“You’ve had a quarrel with Maynard?” she continued. “Is that it?”
“Yes!” hoarsely responded the husband. “All sorts of a quarrel.”
“How did it arise?”
In speech not very coherent – for the alcoholic tremor was upon him – he answered the question, by giving an account of what had passed – not even concealing his own discreditable conduct in the affair.
There was a time when Richard Swinton would not have so freely confessed himself to Frances Wilder. It had passed, having scarce survived their honeymoon. The close companionship of matrimony had cured both of the mutual hallucination that had made them man and wife. The romance of an unhallowed love had died out; and along with it what little respect they might have had for one another’s character. On his side so effectually, that he had lost respect for himself, and he took but little pains to cover the uneasiness he felt – in the eyes of his wedded wife – almost confessing himself a coward.
It would have been idle for him to attempt concealing it. She had long since discovered this idiosyncracy in his character – perhaps more than all else causing her to repent the day when she stood beside him at the altar. The tie that bound her to him now was but that of a common danger, and the necessity of self-preservation.
“You expect him to send you a challenge?” said she, a woman, and of course ignorant of the etiquette of the duel.
“No,” he replied, correcting her. “That must come from me – as the party insulted. If it had only been otherwise – ” he went on muttering to himself. “What a mistake not to pitch into him on the spot! If I’d only done that, the thing might have ended there; or at all events left me a corner to creep out of.”
This last was not spoken aloud. The ex-guardsman was not yet so grandly degraded as to make such a humiliating confession to his wife. She might see, but not hear it.
“No chance now,” he continued to reflect. “Those two fellows present. Besides a score of others, witnesses to all that passed; heard every word; saw the blow given; and the cards exchanged. It will be the talk of the hotel! I must fight, or be for ever disgraced!”
Another turn across the room, and an alternative presented itself. It was flight!
“I might pack up, and clear out of the place,” pursued he, giving way to the cowardly suggestion. “What could it matter? No one here knows me as yet; and my face might not be remembered. But my name? They’ll get that. He’ll be sure to make it known, and the truth will meet me everywhere! To think, too, of the chance I should lose – a fortune! I feel sure I could have made it all night with this girl. The mother on my side already! Half a million of dollars – the whole one in time! Worth a life of plotting to obtain – worth the risk of a life; ay, of one’s soul! It’s lost if I go; can be won if I only stay! Curse upon my tongue for bringing me into this scrape! Better I’d been born dumb?”
He continued to pace the floor, now endeavouring to fortify his courage to the point of fighting, and now giving way to the cowardly instincts of his nature.
While thus debating with himself, he was startled by a tapping at the door.
“See who it is, Fan,” he said in a hurried whisper. “Step outside; and whoever it is, don’t let them look in.”
Fan, still in her disguise of valet, glided to the door, opened it, and looked out.
“A waiter, I suppose, bringing my boots or shaving-water?”
This was Mr Swinton’s reflection.
It was a waiter, but not with either of the articles named. Instead, he was the bearer of an epistle.
It was delivered to Fan, who stood in the passage, keeping the door closed behind her. She saw that it was addressed to her husband. It bore no postmark, and appeared but recently written.
“Who sent it?” was her inquiry, couched in a careless tone.
“What’s that to you, cock-sparrow?” was the rejoinder of the hotel-servant; inclined toward chaffing the servitor of the English gentleman – in his American eyes, tainted with flunkeyism.
“Oh, nothing!” modestly answered Frank.
“If you must know,” said the other, apparently mollified, “it’s from a gentleman who came by this morning’s boat – a big, black fellow, six feet high, with moustaches at least six inches long. I guess your master will know all about him. Anyhow, that’s all I know.”
Without more words, the waiter handed over the letter, and took himself off to the performance of other dudes.
Fan re-entered the room, and handed the epistle to her husband.
“By the morning boat?” said Swinton. “From New York? Of course, there’s no other. Who can have come thence, that’s got any business with me?”
It just flashed across his mind that acceptances given in England could be transmitted to America. It was only a question of transfer, the drawer becoming endorser. And Richard Swinton knew that there were lawyers of the tribe of Levi, who had transactions in this kind of stamped paper, corresponding with each other across the Atlantic.
Was it one of his London bills forwarded to the American correspondent, ten days before the day of dishonour?
Such was the suspicion that came into his mind while listening to the dialogue outside. And it remained there, till he had torn open the envelope, and commenced reading.
He read as follows:
“Sir, – As the friend of Captain Maynard, and referring to what occurred between him and you last night, I address you.
“Circumstances of an important – indeed, peremptory – character require his presence elsewhere, necessitating him to leave Newport by the boat which takes departure at 8 p.m. Between this and then there are twelve hours of daylight, enough to settle the trifling dispute between you. Captain Maynard appeals to you, as a gentleman, to accept his offer for quick satisfaction. Should you decline it, I, speaking as his friend, and believing myself tolerably well acquainted with the code of honour, shall feel justified in absolving him from any further action relating to the affair, and shall be prepared to defend him against any aspersions that may arise from it.
“Until 7:30 p.m. – allowing half an hour to reach the boat – your friend will find me in Captain Maynard’s room.
“Yours obediently, —
“Rupert Roseveldt.
“Count of the Austrian Empire.”
Twice, without stopping, did Swinton peruse this singular epistle.
Its contents, instead of adding to the excitement of his spirit, seemed to have the effect of tranquillising it.
Something like a smile of satisfaction stole over his countenance, white engaged in the second reading.
“Fan?” he said, slipping the letter into his pocket, and turning hastily toward his wife, “ring the bell, and order brandy and soda – some cigars, too. And, hark ye, girl: for your life, don’t let the waiter put his nose inside the room, or see into it. Take the tray from him, as he comes to the door. Say to him, besides, that I won’t be able to go down to breakfast – that I’ve been indulging last night, and am so-so this morning. You may add that I’m in bed. All this in a confidential way, so that he may believe it. I have my reasons – good reasons. So have a care, and don’t make a mull of it.”
Silently obedient, she rang the bell, which was soon answered by a knock at the door.
Instead of calling “Come in?” Fan, standing ready inside the room, stepped out – closing the door after her, and retaining the knob in her hand.
He who answered was the same jocular fellow who had called her a cock-sparrow.
“Some brandy and soda, James. Ice, of course. And stay – what else? Oh! some cigars. You may bring half