“This night I hold an old-accustomed feast,Whereto I have invited many a guest,Such as I love.”“A fair assembly, whither should they come?Servant.—Up——-!Romeo.—Whither?Servant.—To supper.”—Shakspeare.“All is not false that seems at first a lie.”—Southey.“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?I do bite my thumb, sir!Do you quarrel, sir?Quarrel, sir! No, sir!If you do, sir, I am for you.”—Shakspeare.
LET the reader imagine a long table covered with the remains of an excellent dessert, interspersed with a multitude of bottles of all shapes and sizes, containing every variety of wine that money could procure, or palate desire; whilst in the centre stood a glorious old china bowl of punch, which the guests were discussing in tumblers—wine-glasses having been unanimously voted much too slow. Around this table let there be seated from fifteen to twenty men, whose ages might vary from nineteen to three- or four-and-twenty; some smoking cigars, some talking vociferously, some laughing, some though they were decidedly the minority, listening: butall showing signs of being more or less elated by the wine they had taken. Let the reader imagine all this, and he will have formed a pretty correct idea of the supper-party in Lawless's rooms, as it appeared about ten o'clock on the evening subsequent to the conversation I have just detailed.
“Didn't I see you riding a black horse with one white stocking yesterday, Oaklands?” inquired a young man with a round jovial countenance, which might have been reckoned handsome but for the extreme redness of the complexion, and the loss of a front tooth, occasioned by a fall received in the hunting field, whose name was Richard, or, as he was more commonly termed, Dick Curtis.
“Yes,” replied Oaklands, “I daresay you did; I was trying him.”
“Ah! I fancied he was not one of your own.” “No; he belongs to Tom Barret, who wants me to buy him; but I don't think he's strong enough to carry my weight; there's not substance enough about him; I ride nearly eleven stone.”
“Oh! he'll never do for you,” exclaimed Lawless. “I know the horse well; they call him Blacksmith, because the man who bred him was named Smith; he lives down in Lincolnshire, and breeds lots of horses; but they are none of them, at least none that I have seen, what I call the right sort; don't you buy him,—he's got too much daylight under him to suit you.”
“Too long in the pasterns to carry weight,” urged Curtis.
“Rather inclined to be cow-hocked,” chimed in Lawless.
“Not ribbed home,” remarked Curtis.
“Too narrow across the loins,” observed Lawless.
“He'll never carry flesh,” continued Curtis.
“It's useless to think of his jumping; he'll never make a hunter,” said Lawless.
“Only hear them,” interrupted a tall, fashionable-looking young man, with a high forehead and a profusion of light, curling hair; “now those two fellows are once off, it's all up with anything like rational conversation for the rest of the evening.”
“That's right, Archer, put the curb on 'em; we might as well be in Tattersall's yard at once,” observed another of the company, addressing the last speaker.
“I fear it's beyond my power,” replied Archer; “they've got such an incurable trick of talking equine scandal, and taking away the characters of theirneighbours' horses, that nobody can stop them unless it is Stephen Wilford.”
The mention of this name seemed to have the effect of rendering every one grave, and a pause ensued, during which Oaklands and I exchanged glances. At length the silence was broken by Curtis, who said:—
“By the way, what's become of Wilford? I expected to meet him here to-night.”
“He was engaged to dine with Wentworth,” said Lawless; “but he promised to look in upon us in the course of the evening; I thought he would have been here before this.”
As he spoke a tap was heard at the room-door.
“Well, that's odd,” continued Lawless; “that's Wilford for a ducat; talk of the devil,—eh, don't you know? Come in.”
“You had better not repeat that in his hearing,” observed Archer, “though I believe he'd take it as a compliment on the whole; it's my opinion he rather affects the satanic.”
“Hush,” said Curtis, pressing his arm, “here he is.”
As he spoke the door opened, and the subject of their remarks entered. He was rather above the middle height, of a slight but unusually elegant figure, with remarkably small hands and feet, the former of which were white and smooth as those of a woman. His features were delicately formed and regular, and the shape of his face a perfect oval; strongly marked eyebrows overshadowed a pair of piercing black eyes; his lips were thin and compressed, and his mouth finely cut; his hair, which was unusually glossy and luxuriant, was jet black, as were his whiskers, affording a marked contrast to the death-like pallor of his countenance. The only fault that could be found in the drawing of his face was that the eyes were placed too near together; but this imparted a character of intensity to his glance which added to, rather than detracted from, the general effect of his appearance. His features, when in repose, were usually marked by an expression of contemptuous indifference; he seldom laughed, but his smile conveyed an indication of such bitter sarcasm that I have seen men, whom he chose to make a butt for his ridicule, writhe under it as under the infliction of bodily torture. He was dressed, as was his wont, entirely in black; but his clothes, which were fashionably cut, fitted him without a wrinkle. He bowed slightly to the assembled company, and then seated himself in a chair which had been reserved forhim at the upper end of the table, nearly opposite Oaklands and myself, saying as he did so: “I'm afraid I'm rather late, Lawless, but Wentworth and I had a little business to transact, and I could not get away sooner”.
“What devil's deed have they been at now, I wonder?” whispered Oaklands to me.
“Manslaughter, most likely,” replied Archer (who was seated next me, and had overheard the remark), “Wilford appears so thoroughly satisfied with himself; that was just the way in which he looked the morning he winged Sherringham, for I saw him myself.”
“Send me down the claret, will you, Curtis?” asked Wilford. “Punch is a beverage I don't patronise; it makes a man's hand shaky.”
“If that is the case,” returned Archer, “you ought to make a point of drinking it for the good of society, my dear Wilford; let me help you to a glass.”
“Nonsense, Archer, be quiet, man; here, taste this cool bottle, Wilford; claret's good for nothing if it's at all flat,” exclaimed Lawless, drawing the cork of a fresh magnum as he spoke.
“I differ from you in that opinion, Archer,” returned Wilford, fixing his keen black eyes upon the person he addressed with a piercing glance; “society is like the wine in this glass,” and he filled a bumper to the brim with claret as he spoke; “it requires a steady hand to keep it within its proper bounds, and to compel it to preserve an unruffled surface”; and so saying he raised the glass to his lips without spilling a drop, still keeping his eyes fixed upon Archer's face with the same withering glance.
“Well, I have often heard of looking daggers at a person,” continued Archer, who had been drinking somewhat deeply during the evening, and now appeared possessed by a spirit of mischief leading him to tease and annoy Wilford in every way he could think of; “but Wilford does worse, he positively looks pistols—cocked and loaded pistols—at one. Fairlegh, I shall screen myself behind your broad shoulders; I never could stand fire.” So saying he seized me by the elbows, and, urging me forward, crouched down behind me, affecting the extremity of terror.
The scowl on Wilford's brow deepened as he spoke, but, after a moment's hesitation, apparently considering the affair too absurd to take notice of, he turned away with a contemptuous smile, saying, “You make your punch too strong, Lawless”.
Archer instantly recovered his erect attitude, and witha flushed face seemed about to make some angry reply, when Lawless, who appeared nervously anxious that the evening should pass over harmoniously, interposed.
“Archer, you're absolutely incorrigible; keep him in order, Fairlegh, eh? give him some more punch, and fill your own glass—it has been empty I don't know how long. I'll find a toast that will make you drink—bumpers round, gentlemen, 'to the health of the prettiest girl in Hertfordshire'. Are you all charged? I beg to propose
Page167 the Wine Party
“Excuse my interrupting you, Lawless,” exclaimed I—for I felt certain who it was he was thinking of; and the idea of Miss Saville's name being mentioned and discussed with the tone of licence common on such occasions, appeared to me such complete profanation, that I determined, be the consequences what they might, to prevent it—“Excuse my interrupting you, but I should feel greatly obliged by your substituting some other toast for the one you are about to propose”.
“Eh, what! not drink the young woman's health? why I thought you admired her more than I do: not drink her health? how's that, eh?”
“I shall be most happy to explain to you the reasons for my request at some other time,” replied I; “at present I can only add that I shall consider it as a personal favour if you will accede to it.”
“It does not appear to me to require an OEdipus to discover Mr. Fairlegh's reasons for this request,” observed Stephen Wilford; “he evidently does not consider the present company deserving of the high honour of drinking the health of a young lady whomhedistinguishes by his admiration.”
“Not over-flattering, I must say,” muttered Lawless, looking annoyed.
“I suppose he's afraid of our hearing her name, lest some of us should go and cut him out,” suggested Curtis in an undertone, which was, however, perfectly audible.
“In the meanwhile, Lawless, I hope you're not going to indulge your friend's caprice at the expense of the rest of the company,” resumed Wilford; “having raised our expectations you are bound to gratify them.”
Lawless, who evidently hesitated between his desire to assert his independence and his wish to oblige me, was beginning with his usual, “Eh? why, don't you see,”—when I interrupted him by saying, “Allow me to set this matter at rest in a very few words. Lawless, I hope, knows me well enough to feel sure that I could notintend any disrespect either to himself or to his guests—I believe it is not such an unheard-of thing for a gentle-man to object to the name of any lady whom he respects being commented upon with the freedom incidental to a convivial meeting like the present—however that may be, I have asked Lawless as a favour not to drink a certain toast in my presence; should he be unwilling to comply with my request, as I would not wish to be the slightest restraint upon him at his own table, I shall request his permission to withdraw; on this point I await his decision. I have only one more observation to make,” continued I, looking at Wilford, who was evidently preparing to speak, “which is, that if, after what I have just said, any gentleman should continue to urge Lawless to give the toast to which I object, I must perforce consider that he wishes to insult me.”
As I concluded, there was a murmur of applause, and Archer and one or two others turned to Lawless, declaring it was quite impossible to press the matter further after what I had said; when Wilford, in a cold, sarcastic tone of voice, observed: “I am sorry Mr. Fairlegh'slastargument should have failed in convincing me, as easily as it seems to have done some others of the party; such, however, unfortunately being the case, I must repeat, even at the risk of incurring a thing so terrible as that gentleman's displeasure, my decided opinion that Lawless, having informed us he was going to drink a particular toast, should not allow himself to be bullied out of it, in compliance with any man's humour”.
This speech, as it might be expected, produced great excitement; I sprang to my feet (an example followed by several of the party), and was about to make an angry reply, when Oaklands, who up to this moment had taken no part in the discussion, but sat sipping his wine with his usual air of listless contentment, apparently indifferent to, if not wholly unconscious of, all that was going on, now rose from his seat, and having obtained silence said: “Really, gentlemen, all this confusion appears to me very unnecessary, when a word from our host will end it. Fairlegh has asked you not to propose a certain toast; it only remains for you, Lawless, to say, whether you intend to do so or not.”
Thus urged, Lawless replied, “Eh? no, certainly not; Frank Fairlegh's a trump, and I would not do anything to annoy him for more than I can tell: besides, when I come to think of it, I believe he was right, and I was wrong—but you see, women are a kind of cattle I don't clearly understand—if it was a horse now——”
A burst of laughter at this characteristic remark drowned the conclusion of the speech, but the announcement that the toast was given up appeared to produce general satisfaction; for, since I had spoken, the popular opinion had been decidedly in my favour.
“The cause of this little interruption to the harmony of the evening being removed,” resumed Oaklands, “suppose we see whether its effects may not as easily be got rid of. Every man, I take it, has a right to express his own opinion, and I think Fairlegh must allow that he was a little hasty in presupposing, that by so doing an insult was intended. This being the case, he will, I am sure, agree with me that he ought not to take any notice of Mr. Wilford's remark.”
“Yes, to be sure, that's it—all right, eh?” exclaimed Lawless; “come, Fairlegh, as a favour to me, let the matter end here.”
Thus urged, I could only reply, that “I was quite willing to defer to their judgment, and do whatever they considered right “—and as Wilford (though I could see that he was annoyed beyond measure at having failed in persuading Lawless to give the toast) remained silent, merely curling his lip contemptuously when I spoke, here the affair ended.
As soon as the conversation became general Oaklands turned to me with a mischievous smile, and asked, in an undertone, “Pray, Master Frank, what's become of all the wisdom and prudence recommended to me this morning? I am afraid you quite exhausted your stock, and have not reserved any for your own use. Who's the fire-eater now, I wonder?”
“Laugh away, Harry; I may have acted foolishly, as is usually the case where one acts entirely from impulse; but I could not have sat tamely by and heard Clara Saville's name polluted by the-remarks of such men as Curtis and Wilford—I should have got into a row with them sooner or later, and it was better to check the thing at once.”
“My dear boy,” returned Oaklands, “do not imagine for a moment that I am inclined to blame you; the only thing that I could not help feeling rather amused at, was your throwing down the gauntlet to the gentleman opposite, when I recollected a certain lecture on prudence, with which I was victimised this morning.”
“As you are strong, be merciful,” replied I; “and, whenever I do a foolish thing, may I always have such a friend at hand to save me from the consequences.”
"That's a toast I will drink most willingly,” said Oaklands smiling; “the more so, as it reverses the position in which we generally stand with regard to each other, the alteration being decidedly in my favour; but—” he continued, interrupting himself, “what on earth are they laughing at, and making such a row about?”
“Oh, it's merely Curtis romancing with the most unmitigated effrontery, about something that neither he, nor any one else, ever did out hunting,” replied Archer; “a tremendous leap, I fancy it was.”
“Do not be too sure that it is impossible,” replied I; “a horse once cleared the mouth of a chalk pit with me on its back, when I was a boy; Lawless remembers it.” “Eh! what? Mad Bess!” returned Lawless; “I should think I did too; I rode there afterwards and examined the place—a regular break-neck-looking hole as ever I saw in my life. Tell 'em about it, Frank.”
Thus called upon, no choice was left me but to commence the recital, which, although there are few things to which I have a greater objection than being the hero of my own story, I accordingly did. Several remarks were made as I concluded, but, owing either to my well-known dislike of exaggeration, or to the air of truthfulness with which I had told the tale, nobody seemed inclined to doubt that the adventure had occurred in the manner I related, although it was of a more incredible nature than the feat Curtis had recounted. This fact had just excited my attention, when Wilford, turning to the man on his right hand, observed: “It's a great pity that some one hasn't taken notes of this evening's conversation; they would have afforded materials for a new volume of the adventures of Baron Munchausen”.
My only answer to this remark, which was evidently intended for my hearing, was a slight smile, for I had determined I would not again be betrayed into any altercation with him, and, being now on my guard, I felt pretty sure of being able to maintain my resolution. To my annoyance Oaklands replied: “If your remark is intended to throw any discredit upon the truth of the anecdote my friend has related, I must be excused for observing that Lawless and I, though not actually eyewitnesses of the leap, are yet perfectly aware that it took place”.
“Was that observation addressed to me, Mr. Oaklands?” inquired Wilford, regarding Oaklands with an insolent stare.
"To you, sir, or to any other man who ventures to throw a doubt on what Fairlegh has just stated,” replied Oaklands, his brow flushing with anger.
“Really,” observed Wilford, with a contemptuous sneer, “Mr. Fairlegh is most fortunate in possessing such a steady and useful friend: first, when he dictates to Lawless what toasts he is to propose at his own table, and threatens the company generally with the weight of his displeasure should they venture to question the propriety of his so doing, Mr. Oaklands kindly saves him from the consequences of this warlike declaration, by advancing the somewhat novel doctrine, that his friend, having spoken unadvisedly, ought not to act up to the tenor of his words. Again, Mr. Fairlegh relates a marvellous tale of his earlier days, and Mr. Oaklands is prepared to visit the most trifling indication of disbelief with the fire and faggots of his indignation. Gentlemen, I hope you are all good and true Fairleghites, or you will assuredly be burned at the stake, to satisfy the bigotry of Pope Oaklands the First.”
During this speech I could perceive by the veins on his forehead, swollen almost to bursting, his firmly set teeth, and his Viands clenched till the blood was forced back from the nails, that Oaklands was striving to master his passion; apparently he succeeded in a great measure, for, as Wilford concluded, he spoke calmly and deliberately: “The only reply, sir,” he began, “that I shall deign to make to your elaborate insult is, that I consider it as such, and shall expect you to render me the satisfaction due to a gentleman”.
“No, Harry,” exclaimed I, “I cannot permit this: the quarrel, if it be a quarrel, is mine; on this point I cannot allow even you to interfere. Mr. Wilford shall hear from me.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Lawless; “I'm sure you must see, Wilford, that this is not at all the sort of thing, eh? recollect Oaklands and Fairlegh are two of my oldest friends, and something is due to me at all events, eh?—Archer—Curtis—this cannot be allowed to go on.”
By this time the party had with one accord risen from their seats, and divided into groups, some collecting round Wilford and Lawless, others about Oaklands and myself, and the confusion of tongues was perfectly deafening. At length I heard Wilford's voice exclaim: “I consider it unfair in the extreme to lay all this quarrelling and disturbance to me, and, as it is not at all to my taste, I beg to wish you a very good evening, Lawless”.
"You will do no such thing,” cried Oaklands, and, bursting through the cluster of men who surrounded him and endeavoured to detain him, he sprang to the door, double-locked it, and, placing his back against it, added, “no one loaves the room till this affair is settled one way or other.” The action, the tone of voice, and the manner which accompanied them, reminded me so forcibly of a deed of a somewhat similar nature at Dr. Mildman's, when Oaklands first heard of the loss of his letter containing the cheque, and began to suspect foul play—that for a moment the lapse of years was forgotten, and it seemed as though we were boys together again.
Whenever Oaklands was excited by strong emotion of any kind, there was a proud consciousness of power in his every look and motion, which possessed for me an irresistible attraction: and now, as he stood, his noble figure drawn up to its fullest height, his arms folded across his ample chest in an attitude of defiance a sculptor would have rejoiced to imitate; his head thrown slightly back, and his handsome features marked by an expression of haughty indignation; when I reflected that it was a generous regard for my honour which excited that indignation, I felt that my affection for him was indeed “passing the love of women,” and that he was a friend for whom a man might resolve to lay down his life willingly.
While these thoughts passed through my brain Lawless and several of the more influential members of the party had been endeavouring to persuade Wilford to own that he was in the wrong, and ought to apologise, but in vain; the utmost concession they could get him to make was, that “he was not aware that he had offered any particular insult to Mr. Oaklands, but if that gentleman chose to put such a construction upon his words, he could not help it, and should be ready to answer for them when and where he pleased”.
They were then, as a last resource, about to appeal to Oaklands, when I interfered by saying “that the insult, if insult it was, had originated from the part I had taken in the proceedings of the evening, and was directed far more against me than Oaklands; that under these circumstances it was impossible for me to allow him to involve himself further in the affair. If my veracity were impugned, I was the proper person to defend it; there could be but one opinion on that subject.”
To this they all agreed, and at length Oaklands himself was forced reluctantly to confess he supposed I was right.
“In this case, gentlemen,” I continued, “my course isclear; I leave my honour in your hands, certain that in so doing I am taking the wisest course; honourable men and men of spirit like yourselves will, I feel certain, never recommend anything incompatible with the strictest regard for my reputation as a gentleman; neither will you needlessly hurry me into an act, the consequences of which might possibly embitter the whole of my alter life. In order that personal feeling may not interfere any more with the matter, my friend and I will withdraw; Lawless will kindly convey to me your decision, on which, be it what it may, I pledge myself to act;—-I wish you a very good-night.”
Then telling Lawless I should sit up for him, and taking leave of two or three members of the party with whom I was most intimate, I drew Oaklands' arm within my own, and, unlocking the door, left the room, Wilford's fierce black eyes glaring at us with a look of disappointed fury, such as I have witnessed in a caged tiger, being the last object I beheld.
“I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;A quarrel.”“I do repent; but Heaven hath pleased it soTo punish me with this.”“We will compound this quarrel.”“'What's that?'—'Why, a horse.'“'Tell thou the tale.'”“Nay, I will win my wager better yet,And show more signs of her obedience.”“Now go thy ways, thou hast tamed a curst shrew.”—Shakspeare.
“WHY did you prevent me from giving that insolent scoundrel the lesson he deserved?” was Oaklands' first observation as we left the quadrangle in which Lawless's rooms were situated; “I do not thank you for it, Frank.”
“My dear Harry,” replied I, “you are excited at present; when you are a little more cool you will see that I could not have acted otherwise than I did. Even supposing I could have borne such a thing myself, what would havebeen said of me if I had allowed you to fight in my quarrel? no honourable man would have permitted me to associate with him afterwards.”
“But I don't see that the quarrel was yours at all,” returned Oaklands; “your share of it was ended when the toast affair came to a conclusion; the rest of the matter was purely personal between him and myself.”
“How can that be, when the origin of it was his doubting, or pretending to doubt, the truth of the anecdote which I related?” inquired I. “No; depend upon it, Harry, I have acted rightly, though I bitterly regret now having gone to the party, and so exposed myself to all this. I have always looked upon duelling with the greatest abhorrence; to run the risk of committing murder (for I can call it by no milder name), when at the very moment in which the crime is consummated you may fall yourself, and thus even the forlorn hope of living to repent be cut off from you, appears to me little short of madness. On one point I am resolved—if I do go out with him, nothing shall induce me to fire at him; I will not die a murderer, at all events.”
“Should your life indeed be sacrificed,” said Oaklands, and his deep voice trembled with emotion as he spoke, “I will follow this man as the avenger of blood, fix a mortal insult upon him wherever I meet him, and shoot him like a dog, convinced that I shall perform a righteous act in so doing, by ridding the world of such a monster!”
I saw by his manner that it would be useless to attempt to reason with him at that moment—his warm feelings, and the fiery though generous impulses of his impetuous nature, had so completely gained possession of him, that he was no longer a reasonable creature—we therefore walked in silence to my rooms, where we parted; I declining his offer to remain with me till I should learn the decision of Lawless and his friends, on the plea of wishing to be alone (which was, indeed, a true one), although my chief reason for so doing was to prevent the possibility of Oaklands saying anything in his present excited state of mind, which, if repeated, might in any way involve him with Wilford.
My first act, when I found myself once more alone, was to sit down, and endeavour calmly to review the situation in which I was placed. In the event of their deciding that the affair might be arranged amicably, my course was clear—I had only to avoid Wilford as much as possible during the time I should remain at Cambridge, and, ifever I were obliged to be in his company, to treat him with a cool and studied civility, which would leave him no pretext for forcing a quarrel upon me. On the other hand, if they should think it imperative upon me to go out with him, then indeed was the prospect a gloomy one. Wilford, whose ruthless disposition was so well known as to have become, as it were, a by-word among the set he mixed with, was not a man to be offended with impunity, and as, moreover, I had made up my mind not to return his fire, the chances were strongly against my escaping with life.
I am no coward; on the contrary, like most men whose physical energy is unimpaired, I am constitutionally fearless, and in moments of danger and excitement have never found myself wanting; still it would be affectation to deny that the prospect of a sudden and violent death, thus unexpectedly forced upon me, impressed my mind with a vague sensation of terror, mingled with regret for the past, and sorrow for the future. To be thus cut off in the bright spring-time of vigorous manhood, when the warm blood of youth dances gladly through the veins, and every pulse throbs with the instinct of high and noble daring—to die with hopes unattained, wishes ungratified, duties unperformed—to leave those we love without one parting look or word to struggle on through this cold unsympathising world alone and unprotected—and, above all, to lose one's life in an act the lawfulness of which was more than questionable—all these things contributed to form a picture, which it required either a very steadfast or an utterly callous heart to enable one to gaze upon without blanching. I thought of the misery I should entail upon my family; how, instead of fulfilling my father's dying injunctions to take his place, and devote myself to comfort and protect them, I should wound my mother's heart anew, and spread the dark mist of sorrow over the fair prospect of my sister's young existence; and I cursed my fastidious folly in objecting to the toast, to which, in my self-accusation, I traced all that had afterwards occurred. Then, with the inconsistency of human nature, I began to speculate upon what would be Clara Saville's feelings, were she to learn that it was to prevent the slightest breath of insult being coupled with her name that I was about to peril, not only my life, but, for aught I knew, my hopes of happiness here and hereafter. As the last awful possibility occurred to me, the burden of my misery became too great for me to bear, and, retiring to the privacy of my own chamber, I flung myself on my knees, and pouredforth an earnest prayer for pardon for the past, and deliverance for the future.
When I again returned to my sitting-room my mind had nearly recovered its usual tone, and I felt prepared to meet and to go through whatever might be before me with calmness and determination. As I was uncertain how long it might be before Lawless would arrive, I resolved, in order to avoid the horrors of suspense, to employ myself, and taking up the mathematical treatise upon which I was engaged, and by a vigorous effort of mind compelling my attention, I read steadily for about half an hour, at the end of which time the sound of hasty footsteps was heard ascending the stairs, and in another minute the door was flung open, and Lawless and Archer entered the apartment.
“Reading mathematics, as I'm a slightly inebriated Christian!” exclaimed Archer, taking the book out of my hands; “well, if that isn't pretty cool for a man who may be going to be shot at six o'clock to-morrow morning, for anything he knows to the contrary, I'm no judge of temperature.”
“Oh! bother mathematics,” rejoined Lawless, flinging the book which Archer held out to him at a bust of Homer adorning the top of my bookshelves, which it fortunately missed—“Frank, old boy! it's all right—you're not to have a bullet through your lungs this time—shake hands, old fellow! I'm so glad about it that I've—”
“Drunk punch enough to floor any two men of ordinary capacity,” interposed Archer.
“Of course I have,” continued Lawless, “and I consider I've performed a very meritorious act in so doing;—there was the punch, all the other fellows were gone away, somebody must have drunk it, or that young reprobate Shrimp would have got hold of it; and I promised the venerable fish-fag his mother to take especial care of his what do ye call 'ums—morals, isn't it? and instil by precept, and—and—”
“Example,” suggested Archer.
“Yes, all that sort of thing,” continued Lawless, “a taste for, that is, an unbounded admiration of, the sublime and beautiful, as exemplified under the form of—”
“Rum punch, and lashings of it,” chimed in Archer; “but suppose you were to tell Fairlegh all that has passed since he came away, or let me do it for you, whichever you like best.”
“Oh! you tell him, by all means,—I like to encourage ingenuous youth; fire away, Archer, my boy!”
Thus urged, Archer informed me that upon my departure there had been a somewhat stormy discussion, in which the events of the evening were freely canvassed; and at last they came to a unanimous decision that any man was at liberty to withdraw, if a toast was proposed to which he objected, and that, if the toastmaster preferred giving it up rather than allow him to leave the party, he had a perfect right to do so. This being the case, they decided that Wilford, having been in the wrong, ought to confess he had spoken hastily, and that, if he would do so, and would add that he had meant nothing offensive either to me or Oaklands, there the matter might rest. This for a long time he positively refused to do; at length, finding he could get no one to support him, he said that, as I had owned I was wrong in attempting to prevent his expressing his opinion, he considered that, in all other respects, I had behaved in a gentlemanly way; therefore, if he had said anything which implied the contrary, he was willing to withdraw it. But, in regard to Mr. Oaklands, he considered he had interfered in a very uncalled-for manner; and he could only repeat, if that gentleman felt himself aggrieved by anything he had said, the remedy was in his own hands. As soon as he had spoken he withdrew.
The question was again debated, and at length they came to the conclusion that what Wilford had said amounted to an ample apology as far as I was concerned, which I was bound to accept; and that Oaklands, having agreed to consider the quarrel mine, could not take any further notice of it; therefore, the affair was at an end.
“Well,” said I, as he finished his recital, “I must ever feel grateful to you both for the trouble you have taken on my account, and the kind feeling you have shown towards me throughout. I will not pretend to deny that I am very glad the matter has been amicably arranged, for, circumstanced as I am, with everything depending upon my own exertions, a duel would have been ruin to me; but I must say I think the whole business thoroughly unsatisfactory, and it is only my conviction that a duel would make matters worse, instead of mending them, which leads me to agree to the arrangement. I sincerely hope Oaklands will not hear what Wilford said about him, for he is fearfully irritated against him already.”
“I'll tell you what it is,” interrupted Lawless; “it's my belief that Wilford's behaviour to you to-night was only assumed for the sake of provoking Oaklands.Master Stephen hates him as he does the very devil himself, and would like nothing better than to pick a quarrel with him, have him out, and, putting a brace of slugs into him, leave him—”
“Quivering on a daisy,” said Archer, completing the sentence. “Really I think,” he continued, “what Lawless says is very true; you see Oaklands' careless, nonchalant manner, which is always exactly the same whether he is talking to a beggar or a lord, gives continual offence to Wilford, who has contrived somehow to exact a sort of deference and respect from all the men with whom he associates till he actually seems to consider it his right. Then, Wilford's overbearing manner irritates Oaklands; and so, whenever they have met, the breach has gone on widening, till now they positively hate one another.”
“How is it you are so intimate with him?” asked I; “for nobody seems really to like him.”
“Well, hang me if I can tell,” replied Lawless; “but, you see he has some good points about him, after all; for instance, I never saw him out with the hounds yet that he didn't take a good place, aye, and keep it too, however long the run and difficult the country. I killed the best horse I had in my stables trying to follow him one day in Leicestershire last season; my horse fell with me going over the last fence, and never rose again. Wilford, and one of the whips, who was merely a feather-weight, were the only men in at the death. I offered him three hundred guineas for the horse he rode, but he only gave me one of his pleasant looks, and said it wasn't for sale.”
“You've seen that jet-black mare he rides now, haven't you, Fairlegh?” asked Archer.
“Yes; what a magnificent creature it is!” was my reply.
“Did you ever hear how he came by it?”
On my answering in the negative, Archer continued: “Well, I wonder at that, for it was in everybody's mouth at one time: it's worth hearing, if it were but to show the determined character of the man. The mare belonged to Lord Foxington, Lord Sellborough's eldest son. I believe he gave five hundred guineas for her. She was a splendid animal, high-couraged, but temperate. In fact, when you were on her she hadn't a fault, but in the stable she was a perfect devil; there was only one man who dared go near her, and he had been with her from the time she was a filly: so that, when Foxington bought the marehe was forced to hire the groom too. The most difficult thing of all was putting on the bridle; it was generally half an hour's work before she would let even this groom do it. After dinner one day Foxington began talking about this animal, saying what a brute she was to handle, and adding what I have just told you, as to the impossibility of putting on the bridle, when Wilford, who was present, made some remark, which showed he did not believe in the impossibility. Upon which Foxington inquired whether he doubted the fact he had just heard? Wilford replied that he was sure his lordship fully believed in the truth of what he had just stated; but, for his own part, he had so often found impossibilities of this nature yield to a little courage and determination, that he confessed he was somewhat sceptical. Now, it so happened that Foxington, soon after he bought the mare, had thought just as Wilford did, and determined that he would put the bridle on. Accordingly he attempted it, and the matter ended by his getting regularly driven out ol the stable by the animal, with a tolerably severe bite in the fleshy part of his shoulder. Wilford's remark, therefore, as may be imagined, rather nettled him; and he inquired, somewhat tartly, whether Wilford believed he could put the bridle on? and, if so, whether he were willing to try? Wilford replied, in his usual cool tone, that he had an idea he could do so, but that he had no particular inclination to try, as it would probably be some trouble, and the weather was too hot to render active exertion desirable. At this Foxington laughed derisively, saying that it sounded very like a put-off. 'Not at all,' returned Wilford; 'and to show you that I never say a thing without being ready to act up to it, I am willing to stake five hundred guineas against the mare herself that I go up to her and put the bridle on without any assistance, and without a stick or anything whatsoever in my hands.' Foxington accepted the bet gladly, reckoning himself safe to pocket the five hundred guineas. The affair was to come off the next morning at Foxington's stables, at eleven o'clock. His lordship had invited all the men who had been present when the bet was made to come and witness the event, expecting a complete triumph over Wilford. While they were standing about waiting Foxington told them of his own attempt, and his conviction, from the experience he had then gained, that the thing could not be done; and the general opinion was that Wilford, under the influence of wine, had foolishly boasted of a thing which he wouldnot be able to accomplish, and was certain to lose his money. As the time drew near, and he did not make his appearance, an idea began to gain ground that he meant to shirk the affair altogether; and Foxington was becoming exceedingly irate, when, just as the clock was on the stroke of eleven, the sound of a horse's feet was heard, and Wilford cantered quietly up, looking as if he felt no personal interest whatever in the event. On his arrival they proceeded at once to the stable in which the mare stood. She was kept in a loose box, with her clothes on, but her head entirely free.
“I ought, by-the-by,” said Archer, interrupting himself, “to have told you that I had the account from a man who was there at the time, and saw the whole thing.
“Well, as soon as they went into the stable, the mare left off feeding, and, turning round so as to face them, stood with her ears pricked up, gazing wildly at them. Wilford just glanced at her, and then leisurely divested himself of his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, turned up the wristbands of his shirt, and, taking the bridle from the groom, announced that he was ready. As soon as the door was open, Wilford fixed his eyes sternly on the mare, and walked towards her. To the surprise of every one the animal allowed him to approach quietly and pat her, without showing any symptoms of vice. Men began to exchange inquiring glances with each other, and those who had betted heavily against him trembled for their money; but Foxington, who was better acquainted with the animal, exclaimed, 'Wait a minute, he has not tried to touch her head yet'. Wilford now moved his hand forward along the neck, patting her, and speaking soothingly to her as he advanced; but, as he approached the head, she became impatient and fidgety, and when he attempted to take hold of the ear, in order to put on the bridle, she flung up her head, reared, and ran back a few steps, where she stood, shaking her mane and pawing the ground. After remaining in this position a few seconds, she suddenly laid back her ears, and, showing the whites of her eyes, ran at Wilford with her mouth wide open, and as soon as she got within distance made a ferocious bite at him. By springing on one side with great agility he just contrived to avoid it; then, dropping the bridle, he threw himself into a sparring attitude (you know he's a capital boxer), and, as the mare again ran at him, hit out, and, striking her just on a particular spot by the ear, brought her down like a bullock. As soon as she recovered her legs she renewed the attack, and Wilfordreceived her as before, delivering his blow with the same coolness and precision. When the animal rose the second time she seemed partially stunned, and stood for a moment with her head hanging down and her ears drooping; but on Wilford's making a step towards her she again plunged forward, and attempted to seize him with her teeth. Once more did Wilford evade her bite by springing on one side, and seizing his opportunity succeeded in planting his hit, and, for the third time, felled her to the ground. When she again rose, however, she showed no disposition to renew the attack, but stood trembling violently, with the perspiration running down her sides. She now allowed Wilford to approach her, to stroke her head, pull her ears, and finally to put the bridle on, and lead her out, completely conquered; and so my Lord Foxington lost the best horse in his stables, and Wilford gained his bet, and added to his character for invincibility, which, by the way, he cared about much the most.”
“It was a bold deed,” returned I, as Archer concluded his story, “but one does not like a man the better for having done it; there seems to me a degree of wanton cruelty in punishing an animal so severely, unless he had been actually forced to do it. Public executioners may be necessary for the prevention of crime; but that is no reason why one need volunteer as an amateur hangman.”
“Everybody thought it an uncommonly plucky thing at the time, and there was an immense fuss made with him afterwards,” replied Archer.—“Why, Lawless, are you asleep? rouse up, man—to bed—to bed. Good-night, Fairlegh, you'll sleep all the better for knowing you are not to be shot at cock-crow.”
So saying, he took Lawless by the arm and marched him off, though, it must be confessed, his gait, as he descended the stairs, was somewhat unsteady.