CHAPTER III
THE DUEL
I wrote the following hasty lines in answer to Lord Falmouth's admirable letter.
I rang the bell and sent him the note.[4]
Just as it has always happened, no sooner was the letter gone than I came to my senses, and when I was able to think of the infamous outrage I had committed, I was overcome with horror.
What if I were mistaken?
I would have given my very life to have been able to recall those dreadful lines.
It was too late.
My cabin was only separated from Lord Falmouth's by a slight partition.
Seized by the most frightful anxiety, I listened. When the servant who had taken my letter to Falmouth closed the door, there was a dead silence. Then suddenly an impetuous movement upset a chair, and I heard Falmouth start towards the door with heavy and uncertain steps, for he could scarcely walk as yet.
He was coming.
My heart beat as though it was going to break.
His heavy steps came nearer.
I felt that I was breaking into a cold perspiration.
I was afraid!
My door was suddenly opened. He entered holding himself up on his cane.
In all my life—no, never in all my life shall I forget the look of fiery rage that gleamed in his eyes. His face was like a marble mask lit up by two blazing eyeballs.
"Defend yourself!" cried he, in a voice that shook with indignation, and holding out my letter in his hand; "where is your weapon?"
A frightful remorse seized me, so violent was it that a cowardly retraction of my infamy was on my lips.
"Henry!" said I, in despair, pointing to my letter, "pardon!"
"Pardon! You don't mean to fight?" cried Falmouth, in a fury.
The blood rushed to my face, the shame of being thought a coward exasperated me, and I answered, "Monsieur, I will fight with whatever weapon you choose."
"Thanks for such extreme politeness. What weapon do you fight with? I have had enough of this," repeated he, savagely.
I was almost bursting with rage, but remembering that Falmouth was on his own yacht, I controlled myself.
"Both you and I," said I, "are too badly wounded to use our swords,—pistols would be the most suitable arm."
"That is quite true," said Falmouth, as he sank into an armchair.
He rang the bell.
One of his servants entered.
"Beg Mr. Williams to come below," said Falmouth. The valet went out.
"Williams and Geordy will be our seconds," said Falmouth, imperiously.
I gave a mechanical sign of assent,—I was annihilated.
Williams came down into the cabin.
"Where are we, Williams? What is the nearest land?"
"The wind has been from the north all the morning, my lord, and we are well on our way to Malta. If it keeps on at this rate, we will get there to-morrow evening."
"Try, then, my brave fellow, to get us there as soon as possible,—and give me your arm to help me back to my own cabin."
I was alone.
There is no need to say that I was plunged in despair.
Revived by a burning fever, my wound began to give me terrible pain.
Tossing every moment on the great waves that the north wind had raised up, and which were growing higher momentarily, the schooner leaped wildly forward.
This ploughing the sea caused me such agony that I could scarcely help screaming aloud. The doctor came to see how I was getting on, and from childish obstinacy I hid my suffering.
The man was paid for his services by Falmouth. I was determined to accept his services no longer.
What hours I passed! Great God, it was horrible!
The excitement that I had undergone, added to the fever, had raised my nervous sensibility to such a degree that, doubled up in bed, I hid my face in my hands, for the light was intolerable to me, and I wept bitterly. Usually tears were a relief to me, but these were bitter and scalding.
Then, when my despair was at its height, I contrasted it, in my usual way, with my sensations of only a few hours before. I compared that which was with that which had been,—that which might have been,—had I not with my own hand crushed, blighted, deliberately destroyed so many new opportunities for happiness!
Instead of hiding my shame in solitude and darkness, instead of these dreary and sad thoughts and this isolation which my own outrageous conduct had brought upon me, I should be tranquilly seated by my friend,—my heart filled with grateful affection.
This man who now hated and despised me, who eagerly awaited the hour when he should wipe out with my blood the insult he had received, would be still there at my side, kind and solicitous for my comfort. These groans, wrung from me by physical suffering and which I tried so hard to stifle, would have been answered by the pitying voice of a brother in his attempt to comfort me.
And to think, great God! I cried out, that the reality of my dream of friendship was so near! To think that once again in my life, by the most unheard-of combination of circumstances, I had only to accept the happiness that was offered to me!
To think that once again a fatal monomania had forced me to exchange all these promises of felicity for the most fearful and lifelong remorse!
Then seeing that my grief was incurable, ideas of suicide came into my mind.
I reproached myself for being only a burden to myself and every one else. I asked myself, Of what use am I, and what have I done with the advantages that fortune had bestowed on me,—youth, health, strength, wealth, intelligence, and courage?
To what use had I put these precious gifts so far? To ruin all those who had loved me.
Thus I resolved that in this duel with Falmouth I would blindly expose my life and respect his.
I felt that in firing on him I should commit fratricide.
By a strange caprice I wished to read his letter once more.
Inexplicable fatality! for the first time I understood its greatness,—its imposing generosity.
Then it was that I finally understood the irreparable, tremendous loss I had sustained. But alas, alas! it was now too late, all was over, the end had come.
[4]The whole of this letter is carefully erased in the Journal of an Unknown.