University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

When Col. Sharpe heard the descending footsteps of
Beauchampe as he came down the stairs, he asked Barnabas
to go into the passage-way and meet him—a request
which made the other look a little blank.

“There is no sort of danger to you, and you hear he
walks slowly, not like a man in a passion. I doubt if
she has told him all; perhaps, she has told him nothing.
At all events, you will be decidedly the best person to
receive intelligence of what she has told. I'm thinking
it's a false alarm after all; but, whether true or false, it
can in no manner affect you. You are safe,—go out,
meet him, and learn how far I am so.”

It has been seen that the will of the superior man, in
spite of all first opposition, usually had its way with the
inferior. Mr. Barnabas, however reluctant, submitted to
the wishes of his companion, and with some misgivings,
and with quite slow steps, left the room in order to meet
with the husband of whose rage such apprehensions were
formed in both their minds. Sharpe, though he had expressed
himself so confidently, or at least so hopefully,
to Barnabas, was really full of apprehension. The moment
that the latter left the room, he took out his pistols,
deliberately cocked them, and placing them behind his
back, moving backward a little farther from the entrance,
prepared himself in that manner for the encounter,—if
that became inevitable—with the angry husband.

But the danger seemed to have passed away. Silence
followed. The steps of Beauchampe were no longer
heard, and, moving towards one of the front windows,

the criminal beheld the two already at a distance, and
about to disappear behind the copse of wood that spread
itself in front.

Sharpe breathed more freely, and began to fancy that
the cloud had dispersed, that the danger was overblown.
He was mistaken. Let us join Beauchampe and his companion.

“Mr. Barnabas,” said the former, “I speak to you still
as to a gentleman, as I believe you have had no knowledge
of the past crime of Col. Sharpe, and no participation
in his present villany.”

Such was the opening remark of Beauchampe, when
he had led the other from the house. Mr. Barnabas was
prompt of denial.

“Crime Beauchampe,—villany! Surely, you cannot
think I had any knowledge—any participation—ah!—do
you suppose—do you think I knew any thing about it—”

“About what?” demanded the suspicious Beauchampe,
coolly fixing his eyes, with a keen glance, upon the embarrassed
speaker.

“Nay, my dear Beauchampe—that's the question,”
said the other. “You speak of some crime, some villany,
as I understand you, of which our friend Sharpe
has been guilty. If it be true, that he has been guilty of
any, you are right in supposing that I knew nothing about
it. Nay, my dear fellow, don't think it strange or impertinent,
on my part, if I venture a conjecture—mark me,
my dear fellow, a mere supposition—that there must be
some mistake in this matter. I can't think that Sharpe,
a fellow who stands so high, whom we both know so
well and have known so long, such an excellent fellow in
fact, so cursed smart, and so clever a companion, can
have been such a d—d fool as to have practised any villany,
at least upon a gentleman whom we both love and
esteem so much as yourself.”

“There's no mistake, Mr. Barnabas!” said the other,
gravely. “This man is a villain, and has been practising
his villany to my dishonour, while in my house and enjoying
my confidence and hospitality.”

“You don't say so! it's scarce possible, Beauchampe!
The crime's too monstrous. I still think, I mean, I still
hope, that there's some very strange mistake in the matter
which can be explained.”

“Unhappily, sir, there is none. There is no mistake,
and nothing needs explanation!”

“That's unfortunate, very unfortunate! May I ask,
my dear fellow, what's the offence?”

“Surely, of this I drew you forth to tell you, in order
that you might tell him. I do not wish to take his life in
my own dwelling, though his crime might well justify me
in forgetting the sacred obligations of hospitality,—might
justify me, indeed, in putting him to death even though
his hands grasped the very horns of the altar. He has
busied himself, while in my dwelling, in seeking to dishonour
its mistress. While we rode, sir, and in our absence,
he has toiled for the seduction of my wife. That's
his crime! You will tell him that I know all!”

“Great God! what madness, what folly, what could
have made him do so. But, my dear Mr. Beauchampe,
as he has failed, not succeeded, eh?”

The speaker stopped. It was not easy to finish such a
sentence.

“I cannot guess what you would say, Mr. Barnabas,
nor, perhaps, is it necessary. You will please to go back
to your companion, and say to him that he will instantly
leave the dwelling which he has endeavoured to dishonour.
I see that your horses are both ready—a sign, sir, that
Col. Sharpe has not been entirely unconscious of this
necessity. I would fain hope, Mr. Barnabas, that in preparing
to depart yourself, you acknowledge no more
serious obligation to do so, than the words of my wife,
conveyed at the breakfast-table?”

The sentence was expressed inquiringly, and the keen,
searching glance of Beauchampe, declared a lurking suspicion
that made it very doubtful to Barnabas whether
the husband did not fully suspect the auxiliary agency
which he had really exhibited in the dishonourable proceedings
of Sharpe. He felt this, and could not altogether
conceal his confusion, though he saw the necessity
of a prompt reply.

“My dear Beauchampe, was it not enough to make a
gentleman think of trooping, with bag and baggage, when
the lady of the house gives him notice to quit.”

“But the notice was not given to you, Mr. Barnabas.”

“Granted, but Sharpe and myself were friends, you

know, and came together, and being the spokesman in
the case, you see—”

“Enough, Mr. Barnabas; I ask no explanations from
you. I do not say to you that it is necessary that you
should quit along with Col. Sharpe, but as your horse is
ready, perhaps it is quite as well that you should.”

“Hem! such was my purpose, Mr. Beauchampe.”

“Yes, sir; and you will do me the favour for which I
requested your company, to say to him that the whole
history of his conduct is known to me. In order that he
should have no further doubts on this subject, you will
suffer me to intrude upon you a painful piece of domestic
history.”

“My dear Beauchampe, if it's so very painful—”

“I perceive, Mr. Barnabas, that what I am about to relate
will not have the merit of novelty to you.”

“Indeed, sir, but it will—I mean, I reckon it will. I
really am very ignorant of what you intend to mention.
I am, sir, upon my honour, I am!”

Beauchampe regarded the creature with a cold smile of
the most outer contempt, and when he had ended, resumed:

“Tell Col. Sharpe, if you please, that before I married
Mrs. Beauchampe, she herself told me the whole history
of Alfred Stevens and her own unhappy frailty, while she
swore me to avenge her dishonour. Tell him that I will
avenge it, and that he must prepare himself accordingly.
My house confers on him the temporary privilege of
safety. He will leave it as soon as convenient after you
return to it. I will seek him only after he has reached his
own; and when we meet it is with the one purpose of
taking his life or losing my own. There can be no half
struggle between us. There can be no mercy. Blood,
alone! the blood of life—the life itself—can acquit me of
my sworn obligation. It may be his life, or it may be
mine; but he must understand, that, while I live, the forfeit
stands against him, not to be redeemed but in his
blood! This is all, sir, that I have to say.”

“But, my dear Beauchampe—”

“No more, Mr. Barnabas, if you please. There can
be nothing more between us. You will understand me
farther, when I tell you that I am not assured of your entire

freedom from this last contemplated crime of Col.
Sharpe. I well know your subserviency to his wishes,
and but for the superior nature of his crime, and that I do
not wish to distract my thoughts from the sworn and
solemn purpose before me, I should be compelled to show
you that I regard the weakness which makes itself the
minister of crime as a quality which deserves its chastisement
also. Leave me, if you please, sir. I have subdued
myself with great difficulty, to the task I have gone through,
and would not wish to be provoked into a forgetfulness of
my forbearance. You are in possession of all that I mean
to say—your horses are ready—I suspect your friend is
ready also! Good morning, sir!”

The speaker turned into the copse, and Mr. Barnabas
was quite too prudent a person to follow him with any
farther expostulations. The concluding warning of Beauchampe
was not lost upon him, and glad to get off so well,
he hurried back to the house, where Sharpe was awaiting
him with an eagerness of anxiety which was almost feverish.

“Well—what has he to say? You were long enough
about it!”

“The delay was mine. He was as brief as charity.
He knows all.”

“All! impossible!”

“All! every syllable. Nay, says he knew the whole
story of Alfred Stevens and of his wife's frailty before he
married her. Begs me particularly to tell you that, and
to say, moreover, that he was sworn to avenge her wrong
before marriage.”

“Then she told me nothing but the truth. What a
blind ass I have been not to have known it, and believed
her. I should have known that she was like no other
woman under the sun!”

“It's too late now for such reflections—the sooner we're
off the better!”

“Ay, ay, but what more does he say?”

“That you are safe till you reach your own home.
But after that never. It's your life or his! He swears
it!”

“But was he furious?”

“No—by no means.”

“Then I'm deceived in the man. If he lets me off
now, I suspect there's little to fear.”

“Don't deceive yourself. He looked ready to break
out at a moment's warning. It was evidently hard work
with him to contain himself. Some fantastic notion about
the obligations of hospitality, alone, prevented him from
seeking instant redress.”

“Fantastic or not, Barnabas, the reprieve is something.
I don't fear the cause, however bad, if I can stave it off
for a term or two. Witnesses may die, in the meantime;
principles become unsettled—new judges, with new dicta,
come in, and there is always hope in conflicting authorities.
To horse, mon ami, a reprieve is a long step to a
full pardon.”

“It's something, certainly,” said the other, “and I'm
sure I'm glad of it; but don't deceive yourself. Be on
your guard—if ever there was a man seriously savage in
his resolution, Beauchampe is.”

“Pshaw! Barnabas! you were ever an alarmist!” replied
Sharpe, whose elasticity had returned to him with
the withdrawal of the momentary cause of apprehension.
“We shall tame this monster, however savage, if you only
give us time. Let him come to Frankfort, and we'll set
the whole corps of Red-Hats, yours among 'em, at work
to get him to the conclave; and one Saturday's bout, well
plied, will mellow body and soul in such manner that he
will never rage afterwards, however he may roar. I tell
you, my lad, time is something more than money. It
subdues hate and anger, softens asperity, wakens up new
principles, makes old maids young ones—ay, my boy,
and”—here, looking up over his horse, which he was
just about to mount, at the windows of Beauchampe's
chamber, and closing the sentence in a whisper—“ay,
my boy, and may even enable me to overcome this sorceress—tigress,
if you prefer it—make her forget that she
is a wife—forget every thing, but the days when I taught
her her first lessons in loving!”

“Sharpe!” exclaimed the other in a sort of husky horror—“you
are a very dare-devil! To speak so in the very
den of the lion?”

“Ay, but it is while thinking of the lioness.”

“Keep me from the claws of both!” ejaculated Barnabas,

with an honest terror as he struck spurs into the
flanks of his horse.

“I do not now feel as if I feared either!” replied the
other.

“Don't halloo till out of the woods!”

“No!—but Barnabas, do you really think that his
woman is sincere in giving me up?”

“Surely!—how can I think otherwise.”

“Ah! my boy, you know nothing of the sex.”

“Well—but she has told him all. How do you explain
that?”

“She has had her reasons. She, perhaps, finds or fancies,
that Beauchampe suspects. She hopes to blind him
by this apparent frankness. She's not in earnest.”

“D—n such manœuvring, say I?”

“Give us time, Barnabas! Time, my boy, and I shall
have her at my feet yet! I do not doubt that, with the
help of some of our boys, I shall baffle him, and I will
never lose sight of her, while I have sight. I have felt
more passion for that woman than I ever felt for any woman
yet, or ever expect to feel for another; and if scheme
and perseverance will avail for any thing, she shall yet be
mine!”

“If such were your feelings for her, why didn't you
marry her in Charlemont?”

“So I would have done if it had been necessary; but
who pays for his fruit when he can get it for nothing?”

“True,” replied the other, evidently struck by the force
of this dictum in moral philosophy—“that's very true;
but the fruit has its Argus now, if it had not then—and the
paws of Briareus may be upon your throat, if you look
too earnestly over the wall. My counsel to you is, briefly,
that you arrive with all possible speed at the faith of the
fox.”

“What! sour grapes? No! no! Barnabas—the grapes
are sweet—and I do not think them entirely out of reach.
As for the dragon, we shall yet contrive to `calm the terrors
of his claws.' ”

So speaking they rode out of sight, the courage of both
rising as they receded from the place of danger. Whether
Sharpe really resolved on the reckless course which he
expressed to his companion, or simply sought, with the

inherent vanity of a small man, to excite the wonder of
the latter, is of no importance to our narrative. In either
case, his sense of morals and of society are equally and
easily understood.