Reprise Part 8

"I don't mean to go fish-f.a.gging through the columns with you, Prudence. You must allow me to be the judge in this matter."

"I wouldn't allow you to judge a mouse in the matter of morality. Clarence will fight the duel."

Her mind was made up, and when, after a great deal of arguing, he returned her to her door, she hadn't budged an inch, but only become more set in her position. "If I hear of you arranging matters so that you fight Seville, I'll-I'll never speak to you again," were her parting words, and she wished she could have made the threat a good deal stronger.

Considering them as he returned to Berkeley Square, the optimist had soon placed a hopeful construction on the thing. She meant to go on seeing him afterwards then. There were sufficient insults in her talk to provide some anger, too, but over all, it was easy to imagine her concern that he not fight Seville to rest on a fear for his safety. If he stood up with Seville and lived, she would surely not mind. In fact, she would likely have a better opinion of him, whereas if Clarence got himself killed, as was entirely possible, she would really never forgive him. He would never forgive himself. No, certainly he must fight Seville.

He tried his hand at convincing Clarence the engagement was on, but Clarence had already had words with Prudence. He could rearrange anything to his own advantage, but no rearranging was necessary on this occasion. Niece and uncle were as one in wis.h.i.+ng the honor of being shot at to be Clarence Elmtree's.

Chapter 10.

The evening preceding the duelwas a cool, damp one. Clarence felt twinges of rheumatism in his elbow as he painted Prudence, arrayed in a red-fringed shawl, as became a seductress. He was half in love with her himself, to think of her having got an improper offer from a nabob, a proper one from a marquess, and caused a duel, all before her twenty-sixth birthday. The red carmine was blotched on with an extravagant, loving hand. Nothing was too good for her. As she left the room, he told her to sleep in the morning. No need for her to lose an hour's sleep to see him off. A dasher like Prue had to stay in looks.

"You might have a cup of tea ready against my return," he said casually.

She felt so guilty that she was properly penitent and respectful, and insisted she would be up to see him off. "And home," she added.

"Aye, if I get home," he sighed.

"Uncle, cannot something be arranged with Seville- some word got to him that you mean to delope?"

she asked, having a good idea this would break some item of a gentleman's code of honor, but not worrying overly that this would deter Clarence.

"I'm not afraid of him," Clarence a.s.sured her. Nor was he. He went to bed and slept like a baby. Even over his tea the next morning he was as merry as a grig, making jokes about this being his last meal. Not until he was in Dammler's carriage with the pistol between his fingers did it occur to him what a lethal thing a gun was. At Manton's Shooting Gallery it had seemed great sport. How some of the gentlemen managed to culp that tiny wafer was a great mystery. He hadn't hit it more than once-could hardly see it in fact. Once he had sneezed and taken a corner out of it.

"What we must do is let Seville know you mean to delope," Dammler said, his chin in his hands, trying to figure a resolution to this awful problem. Lord, and if Clarencetried to delope he might well hit Seville in the heart. He had never seen such a poor shot as Clarence. "Aim for the sky," he commanded.

"I'll be shooting high," Clarence replied, distracted. He was looking pale, as the moment of truth approached. "Shall we just let a window down and get a breath of air? It's close in here."

Dammler let down the window, feeling the need of air himself, and Clarence did the same on the other side. The dust from the horses and wheels bothered Dammler, and he had soon rolled his up again, but Clarence's head was hanging out the window. For the first time in the acquaintance of this oddly-matched pair, they were both silent. A duel, Clarence thought! Men standing up and shooting at each other as though they were wafers at Manton's, giant wafers providing a target that even he might hit. It wasn't right to kill anyone. "Thou shalt not kill." It was right in the Commandments. Even in those old days of the Bible when n.o.body spoke English they knew it was a sin to kill anyone. Yet, it was impossible to back out. He did the hardest philosophizing he had ever done in his life, trying to extricate himself from the mora.s.s, but in the end manners seemed more important than morals. He would have to account to Alvanley and society that same day, whereas he might have years to patch it up with the Almighty. He would have to do it. Have to stand up, but he wouldn't shoot to kill, or even injure. A bit of dirt from the carriage flew up and caught him in the eye. He reached to rub it out.

Glancing at him, Dammler thought he was crying, and felt pity for the foolish old man. "Better close the window," he said.

Clarence did so, still rubbing his eye with his other hand. "Got something in my eye," he said, rubbing harder.

"Here, let me get it out," Dammler said, pulling out his handkerchief. Then he was struck with inspiration. Clarence shouldn't shoot with something in his eye. He made some pretense to remove the dirt, while shoving it a little higher under the lid. "I can't seem to get ahold of it," he said.

"It'll work its way out," Clarence said. It was half a relief to be able to shed a tear without Dammler suspecting it was weakness that caused it.

The dirt did not work its way out, and when their carriage reached Hampstead Heath, it was giving some trouble, causing the eye to water copiously. Alvanley had been at great pains to get Seville to delope. As it was known by now, Elmtree couldn't hit the broad side of a barn door, it would be infamous to hit the old man. The whole thing was a fiasco in Alvanley's opinion, and he was sorry he had anything to do with it. Seville had been talked into accepting this role, and was relieved in the extreme that it wasn't that sharpshooter of a Dammler he must stand up against. Fellow would kill him as quick as look at him-had always hated him. He noted with relief that Elmtree was disabled, even thought it was an act, to call the duel off altogether. But no, Alvanley had had enough of putting off, and was not in favor of any postponement. He decreed Dammler should replace Elmtree. It was irregular of course, but when Seville pointed this out, Dammler was only too happy to call him a coward again, and inst.i.tute a new duel. This removed any quibble of a doubt in the matter. Dammler was so jubilant at the decision that he burst into a smile, a smile that sent Seville's heart sinking. It was all a trick! Dammler was out to kill him!

Clarence, unable even to play the minor roll of charging the pistol, lent the weight of his presence while Alvanley did it, then sat on a tree stump, looking about in the cool morning at the low-lying fog, the bits of dew s.h.i.+ning on the gra.s.s, the trees shaded into a green mist by the moisture in the air, and thought what a pretty picture it would make. He would try his hand at painting it when he got home, if only this dashed cinder would flow out of his eye. He took another poke at it, and his eye felt better. He batted the lid a few times, realizing the cinder was out. He then directed his full attention to the scene being enacted before him. Dammler and Seville were standing together; they were turning and walking each their twelve paces. What a dandy scene it would make for one of Nevvie's plays. He'd tell him to slip it into his next one. Do it just like this-the foggy morning, the two tall young gentlemen in black, their collars turned up to hide the target of the white triangle of a s.h.i.+rt, Alvanley standing there watching them. Then as he looked, the men stopped walking, turned without either one of them so much as giving a tremble in the arm, and a deafening clap of guns going off was in his ears. Nevvie pointed his gun up high, just as they had decided. Not quite at the sky, more over Seville's shoulder. Flickering his gaze to Seville, he disliked what he saw. The man wasn't aiming at the sky at all. He was aiming right at Nevvie's chest! Then some little look of confusion flashed across Seville's face.

When Seville saw Dammler replace Elmtree, the duel became no longer a farce but a fight to the death. There wasn't one doubt in his mind that Dammler meant to kill him, and his own resolution was equally firm. He aimed for the heart, but in the split second between aiming and pulling the trigger, he noticed Dammler's gun muzzle was up. He lifted his own hand as quickly as possible, in that instant. The bullet was deflected enough to miss the heart. It thudded into Dammler's left shoulder. With mute horror, Seville realized Dammler had deloped. He wasn't touched-the bullet came nowhere near him. He stood silent, shaking and staring, to see if Dammler would topple over.

He did not. The gun fell from his right hand, and he clutched at his shoulder. There was a murderous light in his eyes. He regretted his own generous action, but was too wounded to do anything about it. Alvanley saw the whole, and from experience was pretty sure the wound was not a mortal one. He yelped for Marlowe, who came running forward with his black bag. Dammler was bleeding freely, but not unconscious. He had his jacket stripped away, his s.h.i.+rt torn off, and there in the cool meadow the wound was examined.

"Get him into a carriage," Alvanley ordered.

Seville, all solicitude and apologies, and Elmtree, all confusion, aided him. Marlowe required the amenities of his dispensary. Elmtree hopped in beside him, looking to Alvanley for any further orders.

"This is a bad business. The less said of it the better," was the man's curt remark to the group. Seville felt he had been badly treated, and would likely be held up as a cur after doing what any normal person would have done. The group disbanded, it being agreed they would all say nothing of the morning's work.

Clarence stood by in Marlowe's dispensary watching as the bullet was extracted. While the forceps probed into the gaping wound and Dammler sat grimacing in silent agony, he was happy it was not himself who had stood up to be a target, but once it was out and a bandage was being wrapped around the shoulder, he felt Dammler had been a bit hasty in pus.h.i.+ng himself forward to defend Prudence.

Wanted to strut around town as a hero, with his arm supported in a sling. "A good thing it's your left arm. It won't interfere with your writing," was his comment.

Dammler said nothing. It had gone as well as he expected. He had saved Elmtree's life and his own. The pain in his shoulder made him nearly unconscious-it was only the brandy that kept his eyes open. "Don't tell Prudence what happened," he said.

"She'll want to know. She'll be waiting there to hear it all. Found out about it somehow."

She had told Dammler she'd never speak to him again if he stood up against Seville, and while the circ.u.mstances had not been foreseen, he was still not eager for her to find out. Of course, she would hear sooner or later. There was no chance of Clarence's keeping it quiet for long, but he trusted that she would at least be told the whole story. "Don't tell her anything," he repeated, deciding he would go to her and tell her himself. With a crippled shoulder to ignite her sympathy, she would not be intractable. But first he must get home and have a rest to recoup his strength. Clarence took him to Berkeley Square. Before parting they spoke again of remaining silent on the subject, with Dammler unfortunately using the phrase "gentleman's agreement." Now Clarence was a gentleman, called himself and had often been called one, but to hear the words on the tongue of a lord lent them a new and marvelous significance. It was a different kind of gentleman entirely that included a marquess and a millionaire, and required some different behavior. He resolved to keep the trust. It would be the first time he had ever done so, but it was also the first time he had been involved in such reckless goings-on as a duel.

That he was just a little unhappy with his own non-part in the affair helped him to silence as well.

Prudence sat waiting on a bed of thorns for his return. She was prey to the worst imaginings and recriminations. Dammler would have had a better chance of defending himself. She ought not to have insisted it be Clarence who stood up in her defense. She had on top of this her mother's gentle chidings. "What will we do if Clarence iskilled? Nowhere for us to go. His son will come home and take over the house. Three children-there will be no room for us. We must go back to Kent. I wonder if Ronald Springer is still unattached."

"Don't speak so! Uncle will not be killed. Seville will notkill him!" Oh, but what if he did? She was as good as a murderess.

"There is no saying with that sort of people. I'm sorry we ever got mixed up with them. This is all Dammler's doings. It was he who introduced you to that Seville."

The morning dragged on for hours while the duel took place, the wound was dressed and the victim got home. When at last Clarence returned to Grosvenor Square, the ladies had reached a state bordering on distraction. What a blessed sight to see him walking up to the door. Not dead, not wounded, not anything but dear old Uncle Clarence, looking sobered by his ordeal, but alive. Prudence dashed to him and threw herself crying on his neck. "Oh, Uncle, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Can you ever forgive me?" she sobbed.

He was bathed in forgiveness and pride at his recklessness at nearly partic.i.p.ating in a duel. "Now, now, what is this? Tears? I thought you would have a pot of tea ready against my victorious return," he smiled benignly.

"How about Mr. Seville? Is he-is he alive?" she asked fearfully.

"Yes, yes, I didn't kill him," Clarence told her.

"I am so happy you both deloped," she said.

She was not allowed off with this misapprehension. "Deloped! No such a thing!He did not delope. Aimed right for the heart, the scoundrel, but he is a wretched shot."

"He has the reputation of being an excellent shot," she reminded him.

"He won't have after today's work," Clarence said, but then he said no more, so Prudence was free to believe Clarence was touching up the picture to suit himself. It was fatally easy to imagine both men had deloped, and Clarence was adding to his glory by pretending, or even by now believing, Seville had aimed to kill.

Between his own ignominious part in the duel and his "word of a gentleman," Clarence kept a tight check on his tongue. He grew into a perfect model of taciturnity as the day progressed. Prudence concluded she was in the doghouse because of losing her lord, and kept pretty well out of his way. Her mama was of the same mind and behavior, so it was necessary for him to seek them out to be silent before them, to stand looking stern and n.o.ble, which expression bore such a strong resemblance to his more customary sulks that it was mistaken for that.

"Where is Lord Dammler?" Prudence once ventured to inquire, which brought her a rather testy reply.

"Gone home to bed."

"Tobed?" she asked, incredulous.

Seeing he had skated dangerously close to letting the cat out of the bag, Clarence rushed on to conceal it. "Was up half the night carousing, and had his eyes half closed all through the duel. He has gone home for a rest. I daresay you'll see him later."

Dammler lay in his bed waiting for Prudence to come to him. She would know by now, he thought at mid-afternoon. He made no effort to bring himself to a healthier appearance. He lay pale and weak against the pillows, with the blood seeping through his bandages, spurning food and drink that he might look as pitiful as possible when she came. She would not be so hardhearted as to hold it against him he had done what he had. Who had suffered but himself'? Why had he done it but for her? Impossible she should be anything but grateful. The romance and drama of it must appeal to her heart, even if her head pretended to be displeased. But why didn't she come? When still he lay alone at nightfall, he saw he had miscalculated the affair in some manner. Certainly she would have had the whole story long since from Clarence. Was she such a monster she felt no remorse for her part in it? Was she really angry with him-so angry she didn't intend to come to see how he went on? He might be dying for all she knew! He could not eat, but he drank a little wine and fell into a state that was half coma, half sleep.

By morning, it was more than half coma, and accompanied by a fever as well, so that his servants sent off for Lady Melvine. Hettie was soon bustling into his room, bursting with curiosity. She looked with acute dismay at the unmoving body in the bed, felt his forehead, and sent a footman off for Dr. Knighton. Knighton came and undid the bandage to find a wound, infected, with angry red streaks beginning to run into the shoulder and down along the arm. He prophesied a bad spell, possibly worse fever and delirium, both of which came true. Hettie sat by his bed until he was conscious, urged broth and liquids on him, quizzed him as much as his condition allowed, until she had got the gist of the story from him.

"What of Prudence? Why does she not come?" she asked, perplexed.

"She's mad that I took Clarence's place, I expect."

"She has some gall, being mad at anything! She ought to be here on her knees, apologizing. I have a good idea to go over there and give her a piece of my mind."

"No! If she doesn't come of her own accord, we'll let her alone."

At Grosvenor Square, Prudence sat in a similar state of perplexity and offense that Dammler did not come to her. The duel, she a.s.sumed, had gone off in a satisfactory manner. Clarence was alive and well; Seville, too, had survived. Was it not odd he didn't come and speak to them about it? The whole affair was.h.i.+s doing-he had called Seville out. He cared enough for her reputation that he had done that, so why did he not come? She questioned Clarence discreetly as to Dammler's att.i.tude on the fateful morning. Had he been angry?

"Not a bit of it. He was cool as a cuc.u.mber."

"Do you not think you ought to call on him, Uncle?"

"What for? He knows where I am if he wants to stop around."

Clarence knew Nevvie would not stop around until he got his arm out of the sling-a day or two. There was enough of shame in his own part that he was reluctant to call, but after a few urgings by Prudence he did stop by one afternoon three days after the duel, when he figured the sling would be abandoned, and he might bring Dammler home with him.

He found Dammler recovering, but pretty close to being hostile. "Not scribbling?" Clarence asked merrily. "I made sure you would be das.h.i.+ng off the whole into a play. You must do it. It would make a dandy dramatic scene, and there would be no need to use real bullets, of course."

"I don't write farce, Mr. Elmtree. How is Prudence? What does she think of the affair?"

"She has asked me a dozen times why I don't call on you, and that is why I am here. She wants to know

how you go on."

This conveyed to Dammler that Prudence knew he was wounded. "Be sure to tell her I am fine."

"I certainly will. She will be happy to hear it. She has been worried sick about you."

"Not worried enough to call in person, however."

"You know how busy she keeps herself. Shall I tell her you want to see her?"

"No! No, thank you," he said angrily.

"She wouldn't begrudge the time in the least."

"Very generous of her, but I wouldn't like to tear her away from more worthwhile pursuits."

This cool reception of Prue's inquiries threw Clarence into a dudgeon. He told his niece he had gone to

see the poet, and he was as toplofty as a lord.

"Did he ask for me?" she inquired quite shamelessly, for she was becoming desperate for news.

"He mentioned how you were taking it. I said as well as could be expected."

"He didn't say he would call?"

"No, no, he won't be calling," Clarence said gruffly.

He felt uneasy at the duplicity, but bucked up by the specific injunction that it was a great secret, he gave no reason for the lack of calling.

"Is he angry?" she pressed on.

"He is in a bit of a pucker about something," Clarence admitted. "Acting very strange and standoffish. He wasn't like himself at all. Why, I wasn't even offered a gla.s.s of wine, now I think of it. I daresay now he has had time to think the business over he is unhappy he ever got drawn into it."

"He pitched himself into it!"

"So he did. It is all his own fault, entirely. Well, we sha'n't bother our minds about Lord Dammler. Isn't it time you got sending another book off to Murray? What is everyone to read it you don't write them a book?"

How was it possible to write under this cloud? She was worried half to death. Not a visit, nor even a note from Allan. He was done with her. She had forgiven him Cybele, but he had not been able to forgive her the book. Never once did it occur to her he was unwell. She did not go out for several days, nor did any of their mutual friends come to call. Hettie had taken the resolve never to speak to the hussy again, and was holding firm to it.

Chapter 11.