The Convenient Marriage (12 page)

Captain Forde, who seemed to take a gruesome delight in the affair, recommended his principal to go early to bed on Sunday night and on no account to drink deep. Mr Drelincourt obeyed him implicitly, but passed an indifferent night. As he tossed and turned, wild ideas of inducing his seconds to settle for him crossed his brain. He wondered how the Viscount was spending the night and entertained a desperate hope that he might be drinking himself under the table. If only some accident or illness would befall him! Or perhaps he himself could be smitten by a sudden indisposition? But in the cold light of dawn he was forced to abandon this scheme. He was not a very brave man, but he had his pride: one could not draw back from an engagement.

Mr Puckleton was the first of his seconds to arrive in the morning, and while Crosby dressed he sat astride a chair sucking the knob of his tall cane and regarding his friend with a melancholy and not unadmiring eye.

‘Forde’s bringing the weapons,’ he said. ‘How do you feel, Crosby?’

There was an odd sensation in the pit of Mr Drelincourt’s stomach, but he replied: ‘Oh, never better! Never better, I assure you.’

‘For myself,’ said Mr Puckleton, ‘I shall leave it all to Forde. To tell you the truth, Crosby, I’ve never acted for a man before. Wouldn’t do it for anyone but you. I can’t stand the sight of blood, you know. But I have my vinaigrette with me.’

Then Captain Forde arrived with a long flat case under his arm. Lord Cheston, he said, had engaged to bring a doctor with him, and Crosby had better make haste, for it was time they were starting.

The morning air struck a chill into Mr Drelincourt’s bones; he huddled himself into his greatcoat and sat in a corner of the coach listening to the macabre conversation of his two companions. Not that either the Captain or Mr Puckleton talked about the duel; in fact, they chatted on the most mild subjects such as the beauty of the day, the quietness of the streets, and the Duchess of Devonshire’s al fresco party. Mr Drelincourt found himself hating them for their apparent callousness, yet when the Captain did mention the duel, reminding him to meet so dashing a fighter as the Viscount with steadiness and caution, he turned a sickly hue and did not answer.

Arrived at Barn Elms they drew up at an inn adjacent to the meeting place, and there the Captain discovered that his watch was considerably in advance of the correct time. Casting a knowing glance at his pallid principal, he then made his suggestion they should drink a glass of cognac, for, said he in Mr Puckleton’s ear: ‘We’ll never get our man on the ground by the looks of it.’

The brandy did little to restore Mr Drelincourt’s failing spirits, but he drank it, and with an assumption of nonchalance accompanied his seconds out of the back of the inn and across a field to the ground, which was pleasantly situated in a sort of spinney. Captain Forde said that he could not have a better place for fighting. ‘Upon my word, I envy you, Crosby!’ he said heartily.

After that they walked back to the inn, to find that a second coach had driven up, containing Lord Cheston and a neat little man in black who clasped a case of instruments, and bowed very deeply to everybody. At first he mistook Captain Forde for Mr Drelincourt, but this was soon put right, and he bowed again to Crosby and begged pardon.

‘Let me assure you, sir, that if it should chance that you are to be my patient you need have no alarms, none at all. A clean sword wound is a very different affair from a bullet wound, oh, very different!’

Lord Cheston offered his snuff-box to Mr Puckleton. ‘Attended a score of these affairs, haven’t you, Parvey?’

‘Dear me, yes, my lord!’ replied the surgeon, rubbing his hands together. ‘Why, I was present when young Mr Ffolliot was fatally wounded in Hyde Park. Ah, before your time, that would be, my lord. A sad business – nothing to be done. Dead on the instant. Dreadful!’

‘Dead on the instant?’ echoed Mr Puckleton, turning pale. ‘Oh, I trust nothing of that sort – really I wish I had not consented to act!’

The Captain gave a scornful snort and turned his shoulder, addressing Cheston. ‘Where’s Sir Roland, my lord?’ he asked.

‘Oh, he’s coming with Winwood,’ replied Cheston, shaking some specks of snuff out of his lace ruffle. ‘Daresay they’ll drive straight to the ground. Thought Pom had best go and make sure Winwood don’t over-sleep. The very devil to wake up is Pel, you know.’

A faint, last hope flashed into Mr Drelincourt’s soul that perhaps Sir Roland would fail to bring his principal to the meeting place in time.

‘Well,’ said the Captain, glancing at his watch, ‘may as well go on to the ground, eh, gentlemen?’

The little procession started out once more, the Captain striding ahead with Lord Cheston, Mr Drelincourt following with his friend Puckleton and the doctor bringing up the rear.

Dr Parvey hummed a little tune to himself as he trod over the grass; Cheston and the Captain were talking casually of the improvements at Ranelagh. Mr Drelincourt cleared his throat once or twice and at last said: ‘If – if the fellow offers me an apology I think I should let it rest at that, d-don’t you, Francis?’

‘Oh, yes, pray do!’ agreed Mr Puckleton with a shudder. ‘I know I shall feel devilish queasy if there is much blood.’

‘He was drunk, you know,’ Crosby said eagerly. ‘Perhaps I should not have heeded him. I daresay he will be sorry by now: I don’t – I don’t object to him being asked if he cares to apologize.’

Mr Puckleton shook his head. ‘He’d never do it,’ he opined. ‘He’s fought two duels already, so I’m told.’

Mr Drelincourt gave a laugh that quivered uncertainly in the middle. ‘Well, I hope he mayn’t have sat up over the bottle last night.’

Mr Puckleton was inclined to think that even such a mad young buck as Winwood would not do that.

By this time they had reached the ground and Captain Forde had opened that sinister case. Reposing in a bed of velvet lay two shining swords, their blades gleaming wickedly in the pale sunlight.

‘It still wants a few minutes to six,’ observed the Captain. ‘I take it your man won’t be late?’

Mr Drelincourt stepped forward. ‘Late? I give you my word I don’t intend to wait upon his lordship’s convenience! If he does not come by six I shall assume he does not mean to meet me, and go back to town.’

Lord Cheston looked him over with a certain haughtiness. ‘Don’t put yourself about, sir: he’ll be here.’

From the edge of the clearing a view of the road could be obtained. Mr Drelincourt watched it in an agony of suspense, and as the moments dragged past began to feel almost hopeful.

But just as he was about to ask Puckleton the time (for he felt sure it must now be well over the hour), a gig came into sight, bowling at a fine rate down the road. It drew up at the gate which stood open on to the meadow and turned in.

‘Ah, here’s your man!’ said Captain Forde. ‘And six of the clock exactly!’

Any hopes that Mr Drelincourt still nursed were put to flight. The Viscount, with Sir Roland Pommeroy beside him, was driving the gig himself, and from the way in which he was handling a restive horse it was evident that he was not in the least fuddled by drink. He drew up on the edge of the clearing, and sprang down from the high perch.

‘Not late, am I?’ he said. ‘Servant, Puckleton, servant, Forde. Never saw such a perfect morning in my life.’

‘Well, you don’t see many of ’em, Pel,’ remarked Cheston, with a grin.

The Viscount laughed. His laughter sounded fiendish to Mr Drelincourt.

Sir Roland had picked the swords out of their velvet bed and was glancing down the blades.

‘Nothing to choose between ’em,’ said Cheston, strolling over to him.

The Captain tapped Mr Drelincourt on the shoulder. ‘Ready, sir? I’ll take your coat and wig.’

Mr Drelincourt was stripped of his coat and saw that the Viscount, already in his shirt-sleeves, had sat down on a tree-stump and was pulling off his top boots.

‘Take a drop of cognac, Pel?’ inquired Sir Roland, producing a flask. ‘Keep the cold out.’

The Viscount’s reply was clearly wafted to Mr Drelincourt’s ears. ‘Never touch spirit before a fight, my dear fellow. Puts your eye out.’ He stood up in his stockinged feet and began to roll up his sleeves. Mr Drelincourt, handing his wig to Mr Puckleton’s tender care, wondered why he had never before realized what sinewy arms the Viscount had. He found that Lord Cheston was presenting two identical swords to him. He gulped, and took one of them in a damp grasp.

The Viscount received the other, made a pass as though to test its flexibility, and stood waiting, the point lightly resting on the ground.

Mr Drelincourt was led to his place, the seconds stepped back. He was alone, facing the Viscount, who had undergone some sort of transformation. The careless good humour had left his handsome face, his roving eye look remarkably keen and steady, his mouth appallingly grim.

‘Ready, gentlemen?’ Captain Forde called. ‘On guard!’

Mr Drelincourt saw the Viscount’s sword flash to the salute, and setting his teeth went through the same motions.

The Viscount opened with a dangerous thrust in prime, which Mr Drelincourt parried, but failed to take advantage of. Now that the assault was begun his jumping nerves became steadier; he remembered Captain Forde’s advice, and tried to keep a good guard. As for luring his opponent on, he was kept too busy keeping a proper measure to think of it. An opportunity offering he delivered a thrust in tierce which ought to have ended the affair. But the Viscount parried it by yielding the foible, and countered so quickly that Mr Drelincourt’s heart leapt into his mouth as in the very nick of time he recovered his guard.

The sweat was rolling off his brow and his breath came in exhausted gasps. All at once he thought he saw an opening and lunged wildly. Something icily cold pierced his shoulder, and as he reeled the second’s sword struck his wavering blade upwards. It flew out of his hand, and he sank back into the arms of Mr Puckleton, who cried out: ‘My God, is he killed? Crosby! Oh, there is blood! I positively cannot bear it!’

‘Killed? Lord, no!’ said Cheston scornfully. ‘Here, Parvey, neatly pinked through the shoulder. I take it you are satisfied, Forde?’

‘I suppose so,’ grunted the Captain. ‘Damme, if I ever saw a tamer fight!’ He looked disgustedly down at the prostrate form of his principal, and inquired of Dr Parvey whether it was a dangerous wound.

The doctor glanced up from his work and beamingly replied: ‘Dangerous, sir? Why, not in the least! A little blood lost, and no harm done. A beautifully clean wound!’

The Viscount, struggling into his coat, said: ‘Well, I’m for breakfast. Pom, did you bespeak breakfast?’

Sir Roland, who was conferring with Captain Forde, looked over his shoulder. ‘Now, Pel, would I forget a thing like that? I’m asking Forde here if he cares to join us.’

‘Oh, by all means!’ said the Viscount, shaking out his ruffles. ‘Well, if you’re ready, I am, Pom. I’m devilish hungry.’

With which he linked his arm in Sir Roland’s and strolled off to tell his groom to drive the gig round to the inn.

Mr Drelincourt, his shoulder bandaged and his arm put into a sling, was assisted to his feet by the cheerful doctor, and assured that he had merely received a scratch. His surprise at finding himself still alive held him silent for a few moments, but he presently realized that the dreadful affair was at an end, and that his wig lay on the ground beside his shoes.

‘My toupet!’ he said faintly. ‘How could you, Francis? Give it to me at once!’

For several days after his encounter with the Viscount Mr Drelincourt kept his bed, a pale and interesting invalid. Having conceived a dislike of Dr Parvey, he rejected all that Member of the Faculty’s offers to attend to him to his lodging, and drove home with only the faithful but shaken Mr Puckleton to support him. They shared the vinaigrette, and upon arrival in Jermyn Street Mr Drelincourt was supported upstairs to his bed-chamber, while Mr Puckleton sent the valet running to fetch the fashionable Dr Hawkins. Dr Hawkins took a suitably grave view of the wound and not only blooded Mr Drelincourt, but bade him lie up for a day or two, and sent off the valet once more to Graham’s, the apothecary’s for some of the famous Dr James’ powders.

Mr Puckleton had been so much upset by the fury of the Viscount’s sword-play, so thankful that he had not stood in his friend’s shoes, that he was inclined to look upon Mr Drelincourt as something of a hero, and said so often that he wondered how Crosby should have challenged Winwood so coolly, that Mr Drelincourt began to feel that he had indeed behaved with great intrepidity. He no less than Mr Puckleton had been impressed by the skill the Viscount displayed, and by dint of dwelling on his lordship’s two previous encounters he soon talked himself into believing that he had been pinked by a hardened and expert duellist.

These agreeable reflections were put to flight by the appearance of the Earl of Rule, who came to visit his afflicted relative on the following morning.

Mr Drelincourt had not the smallest desire to meet Rule at the moment, and he sent a hasty message downstairs that he was unable to receive anyone. Congratulating himself on having acted with considerable presence of mind, he composed himself against a bank of pillows, and resumed his study of the Morning Chronicle.

He was interrupted by his cousin’s pleasant voice. ‘I am sorry you are too ill to receive me, Crosby,’ said the Earl, walking into the room.

Mr Drelincourt gave prodigious start, and let the Morning Chronicle fall. His eyes goggled at Rule, and he said between alarm and indignation: ‘I told my man I could not see visitors!’

‘I know you did,’ replied the Earl, laying his hat and cane on a chair. ‘He delivered your message quite properly. Short of laying hands on me there was no stopping me, no stopping me at all, my dear Crosby.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know why you was so anxious to see me,’ said Mr Drelincourt, wondering how much his lordship had heard.

The Earl looked rather surprised. ‘But how would it be otherwise, Crosby? My heir desperately wounded, and I not at his side? Come come, my dear fellow, you must not believe me so heartless!’

‘You are very obliging, Marcus, but I find myself still too weak to converse,’ said Mr Drelincourt.

‘It must have been a deadly wound, Crosby,’ said his lordship sympathetically.

‘Oh, as to that, Dr Hawkins does not consider my case desperate. A deep thrust, and I have lost a monstrous amount of blood, and had a deal of fever, but the lung is unharmed.’

‘You relieve me, Crosby. I feared that I might be called upon to arrange your obsequies. A melancholy thought!’

‘Vastly!’ said Mr Drelincourt, eyeing him with resentment.

The Earl pulled a chair forward and sat down. ‘You see, I had the felicity of meeting your friend Puckleton,’ he explained. ‘His account of your condition quite alarmed me. My stupid gullibility, of course. Upon reflection I perceive that I should have guessed from his description of Pelham’s swordplay that he was prone to exaggerate.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Drelincourt, with a self-conscious laugh, ‘I don’t profess to be Winwood’s match with swords!’

‘My dear Crosby, I did not suppose you a master, but this is surely over-modesty?’

Mr Drelincourt said stiffly: ‘My Lord Winwood is known to be no mean exponent of the art, I believe.’

‘Well, no,’ replied the Earl, considering the point. ‘I don’t think I should call him mean. That is being too severe, perhaps. Let us say a moderate swordsman.’

Mr Drelincourt gathered the scattered sheets of the Morning Chronicle together with one shaking hand. ‘Very well, my lord, very well, and is that all you have to say? I am ordered to rest, you know.’

‘Now you put me in mind of it,’ said the Earl, ‘I remember there was something else. Ah yes, I have it! Do tell me Crosby – if you are not too exhausted by this tiresome visit of mine, of course – why did you call Pelham out? I am quite consumed by curiosity.’

Mr Drelincourt shot a quick look at him. ‘Oh, you might well ask! Indeed, I believe I should have made allowance for his lordship’s condition. Drunk, you know, amazingly drunk!’

‘You distress me. But continue, dear cousin, pray continue!’

‘It was absurd – a drunken fit of spleen, I am persuaded. His lordship took exception to the hat I wear at cards. His behaviour was most violent. In short, before I could know what he would be at he had torn the hat from my head. I could do no less than demand satisfaction, you’ll agree.’

‘Certainly,’ agreed Rule. ‘Er – I trust you are satisfied, Crosby?’ Mr Drelincourt glared at him. His lordship crossed one leg over the other. ‘Strange how misinformed one may be!’ he mused. ‘I was told – on what I thought credible authority – that Pelham threw a glass of wine in your face.’

There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘Well, as to that – his lordship was quite out of his senses, not accountable, you know.’

‘So he did throw his wine in your face, Crosby?’

‘Yes, oh yes! I have said, he was most violent, quite out of his senses.’

‘One might almost suppose him to have been forcing a quarrel on you, might not one?’ suggested Rule.

‘I daresay, cousin. He was bent on picking a quarrel,’ muttered Mr Drelincourt, fidgeting with his sling. ‘Had you been present you would know there was no doing anything with him.’

‘My dear Crosby, had I been present,’ said Rule softly, ‘my well-meaning but misguided young relative would not have committed any of these assaults upon your person.’

‘N-no, c-cousin?’ stammered Mr Drelincourt.

‘No,’ said Rule, rising, and picking up his hat and stick. ‘He would have left the matter in my hands. And I, Crosby, should have used a cane, not a small-sword.’

Mr Drelincourt seemed to shrink into his pillows. ‘I – I am at a loss to understand you, Marcus!’

‘Would you like me to make my meaning even clearer?’ inquired his lordship.

‘Really, I – really, Marcus, this tone – ! My wound – I must beg of you to leave me! I am in no fit state to pursue this conversation, which I protest I do not understand. My doctor is expected, moreover!’

‘Don’t be alarmed, cousin,’ said the Earl. ‘I shan’t try to improve this time on Pelham’s handiwork. But you should remember to render up thanks in your prayers for that wound, you know.’ With which sweetly-spoken valediction he went out of the room, and quietly closed the door behind him.

Mr Drelincourt might have been slightly consoled had he known that his late opponent had come off very little better at the Earl’s hands.

Rule, visiting him earlier, had not much difficulty in getting the full story from Pelham, though the Viscount had tried at first to adhere to precisely the tale Mr Drelincourt told later. However, with those steady grey eyes looking into his and that lazy voice requesting him to speak the truth, he had faltered, and ended by telling Rule just what happened. Rule listened in patently unadmiring silence, and at the end said: ‘Ah – am I expected to thank you for this heroic deed, Pelham?’

The Viscount, who was in the middle of his breakfast, fortified himself with a long draught of ale, and replied airily: ‘Well, I won’t deny I acted rashly, but I was a trifle in my cups, you know.’

‘The thought of what you might have felt yourself compelled to do had you been more than a trifle in your cups I find singularly unnerving,’ remarked the Earl.

‘Damn, it Marcus, do you tell me you’d have had me pass it by?’ demanded Pelham.

‘Oh, hardly that!’ said Rule. ‘But had you refrained from taking it up in public I should have been greatly in your debt.’

The Viscount carved himself a slice of beef. ‘Never fear,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen to it no one will talk. I told Pom to set it about I was drunk.’

‘That was indeed thoughtful of you,’ said Rule dryly. ‘Do you know, Pelham, I am almost annoyed with you?’

The Viscount laid down his knife and fork and said resignedly: ‘Burn it if I see why you should be!’

‘I have a constitutional dislike of having my hand forced,’ said Rule. ‘I thought we were agreed that I should be allowed to – er – manage my affairs alone, and in my own way.’

‘Well, so you can,’ said the Viscount. ‘I ain’t stopping you.’

‘My dear Pelham, you have – I trust – already done your worst. Until this lamentable occurrence your sister’s partiality for Lethbridge was not such as to attract any – er – undue attention.’

‘It attracted that little worm’s attention,’ objected the Viscount.

‘Do, Pelham, I beg of you, allow your brain the indulgence of a little thought,’ sighed his lordship. ‘You forget that Crosby is my heir. The only sustained emotion I have ever seen him display is his violent dislike of my marriage. He has made the whole world privy to it. In fact, I understand he causes considerable amusement in Polite Circles. Without your ill-timed interference, my dear boy, I venture to think that his remark would have been considered mere spite.’

‘Oh,’ said the Viscount, rather dashed. ‘I see.’

‘I had hopes that you might,’ said Rule.

‘Well, but Marcus, so it was spite! Damned spite!’

‘Certainly,’ agreed Rule. ‘But when the lady’s brother springs up in a noble fury – you must not think I do not sympathize with you, my dear Pelham: I do, from the bottom of my heart – and takes the thing in so much earnest that he forces a quarrel on willy-nilly; and further issues a veiled challenge to the world at large – you did, did you not, Pel? Ah, yes, I was sure of it! – in case any should dare to repeat the scandal – why, then, there is food enough for speculation! By this time I imagine that there is scarcely a pair of eyes in town not fixed on Horry and Lethbridge. For which, Pelham, I have undoubtedly you to thank.’

The Viscount shook his head despondently. ‘As bad as that, is it? I’m a fool, Marcus, that’s what it is. Always was, you know. To tell you the truth, I was devilish set on fighting the fellow. Ought to have let him eat his words. Believe he would have.’

‘I am quite sure he would,’ agreed Rule. ‘However, it is too late now. Don’t distress yourself, Pelham: at least you have the distinction of being the only man in England to have succeeded in provoking Crosby to fight. Where did you wound him?’

‘Shoulder,’ said the Viscount, his mouth full of beef. ‘Could have killed him half a dozen times.’

‘Could you?’ said Rule. ‘He must be a very bad swordsman.’

‘He is,’ replied the Viscount with a grin.

Having visited both the principals in the late affair, the Earl dropped into White’s to look at the journals. His entry into one of the rooms seemed to interrupt a low-voiced conversation which was engaging the attention of several people gathered together in one corner. The talk ceased like a snapped thread, to be resumed again almost immediately, very audibly this time. But the Earl of Rule, giving no sign, did not really suppose that horse-flesh was the subject of the first debate.

He lunched at the club, and shortly afterwards strolled home to Grosvenor Square. My lady, he was informed upon inquiry, was in her boudoir.

This apartment, which had been decorated for Horatia in tints of blue, lay at the back of the house, up one pair of stairs. The Earl went up to it, the faintest of creases between his brows. He was checked halfway by Mr Gisborne’s voice hailing him from the hall below.

‘My lord,’ said Mr Gisborne. ‘I have been hoping you might come in.’

The Earl paused, and looked down the stairway, one hand resting on the baluster rail. ‘But how charming of you, Arnold!’

Mr Gisborne, who knew his lordship, heaved a despairing sigh. ‘My lord, if you would spare only a few moments to glance over some accounts I have here!’

The Earl smiled disarmingly. ‘Dear Arnold, go to the devil!’ he said, and went on up the stairs.

‘But, sir, indeed I can’t act without your authority! A bill for a perch-phaeton, from a coach-maker’s! Is it to be paid?’

‘My dear boy, of course pay it. Why ask me?’

‘It is not one of your bills, sir,’ said Mr Gisborne, a stern look about his mouth.

‘I am aware,’ said his lordship, slightly amused. ‘One of Lord Winwood’s, I believe. Settle it, my dear fellow.’

‘Very well, sir. And Mr Drelincourt’s little affair?’

At that the Earl, who had been absorbed in smoothing a crease from his sleeve, looked up. ‘Are you inquiring after the state of my cousin’s health, or what?’ he asked.

Mr Gisborne looked rather puzzled. ‘No, sir, I was speaking of his monetary affairs. Mr Drelincourt wrote about a week ago, stating his embarrassments, but you would not attend.’

‘Do you find me a sore trial, Arnold? I am sure you must. It is time I made amends.’

‘Does that mean you will look over the accounts, sir?’ asked Mr Gisborne hopefully.

‘No, my dear boy, it does not. But you may – ah – use your own discretion in the matter of Mr Drelincourt’s embarrassments.’

Mr Gisborne gave a short laugh. ‘If I were to use my own discretion, sir, Mr Drelincourt’s ceaseless demands on your generosity would find their way into the fire!’ he said roundly.

‘Precisely,’ nodded the Earl, and went on up the stairs.

The boudoir smelt of roses. There were great bowls of them in the room, red and pink and white. In the middle of this bower, curled upon a couch with her cheek on her hand, Horatia was lying, fast asleep.

The Earl shut the door soundlessly, and trod across the thick Aubusson carpet to the couch, and stood for a moment, looking down at his wife.

She made a sufficiently pretty picture, her curls, free of powder, dressed loosely in the style the French called Grèque à boucles badines, and one white shoulder just peeping from the lace of her négligée. A beam of sunlight, stealing through one of the windows, lay across her cheek; and seeing it, the Earl went over to the window, and drew the curtain a little way to shut it out. As he turned Horatia stirred and opened drowsy eyes. They fell on him, and widened. Horatia sat up. ‘Is it you, my l-lord? I’ve been asleep. Did you w-want me?’