University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

Was Beauchampe any more sane—we should phrase it
otherwise—was he any less mad than his wife? Perhaps,
he was more so. The simple inquiry which Mrs. Beauchampe
had made, when he told her that Sharpe refused
to fight him, had opened his eyes to all the terrible
responsibility to which his unhappy oath had subjected
him. When he had pledged himself to take the life of her
betrayer, he had naturally concluded that this pledge implied
nothing more than the resolution to meet with his
enemy in the duel. That a Kentucky gentleman should
shrink from such an issue did not for a moment enter his
thoughts; and it is not improbable but that, if he could
have conjectured this possibility, he had not so readily
yielded to the condition which she had coupled with her
consent to be his wife. But, after this, when in his own
house, and under the garb of friendship, Col. Sharpe

laboured to repeat his crime, still less could he have believed
it possible that the criminal would refuse the only
mode of atonement, which, according to the practices of
that society to which they both were accustomed, was left
within his power to make. Had he apprehended this, he
would have chosen the most direct mode of vengeance—
such as the social sense every where would have justified
—and put the offender to death upon the very hearth which
he had striven to dishonour. That he had not done so,
was now his topic of self-reproach. An idea, whether
true or false, of what was due to a guest, had compelled
him to forbear, and to send the criminal forth, with every
opportunity to prepare himself for the penalties which his
offences had incurred. Still, up to this moment, he had
not contemplated the necessity of lifting his weapon except
on equal terms, with the enemy whose life he sought.
In fair fight he had no hesitation at this;—but, as a murderer,
to strike the undefended bosom,—however criminal—however
deserving of death—was a view of the case
equally unexpected and painful. It was one for which his
previous reflections had not prepared him; and, the excitement
under which he laboured in consequence, was one,
that, if it did not madden him deprived him at least of all
wholesome powers of reflection. While he rode to Frankfort,
he went as one in a cloud. He saw nothing to the
right or the left. The farmer, his neighbour, spoke to him,
but he only turned as if impatient at some interruption,
but, without answering, put spurs again to the flanks of his
horse, and darted off with a wilder speed than ever. An
instinct, rather than a purpose, when he reached Frankfort,
carried him to the lodgings of his friend Covington.

“And what do you mean to do?” demanded the
latter.

“Kill him—there is nothing else to be done!”

“My dear Beauchampe—you must not think of such a
thing.”

“Ay, but I must—why should I not? Tell me that.
Shall such a monster live?”

“There are good reasons why you should not kill him.
If you do, unless in very fair fight; you will not only be
tried, but found guilty of the murder.”

“I know not that.—His crime—”

“Deserves death and should have found it at the time!

Had you put him to death when he was in your house,
and made the true cause known, the jury must have justified
you; but you allowed the moment of provocation to
pass.”

“Such a moment cannot pass.”

“Ay, but it can and does! Time, they say, cools the
blood!”

“Nonsense! When every additional moment of thought
adds to the fever.”

“They reason otherwise. Nay, more;—just now that
feeling of party runs too high. Already, they have trumpeted
it about that Calvert sought to kill Sharpe on the
score of his attachment to Desha. They made the grounds
of that affair political, when, it seems to have been purely
your own; and if you should attempt and succeed in such
a thing, he would be considered a martyr to the party, and
you would inevitably become its victim.”

“Covington, do you think that I am discouraged by
this? Do you suppose I fear death? No! If the gallows
were already raised—if the executioner stood by,—if I
saw the felon cart, and the gloating throng around, gathered
to behold my agonies, I would still strike, strike
fatally, and without fear!”

“I know you brave, Beauchampe; but such a death
might well appal the bravest man!”

“It does not appal me. Understand me, Covington, I
must slay this man!”

“I cannot understand you, Beauchampe. As your
friend I will not. I counsel you against the deed. I
counsel you purely with regard to your own safety.”

“As a friend, would you have me live dishonoured?”

“No! I have already counselled you how to transfer
the dishonour from your shoulders to his. Denounce him
for his crime—disgrace him by the scourge!”

“No! no! Covington—this is no redress—no remedy.
His blood only can wipe out that shame.”

“I will have nothing to do with it, Beauchampe.”

“Will you desert me?”

“Not if you adopt the usual mode. Take your horsewhip,
arm yourself; give Sharpe notice to prepare; and
it is not impossible, then, that he will be armed, and the
rencontre may be as fatal as you could desire it. I am ready
for you to this extent.”

“Be it so then! Believe me, Covington, I would rather
a thousand times risk my own life than be compelled to
take his without resistance. But, understand one thing.
He or I must perish. We cannot both survive.”

“I will strive to bring it about;” said the other, and
urged by the impatience of Beauchampe, he proceeded, a
second time, to give Col. Sharpe the necessary notice.

But Sharpe was not to be found. He was denied at his
own dwelling as in town; and Covington took the way to
the house of his arch-vassal, Mr. Barnabas. The latter
gentleman confirmed the intelligence. He stated, not only
that Sharpe had left town, but had proceeded to Bowling
Green. Covington did not conceal his object. Knowing
the character of Barnabas and his relation to Sharpe, he
addressed himself to the fears of both.

“Mr. Barnabas, it will be utterly impossible for Col.
Sharpe to avoid this affair. Beauchampe will force it upon
him. He will degrade him daily in the streets of Frankfort—he
will brand him with the whip in the sight of the
people. You know the effect of this upon a man's character
and position.”

“Certainly, sir,—but, Mr. Covington, Mr. Beauchampe
will do so at his peril.”

“To be sure,—he knows that; but with such wrongs
as Mr. Beauchampe has had to sustain, he knows no peril.
He will certainly do what I tell you.”

“But, Mr. Covington, my dear sir,—cannot this be
avoided?—is there no other remedy?—will no apology—
no atonement of Col. Sharpe—suppose a written apology
—most humble and penitent, to Mr. and Mrs. Beauchampe.”

“Impossible!—How could you think that such an
apology could atone for such an offence—first the seduction
of this lady, while yet unmarried, and next the
abominable renewal of the attempt when she had become
a wife.”

“But nobody believes this, Mr. Covington. It is
generally understood that the first offence is the only one
to be laid at Sharpe's doors, and this is to be urged only
on political grounds. Beauchampe supported Tompkins
against Desha, and the friends of Tompkins revive this
stale offence only to discredit Sharpe as the friend of the
former.”

“Mr. Barnabas you know better. You know that Beauchampe
was the friend of Sharpe and spoke against
Calvert in his defence. We also know, as well as you,
that Calvert and Sharpe fought on account of this very
lady; though Desha's friends have contrived to make it
appear that the combat had a political origin.”

“Well, Mr. Covington, my knowledge is one thing,—
that of the people another. I can only tell you that it is
very generally believed that the true cause of the affair is
political.”

“And how has this general knowledge been obtained,
Mr. Barnabas?” remarked Covington rather sternly. “As
the friend of Beauchampe, and the only one to whom he
has confided his feelings and wishes, I can answer for it
that no publicity has been given to this affair by us.”

“I don't know,” said Barnabas, hurriedly, “how the
report has got abroad. I only know that it is very general.”

Mr. Covington rose to depart.

“Let me, before leaving you, Mr. Barnabas, advise you,
as one of the nearest friends of Col. Sharpe, what he is to
expect. Mr. Beauchampe will take the road of him—
and will horsewhip him through the streets of Frankfort
on the first occasion—nay, on every occasion—till he is
prepared to fight him. I am free to add, for the benefit of
any of Col. Sharpe's friends, that I will accompany him
whenever he proposes to make this attempt.”

And with this knightly intimation, Mr. Covington took
his departure.

When Beauchampe heard that Sharpe had left town,
and gone to Bowling Green, he immediately jumped on his
horse and went off in the same direction. That very afternoon,
Mr. Barnabas sat with his friend, Col. Sharpe, over
a bottle, and at the town-house of the latter. It had been
a falsehood by which Beauchampe was sent on a wild-goose
chase into the country. The object was to gain
time, so as to enable the friends of both parties, or rather
the friends of the criminal, who were members of the
club, to interpose and effect an arrangement of the affair,
if such a thing were possible; and in the natural gratification
which Sharpe felt that the danger was parried, though
for a moment only, the spirits of the criminal rose into
vivacity. The two made themselves merry with the unfruitful

journey which the avenger was making; not considering
the effect of such manœuvring upon a temper so
excitable, nor allowing for the accumulation of those passions
which, as they cannot sleep, and cannot be subdued,
necessarily become more powerful in proportion to the
delay in their utterance, and the restraints to which they
are subjected. Of course Mr. Barnabas made a full report
to his principal of all that Covington had told him. There
was little in this report to please the offender; but there
were other tidings which were more gratifying. The
members of the club were busy to prevent the meeting.
Mr. Barnabas had already sent a judicious and veteran
politician to see Covington; and having a great faith himself
in the powers of the persons he had employed, to
bring the matter to a peaceable adjustment, he had infused
a certain portion of his own faith into the breast of his
superior. And the bowl went round merrily; and the
hearts of the twain were lifted up, for, in their political
transactions, there was much that had taken place of a
character to give both of them positive gratification. And
so the evening passed until about eight o'clock, when Mr.
Barnabas suddenly recollected that he had made an appointment
with some gentleman which required his immediate
departure. Sharpe was unwilling to lose him,
and his spirits sunk with the departure of his friend; nor
were much enlivened by the entrance of a lady, in whose
meek, sad countenance might be read the history of an
unloved, neglected, but uncomplaining wife. He did not
look up at her approach. She placed herself in the seat
which Mr. Barnabas had left.

“You look unwell, Warham. You seem to have been
troubled, my husband,” she remarked with some hesitation,
and in a faint voice. “Is any thing the matter?”

“Nothing which you can help, Mrs. Sharpe,” he replied
in cold and repelling accents, crossing his legs, and
half wheeling his chair about so as to turn his back upon
her. She was silenced, and looked at him with an eye
full of a sad reproach, and a lasting disappointment. No
farther words passed between them, and a few moments
only elapsed when a rap was heard at the outer entrance.

“Leave the room,” he said, “I suppose it is Barnabas
returned. I have private business with him. You had
better go to bed.”

She rose meekly and did as she was commanded. He
also rose and went to the door.

“Who's that—Barnabas?” he demanded while opening
the door. He was answered indistinctly; but he fancied
that the words were in the affirmative, and the visiter
darted in the moment the door was opened. The passage-way
being dark, he could not distinguish the person of the
stranger except to discover that it was not the man whom
he expected. But this discovery was made almost in the
very instant when the intruder entered, and with it came
certain apprehensions of danger, which, however vague,
yet startled and distressed him. Under their influence he
receded from the entrance, moving backward with his face
to the stranger till he re-entered the sitting apartment. The
moment that the light fell upon the face of the visiter his
knees knocked against one another. It was Beauchampe.

“Beauchampe!” he involuntarily exclaimed with a
hollow voice, while his dilated eyes regarded the fierce,
wild aspect of the visiter.

“Ay! Beauchampe!” were the echoed tones of the
other—tones almost stifled in the deep intensity of mood
with which they were spoken. Tones, low, but deep,
like those of some dull convent bell, echoing at midnight
along the gray rocks and heights of some half-deserted
land. As deep and soul-thrilling as would be such sounds
upon the ear of some wanderer, unconscious of any neighbourhood,
did they fall upon the sudden sense of that criminal.
His courage instantly failed him. His knees smote
each other—his tongue clove to his mouth—he had strength
enough only to recede as if with the instinct of flight.
Beauchampe caught his arm.

“You cannot fly—you must stay! My business will
suffer no farther postponement.”

Beauchampe forced him into a chair.

“What is the matter, Beauchampe? What do you
mean to do?” gasped the trembling criminal.

“Does not your guilty soul tell you what I should do?”
was the stern demand.

“I am guilty!” was the half choking answer.

“Ay, but the confession alone will avail nothing. You
must atone for your guilt.”

“On my knees, Beauchampe?”

“No! with your blood!”

“Spare me, Beauchampe! oh! spare my life. Do not
murder me—for I cannot fight you on account of that injured
woman!”

“This whining will not answer, Col. Sharpe. You
must fight me. I have brought weapons for both.
Choose!”

The speaker threw two dirks upon the floor at the feet
of the criminal, while he stood back proudly.

“Choose!” he repeated—pointing to the weapons.

But the latter, though rising, so far from availing himself
of the privilege, made an effort to pass his enemy and
escape from the room. But the prompt arm of Beauchampe
arrested him and threw him back with some force
towards the corner of the apartment.

“Col. Sharpe, you cannot escape me. The falsehood
of your friend, which sent me from the city, has resolved
me to suffer no more delay of justice. Will you fight me?
Choose of the weapons at your feet.”

“I cannot! spare me, Beauchampe—my dear friend—
for the past—in consideration of what we have been to
each other—spare my life!”

“You thought not of this, villain, when, in the insolence
of your heart, you dared to bring your lust into my
dwelling.”

“Beauchampe, hear me for your own sake, hear me.”

“Speak! speak briefly. I am in no mood to trifle.”

“My crime was that of a young man—”

“Stay!—your crime was the invasion of my family—
of its peace!”

“Ah!—that was a crime—if it were so.”

“What, do you mean to deny! Dare you to impute
falsehood to my wife?”

“Beauchampe, she is your wife; and for this reason,
I will not say what I might say, but—”

“Oh! speak all—speak all! I am curious to see by
what new invention of villany you hope to deceive me.”

“No villany—no invention, Beauchampe—I speak only
the solemn truth. Before God, I assure you it is the truth
only which I will deliver.”

“You swear?”

“Solemnly.”

“Speak, then—but take up the dirk.”

“No! If you will but hear me, I do not fear to convince
you that there needs none either in your hands or
mine.”

“You are a good lawyer, keen, quick-witted and very
logical; but it will task better wits than yours to alter my
faith that you are a villain, and that you shall perish by
this hand of mine.”

Beauchampe stooped and possessed himself of one of
the weapons.

“Speak now! what have you to say? Remember, Col.
Sharpe, you have not only summoned God to witness
your truth, but you may be summoned in a few moments
to his presence to answer for your falsehood. I am sent
here, solemnly sworn, to take your life!”

“But only because you believed me a criminal in respects
in which I am innocent. If I show you that I never
approached Mrs. Beauchampe, while your wife, except
with the respect due to herself and you—”

“Liar! but you cannot show me that! I tell you, I believe
what she has told me. I know her truth and your
falsehood.”

“She is prejudiced, my dear friend. She hates me—”

“And with good reason; but hate you as she may, she
speaks, and can speak, nothing in your disparagement but
the truth.”

“She has misunderstood—mistaken me, in what I
said.”

“Stay!” approaching him. “Stay!—do not deceive
yourself, Col. Sharpe—you cannot deceive me. She has
detailed the whole of your vile overtures—the very words
of shame and guilt, and villanous baseness which you
employed.”

“Beauchampe—my dear friend!—are you sure that she
has told you all?”

Here the criminal approached with extended hand,
while he assumed a look of mysterious meaning, which
left something for the other to anticipate.

“Sure that she told me all? Ay! I am sure! What
remains? Speak out—and leave nothing to these smooth,
cunning faces. Speak out, while the time is left you.”

“Did she tell you of our first meeting in Charlemont?”

“Ay, did she—that! every thing!”

“I seek not to excuse my crime, there, Beauchampe—
but that was not a crime against you! I did not know you
then. I did not then fancy that you would ever be so
allied to—”

“Cease that—and say what you deem needful.”

“Did she tell you of the child?”

“Child! what child?” demanded Beauchampe with a
start of surprise.

The face of Sharpe put on a look of exultation. He felt
that he had gained a point.

“Ah! ha! I could have sworn that she did not tell you
all!”

The eyes of Beauchampe glared more fiercely, and the
convulsive twitching of the hand which held the dagger,
and the quivering of his lip, might have warned his companion
of the danger which he incurred of trifling with
him longer. But Sharpe's policy was to induce the suspicions
of Beauchampe in relation to his wife. He fancied,
from the unqualified astonishment which appeared in the
latter's face, as he spoke of the child, that he had secured
a large foothold in this respect, for it was very evident
that Mrs. Beauchampe, while relating every thing of any
substantial importance which concerned herself, had evidently
omitted that portion of the narrative which concerned
the unhappy and short-lived offspring of her guilty error.
It does not need to inquire why she had forborne to include
this particular in her statement to her husband.
There may have been some superior pang in the recollection
of that gloomy period which had followed her fall;
and it was not necessary to the frank confession which she
had freely offered of her guilt. But, though unimportant,
Col. Sharpe very well knew, that there is a danger in the
suppression of any fact, in a case like this, where the relations
are so nice and sensitive, which is like to invoke an
appearance of guilt, and to lead to its presumption. Like
an experienced practitioner at the sessions, he deemed it
important to dwell upon this particular.

“I could have sworn!” he repeated, “that she had not
told you of that child. Ah! my dear friend,—spare me
the necessity of telling you what she has forborne. She
is now your wife. Her reputation is yours—her shame
would be yours also. Believe me, I repent of all I have
done—for your sake, for hers—believe me, moreover,

when I assure you that she mistook my language, when she
fancied that I meant indignity in what I said lately in your
house.”

“But I could not mistake that, Col. Sharpe.”

“No! but did you hear it rightly reported?”

“Ay! she would not deceive me. You labour in vain.
This dirty work is easy with you; but it does not blind
me! Col. Sharpe,—what child is this that you speak of?”

“Her child, to be sure!”

“Her child! Had she a child?”

“To be sure she had. Ask her,—she will not deny it,
perhaps—and if she does I can prove it.”

“Her child!—and yours?”

“No! no! No child of mine!”

“Ha! not your child! Whose,—whose then?”

“Go to her, my dear friend! Ask her of that child.”

“Where is the child?”

“Dead!”

“Dead! well! what of it then?”

“Go to her—ask her whose it was? Ah! my dear
Beauchampe, let me say no more. Press me no farther to
speak. She is your wife!”

The eye of Beauchampe settled upon him with a suddenly
composed but stony expression.

“Say all!” he said deliberately. “Disburthen yourself
of all! I request it particularly, Col. Sharpe,—nay, I command
it.”

“My dear friend, Beauchampe, I really would prefer not
—ah! it is an ugly business.”

“Do not trifle, Col. Sharpe—speak—you do not help
your purpose by this prevarication. What do you know
farther of this child. It was not yours, you say,—whose
was it then?”

“It was not mine!—but to say whose it was is scarce
so easy a matter, but—” and he drew nigh and whispered
the rest of the sentence, some three syllables, into
the ears of the husband. The latter recoiled. His face
grew black, his hand grasped the dagger with nervous
rigidity, and, while the look of cunning confidence mantled
the face of the criminal, and before he could recede
from the fatal proximity to which, in whispering, he had
brought himself with the avenger, the latter had struck.
The sharp edge of the dagger had answered the shocking

secret, whatever might have been its character, and the
solemn oath of the husband was redeemed—redeemed in a
single moment, and by a single blow! The wrongs of
Margaret Cooper were at last avenged, but her sorrows
were not ended! How should they be? The hand that is
stained with human blood, in whatever cause, must bide a
dreary destiny, before the waters of heavenly mercy shall
cleanse and sweeten it! Col. Sharpe fell at the feet of the
avenger. A single blow had slain him!