University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

Colonel Sharpe sat one pleasant forenoon in the snug
parlour of his elegant mansion in the good city of Frankfort.
It was a dies non with him. He had leisure, and
his leisure was a leisure which had its sauce. It was a
satisfactory leisure. The prospect of wealth with dignity
was before him. Clients were numerous; fees liberal;
his political party had achieved its triumph, and his own
commission as attorney-general of the state was made
out in the fairest characters. The world went on swimmingly.
Truly, it was a blessed world. So one may
fancy with the wine and walnuts before him. Ah! how
much of the beauty of this visible world depends on one's
dessert—and digestion! Col. Sharpe's dessert was excellent,
but his digestion not so good. Nay, there were some
things that he could not digest; but of these, at the pleasant
moment when we have thought proper to look in
upon him, he did not think. His thoughts were rather
agreeable than otherwise. Perhaps, we should say, rather
exciting than agreeable. They were less sweet than piquant;
but they were such as he did not seek to disperse.
A man of the world relishes his bitters occasionally. It is
your long-legged lad of eighteen who purses his lips
while his eyes run water, as he imbibes the acrid but spicy
flavour. Col. Sharpe was no such boy. He could linger
over the draught, and sip, with a sense of relish, from the
mingling but not discordant elements. He was no milksop.
He had renounced the natural tastes at a very early
day.

He thought of Margaret Cooper—we should say Mrs.
Beauchampe—but that, when he recalled her to his memory,
she always came in the former, never in the latter
character. He did not like to think of her as the wife of
another. The reflection made him sore; though, to think
of her was always a source of pleasure in a greater or less
degree. But he had not forgotten the husband; and now,
in connexion with the wife, he felt himself unavoidably
compelled to think of him. His countenance assumed a
meditative aspect. There was a gathering frown upon his
brow in spite of his successes. At this moment a rap
was heard at the door, and Mr. Barnabas was announced.

“Ha! Barnabas—how d'ye do?”

“Well—when did you get back?”

“Last night, after dark.”

“Yes—I looked in yesterday and you were not here
then. What news bring you?”

“None! Have you any here?”

“As little. It's enough to know that all's right. We
are quite joyful here—nothing to dash our triumph.”

“That's well, and our triumph's complete; but”—
with an air of abstraction—“what do you hear of Beauchampe?”

“Not a word—but he's in Frankfort!”

“Ha! indeed!”

“Was here two days ago. Haven't you heard from
him.”

“Not a syllable.”

“But how could you?—going to and fro, and so brief
a time in any place, it was scarcely possible to find you!”

“I doubt if he'll do any thing, Barnabas. The affair
will be made so much worse by stirring. He'll not think
of it—he's very proud,—very sensitive—very sensible to
ridicule!”

“I don't know. I hope he won't. But he's as strange
an animal as the woman, his wife; and, I tell you, there
was a damned sour seriousness about him when he spoke
to me on the subject, that makes me apprehensive that
he'll keep his word. The ides of March are not over
yet.”

Sharpe's gravity increased. His friend rose to depart.

“Where do you go?”

“To Folker's. I have some business there. I just
heard that you were here, and looked in to say how
happy we all are in our successes.”

“You will sup with me to-night, Barnabas. I want
you;—I feel dull.”

“The devil you do,—what, and just made attorney-general!”

“Even so! Honours are weighty.”

“Not the less acceptable for that. Glamis thou art,—
Cawdor shalt be,—and let me be your weird sister, and
proclaim, yet further—`thou shalt be king hereafter!'
governor, I mean.”

“Ah! you are sharp, this morning, Barnabas,” said
Sharpe, his muscles relaxing into a pleasant smile. “I
shall expect you to-night, if it be only to hear the repetition
of these agreeable predictions.”

“I will not fail you! addio!”

Col. Sharpe sat once more alone. Pleasant indeed
were the fancies which the words of Mr. Barnabas had
awakened in his mind. He murmured in the strain of
dramatic language which the quotation of his friend had
suggested, as he paced the apartment to and fro—

Ay, but it does;” he proceeded in the more sober prose
of his own reflections—“the steps are fair and easy.
Barnabas is no fool in such matters, though no wit. He
knows the people. He can sound them as well as any
man. This suggestion does not come from himself. No!
no! It comes from a longer head. It must be C—!
Hem! this is to be thought upon! His word against a
thousand pound! If he thinks so, it is as good as done;
and Barnabas is only an echo, when he says—“thou
shalt be king hereafter!” Poor Barnabas! how readily
he takes his colour from his neighbour.”

A rap at the door arrested these pleasant reflections.
The soliloquist started and grew pale. There was surely
a meaning in that rap. It was not that of an ordinary
acquaintance. It wanted freedom, rapidity. It was very

deliberate and measured. One—two—three!—you could
count freely in the intervals. A strange voice was heard
at the door.

“Colonel Sharpe is in town—is he at home?”

The servant answered in the affirmative, and appeared
a moment after followed by a stranger—a gentleman of
dark, serious complexion, whose face almost declared his
business. The host felt an unusual degree of discomposure
for which he could not so easily account.

“Be seated, sir, if you please. I have not the pleasure
of your name.”

“Covington, sir, is my name—John A. Covington.”

“Covington,—John A. Covington! I have the pleasure
of knowing a gentleman whose name very much
resembles yours. I know John W. Covington.”

“I am a very different person;” answered the stranger
—“I have not the honour of being ranked among your
friends.”

The stranger spoke very coldly. A brief pause followed
his words, in which Col. Sharpe's discomposure
rather underwent increase. The keen eye of Covington
observed his face, while he very deliberately drew from
his pocket a paper which he handed to Sharpe, who took
it with very sensible agitation of nerve.

“Do me the favour, sir, to read that. It is from Mr.
Beauchampe. He tells me you are prepared for it. It is
open, you see;—I am aware of its contents.”

“From Beauchampe—”

“Mr. Beauchampe, sir,” said the visited—coolly correcting
the freedom of the speaker.

“This paper, as you will see by the date, sir, has been
some time in my hands. Your absence in the country,
alone, prevented its delivery.”

“Yes, sir”—said Sharpe, slowly, and turning over the
envelope;—“yes, sir—this, I perceive, is a peremptory
challenge, sir?”

“It is.”

“But, Mr. Covington, there may be explanations, sir.”

“None, sir! Mr. Beauchampe tells me that this is impossible.
He adds, moreover, that you know it. There
is but one issue, he assures me between you, and that is
life or death.”

“Really, sir,—there is no good reason for this. Mr.

Covington, you are a man of the world. You know what
is due to society. You will not lend yourself to any
measure of unnecessary bloodshed. You have a right, sir
—surely you have a right, sir, to interpose, and accept
some more qualified atonement—perhaps, sir—an apology
—the expression of my sincere regret and sorrow, sir—”

The other shook his head coldly—

“My friend leaves me none.”

“But, sir, if you knew the cause of this hostility—if—”

“I do, sir!” was the stern reply.

“Indeed! But are you sure that you have heard it
exactly as it is. There are causes which qualify offence—”

“I believe Mr. Beauchampe, sir, in preference to any
other witness. This offence, sir, admits of none. You
will permit me to add, though extra-official, that my friend
deals with you very magnanimously. The provocation
is of a sort which deprives you of any claim of courtesy.
May I have your answer, sir, to the only point to which
this letter relates? Will you refer me to your friend?”

“Sir,—Mr. Covington—I will not fight Mr. Beauchampe!”

“Indeed, sir!—can it be possible!” exclaimed Covington
rising from his chair and regarding the speaker with
surprise.

“No, sir,—I cannot fight him. I have wronged him
too greatly. I cannot lift weapon against his life!”

“Col. Sharpe,—this will never do! You are a Kentuckian!
You are regarded as a Kentucky gentleman!
I say nothing on the score of your claim to this character.
Let me remind you of the penalties which will follow this
refusal to do my friend justice.”

“I know them, sir—I know them all. I defy them;—
will bear them, but I cannot fight Beauchampe!”

“You will be disgraced, sir—I must post you!”

Sharpe strode the apartment hastily. His cheek was
flushed. He felt the humiliation of his position. In ordinary
matters, in the usual spirit of society, he was no
coward. We have seen how readily he fought with
William Calvert. But he could not meet Beauchampe—
he could not nerve himself to the encounter.

“I cannot, will not fight Beauchampe!” was his muttered

ejaculation. “No! I have wronged him—wronged
her! I dare not meet him. I can never do it!”

“Be not rash, Col. Sharpe,” said the other. “Think
of it again before you give me such an answer. I will
give you three hours for deliberation—I will call again at
four.”

“No, sir—no, Mr. Covington—the wrongs I have done
to Beauchampe are known—probably well known;—the
world will understand that I cannot fight him;—that my
offence is of such a nature, that, to lift weapon against
him, would be monstrous. You may post me, sir—but
no one who knows me will believe that it is fear that
makes me deny this meeting. They will know all—they
will acquit me of the imputation of cowardice.”

“And how should they know?” demanded Covington
sternly, “unless you make them acquainted with the facts,
and thus add another to my friend's causes of provocation.”

“Nay, Mr. Covington,—he himself told Mr. Barnabas.”

“True, sir,—but that was in a special communication
to yourself, which implied confidence, and must have
secrecy. My friend will have his remedy against Mr.
Barnabas, if he does not against you, if he speaks what
he should not. There is a way, sir, to muzzle your barking
dogs.”

“It is known to others,—Mr. William Calvert, with
whom I fought on this very quarrel.”

“Ah! that is new to me; but as you fought in this very
quarrel with Mr. Calvert, it seems to me that your objection
fails. You must fight with Mr. Beauchampe also on
the same quarrel.”

“Never, sir—you have my answer—I will not meet
him!”

“Do not mistake your position with the public, Col.
Sharpe. The extent of the wrong which you have done
to Beauchampe, only makes your accountability the
greater. Nobody will acquit you on this score,—nay,
any effort to make known to the people the true cause of
Mr. Beauchampe's hostility, will make it obvious that you
seek rather to excuse your cowardice, than to show forbearance,
or to make atonement. Truly, they will regard
that as a very strange sort of remorse, which publishes

the shame of the wife, in order to justify a refusal to meet
the husband.”

“I will not publish it—Beauchampe has already done
so.”

“It is known to two persons, sir, through him. It need
not be known to more. Col. Calvert is a friend of mine.
He is not the man to speak of the affair. Besides, I will
communicate to him on the subject, and secure his silence.
You shall have no refuge of this sort.”

“I have answered you, Mr. Covington,” said Sharpe
doggedly.

“I must post you then as a scoundrel and a coward!”

Sharpe turned upon the speaker with a look of suddenly
roused fury in his face, but swallowing the word which
rose to his lips, he turned away. The other proceeded
coolly.

“This shall be done, sir,—and I must warn you that
the affair will not end here. Mr. Beauchampe will disgrace
you in the public streets.”

The sweat trickled from the brows of Sharpe in thick
drops such as precede the torrents of the thunder storm.
He strove to speak, but the convulsive emotions of his
bosom effectually baffled utterance; and with dilated eyes,
and labouring breast, he strode the floor, utterly incapable
of self-control. Covington lingered.

“You will repent this, Col. Sharpe. You will recall
me when too late. Suffer me to see you this afternoon
for your answer.”

The other advanced to him, then turned away; once
more approached and again receded. A terrible strife
was at work within him, but when he did find words,
they expressed no bolder determination than before,
Covington regarded him with equal pity and contempt,
as he turned away evidently dissatisfied and disappointed.

He was scarcely gone when the miserable man found
words.

“God of Heaven! that I should feel thus! That I
should be so unmanned! Why is this! Why is the
strength denied me—the courage—which never failed
before? It is not too late. He has scarcely left the step!
I will recall him! He shall have another answer!” and,
with this late resolution he darted to the entrance and
laid his hand upon the knob of the door; but the momentary

impulse had already departed. He left it unopened.
He recoiled from the entrance, and striking his hands
against his forehead, groaned in all the novel and unendurable
bitterness of this unwonted humiliation.

“And this is the man,—Cawdor, Glamis, all!—King
hereafter, too, as Mr. Barnabas promised;—echoing, of
course, the language of that great political machinist, Mr.
C—. Ha! ha! ha!”

Did some devil growl this commentary in the ears of
the miserable man? He heard it, and shuddered from
head to foot.