continued, as I attempted to get in a word of explanation, “if you couldn't wake me before it happened, that doesn't prevent your giving me the medicine-chest now, does it?”
I may as well take this opportunity of mentioning that Ellis, though in the main one of the best-tempered fellows in the world, whenever he was particularly interested or excited, became extremely cross and snappish, and was certain at such times to scold every one who fell in his way, without the slightest regard to age, sex, or station. However, it was always over in two or three minutes, and I have seen him laugh till the tears ran down his face, when the rude things he had said were repeated to him afterwards. While he was staying with his brother at Cambridge, it used to be a favourite amusement with some of the men to start a subject which they knew would excite him, for the sake of “getting a rise out of the doctor,” as they termed it. But I am digressing.
The medicine Ellis gave Harry threw him into a heavy sleep, from which he did not awake until late in the morning, when he appeared perfectly conscious. The fever had in great measure abated, and on Dr. Probehurt's arrival he was fain to confess a surprising improvement had taken place, and that, if not positively out of danger, the patient was in a fair way to become so. As for Ellis, he was exactly like one beside himself. He ran all over the house—into bedrooms and all sorts of places where he had not the slightest business, shaking hands with every one, and repeating, “I knew it—I knew it—I always told you so—it would have killed any other man, but it couldn't kill him!”
Let us pass in silence over the first interview between Sir John Oaklands and his son. There are some of the deeper feelings of our nature, planted in our bosoms by the hand of God Himself, which, when called forth to their fullest extent by the chances of life, reveal so clearly their divine origin, that those who witness their display stand reverently by, and, with throbbing hearts and averted eyes, bow the head as in presence of some holy thing; and if such pure and sacred influences shed their lustre over that meeting, and the old man wept tears of deep and fervent thankfulness on the neck of the son whom he had, as it were, received from the dead, far be it from us, with sacrilegious hand, to remove the veil which shrouds the hallowed mysteries of feeling.
From that day Oaklands began to amend slowly, and, at the end of another week, even the cautious Dr. Probehurt declared all immediate danger was over; for which admission, however, he took care fully to indemnify himself, by detailing at length every possible evil which might accrue for the future. The state of weakness to which Harry's once herculean frame was reduced was melancholy to witness; for many days he was unable to turn in his bed without assistance, and even when he began to recover his strength, it was by very slow and lingering degrees. Utterly unable to support himself, he was lifted from his bed to a sofa, and wheeled into the drawing-room, where all our powers of entertainment were called into requisition to relieve the monotony of such a state of existence. In doing this, Fanny made herself pre-eminently useful; by a sort of intuition she appeared to divine everything he could possibly want before he asked for it, and contrived to have it waiting his pleasure as if by magic; and yet it was done so quietly, that I believe Harry had not a notion to whom he was indebted for the forestalment of his every wish. Did his lips appear parched and dry from the low fever which still hung about him—unobserved by any one, Fanny would glide out of the room, and in another minute his servant would enter with a tray containing jelly, lemonade, or some refreshment of a like nature; and Harry would say, with a languid smile, that the fairies must have been at work, for that Wilson had brought him the very thing he was wishing for. As he grew stronger, and required less attention, I yielded to his request, and once more resumed my studies, reading doubly hard in order to make up for lost time. The duel had taken place early in June, but it was not until the latter end of August that the surgeons would allow of their patient's removal to the Hall. Under Ellis's directions a kind of litter was prepared, drawn by a stout Shetland pony, and hung upon a complicated arrangement of springs, by which means all possibility of jolting was avoided. With the assistance of this vehicle, Harry was enabled to take short airings in the park, and, when it was found that no ill effects ensued, a fine day was chosen, and Heathfield Hall flung wide its ample gates to receive once more within its walls the heir of that noble property. It was a glad day for every one—the old servants shed mingled tears of joy and sorrow; of joy that their young master had been spared to come among them again, and of sorrow when they gazed on his pallid cheeks and long thin hands, and thought of the amount of suffering that manly frame must have undergone ere it could have become such a wreck of its former self.
After his return home Oaklands progressed very slowly; he so far recovered as to walk about the house and garden with the assistance of Ellis's arm; but the wound in his side still presented an unsatisfactory appearance, and obstinately refused to heal. Ellis's skill and attention were unparalleled; he took the greatest interest in the case, and though he pretended that his zeal was entirely professional, yet it was clear the fascination which Harry seemed unconsciously to exercise over every one who became intimate with him, had subdued even the sturdy doctor, and that he had conceived the strongest affection for his patient.
The only one of the party on whom the fatigue and anxiety appeared to have produced any lasting effect was dear little Fanny, and she continued to look much more pale and thin than I liked to see her. Her spirits, also, seemed less gay and buoyant than usual, and when Sir John and Harry left us, and she had no longer any motive for exertion, a kind of languor came over her, producing a listless distaste for all her former employments; and she would sit for hours poring over one of the Italian poets, without exchanging a word with any one. In order, if possible, to rouse her from this state of apathy, I used every means in my power to interest and amuse her; but, unfortunately, my time was now so fully occupied that I had little leisure to bestow upon her. I was to take my degree at the commencement of the new year; and, as I had made up my mind to try for honours, I had not a moment to lose, and read eight hours a day. The rest of my time was devoted to Sir John and Harry (save an odd hour or two for a constitutional scamper with my gun through the preserves to keep down the rabbits, or a gallop across country to prevent the hunters from getting too fat), and our kind friends were never so well pleased as when they could persuade us all to come to them. My sister, however, seemed to prefer dreaming over her book to the exertion of accompanying us to the Hall, and even when she did so, appeared unequal to the labour of amusing Harry, and devoted herself to the more easy task of pleasing Sir John, who, happy beyond expression in the prospect of his son's recovery, was in the highest good humour with everybody and everything. Becoming at length far from satisfied about Fanny, I mentioned my uneasiness to my mother, who comforted me by the assurance, that she considered it merely the natural consequences of the fatigue and anxiety she had undergone, a sort of reaction of the spirits, for which time and rest would prove the most effectual cure.
And once again the leaves upon the trees grew brown, presenting, in their varied richness, those exquisite shades of colouring that gladden a painter's eye—and the swallows, those summer parasites, taking alarm at the first sharp blast from the north, had departed to prosecute their annual pursuit of sunshine under difficulties, leaving the honest robin redbreast to renew his friendship with the race of men—when I, dissatisfied and anxious about those I was leaving behind me, and nervous in the highest degree as to the result of the struggle for distinction in which I was about to engage, once more took up my abode at Trinity.