University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

Several months elapsed. Leslie recovered
from his wounds, but was still pale, when accident
brought to his ear the atrocious slander circulated
against him. The same charge of gambling and
dishonesty at cards, magnified by other insinuations
urged by Clairmont at Washington, in the hearing
of Miss Temple, had been subsequently reiterated,
and at last began to gain credit. So popular was
the count, that his ill word was sufficient to inflict
a serious injury. Not that any one who knew
Leslie lent it an ear—but one is not known even
by all one's acquaintance; and there is a large class
always ready not only to believe calumnies, but to
speed them on their way with a secret and eager
hand. The affair burst upon Leslie suddenly. He
happened to be one day in company with a number
of ladies and gentlemen, among whom was Miss
Romain. He had just invited the young lady to
ride with him on the subsequent day.

“Do you know, Leslie,” said Moreland, privately,
a few moments afterward, “I this morning heard of
a most extraordinary allegation against you from
the lips of this same Miss Romain whom you are
so civil to?”

“Allegation!—name it.”

Moreland repeated, though rather incoherently,
as he had not distinctly understood it, what Miss
Romain was said to have spoken. It referred to a
certain mysterious incident at cards reported to
have been charged upon Mr. Leslie, and never to
have been refuted, or even noticed.

“Take care,” continued Moreland, “of that
beautiful siren—she is really dangerous. She flatters
you in your presence, and loves to behold
you in her train, but makes free with your name
the moment you withdraw.”

“Indeed!” said Norman, gravely.

“It was my intention,” added Moreland, “to let
you know the moment I ascertained precisely the
nature of this report. You should know it, not
only that you may refute it, but that you may hereafter
beware of her. I will endeavour to discover
at once its precise nature.”

“When will you see me?”

“To-morrow.”

“This bodes trouble,” said Norman, as if forgetting
that he was not alone.

The next morning Moreland called on Leslie,
and made him acquainted with the particulars of
the calumny. He had also traced it directly to
Clairmont. Miss Romain was ascertained to have
been more wantonly mischievous than could have
been supposed. Whether she really believed it,
or whether she was stung by jealousy at finding
that Norman had totally laid aside the character
of her lover, it was certain that to the charge in
question she had given marked emphasis.

“And will you still ride with her,” demanded
Moreland, “after such a singular evidence of her
disposition?”

“Yes,” said Norman, dryly—“I have already
invited her to accompany me this afternoon, and

I will not retreat. It is too tempting an opportunity
to let her know my surprise. From this time,
however, she shall learn how utterly a friend may
be thrown away. As for Clairmont, he is a scoundrel.
I shall publicly chastise him the instant we
meet. The thing is scarcely worth noticing, but
the manner in which this man is received here
gives his words an importance which they would
not otherwise deserve.”

At four he called for Miss Romain, according to
appointment.

The next morning Clairmont stood on the steps
of his hotel in Broadway, surrounded by a number
of gentlemen. He was in a riding-dress, with
whip and spurs; and after a careless leave of his
companions, was in the act of mounting his horse.
At that moment Leslie approached, and the two
enemies stood face to face. Clairmont turned a
little pale upon the sight of one he had so deeply
wronged, advancing with determined step and air,
and contracted brow, whose meaning could not be
mistaken. A small circle of spectators closed
around them. The accusation of Clairmont had
been publicly made during Leslie's illness, and his
great skill with the pistol was known. The resolution,
the high-wrought temper, and lofty character
of Leslie, were also well understood, and the
interview was regarded with strong signs of interest.
The nobleman paused, with a glistening eye,
and a shade of white increasing on his lip. Leslie's
air was high and stern, but calm and noble.
As the two thus stood, their prominent characteristics
might be detected in their very appearance:
the one so frank, fearlessly open-hearted, and yet
so quietly resolved; the other, deep, malignant,

and dangerous—the one frowning with the fiery
firmness of a lion; the spirit of the other coiled up
with the stillness of a snake, which lifts its crest
against the foot that would crush it in the grass.

“I have been given to understand,” said Leslie,
very composedly, “that you, sir, who call yourself
Count Clairmont, have made use of certain expressions
derogatory to my character.”

“Well, sir.”

“Your silence implies assent. I give you one
moment to deny them—to confess them wilful,
base falsehoods.”

“Mr. Leslie,” said Clairmont, “if you are a gentleman,
you have a remedy.”

“I have once told you the only terms on which
I will consent to meet you. Though I believe you
no gentleman, yet my belief of your cowardice at
heart is so strong, that I again dare you to accede
to them. Those terms, gentlemen—”

But the wary Clairmont, with great cunning, had
already adopted his plan. It was his object to escape
even hearing terms which most probably he
might not be anxious to accept, but if possible to
provoke Leslie to attack him on the spot. Accordingly,
first placing a hand in his bosom, he interrupted
the speaker—

“Mr. Leslie,” he said, “you desire to know
whether the assertions to which you allude were
made by me, and whether they are persisted in.
Know that I never speak that in a man's absence
which I fear to repeat in his presence. I avow,
then, that I detected you in such a trick at cards
as ought to, and must, exclude you for ever from
the society of gentlemen.”

Without further reply, Leslie stepped forward,
and at the same moment produced from behind
him a riding-whip, with the evident intention of
applying it to immediate use.

Pale, but with the most determined and deliberate
composure, Clairmont drew forth a pistol,
which he coolly cocked.

“No—no, sir,” he said, in a low tone—“I am on
my guard now—the attacks of a ruffian I am taught
how to meet. Take care, sir—take care—approach
me not—one step, one inch, one motion, and I
swear by the God of heaven I lay you dead at my
feet!”

Leslie paused—Clairmont smiled—the crisis
was interesting, and considerable curiosity prevailed
to witness the event. But the inactivity of
Leslie was only momentary. With a leap, swift
as the tiger when he darts upon a startled steed,
he sprang to the throat of his foe. The pistol was
discharged; but so rapid and unexpected had been
the assault, that the aim, never before known to
miss, now failed at the moment of utmost need.
The ball passed through the lapel of Norman's
coat; and the baffled possessor of a now useless
weapon had thrown away his sole chance, and
with it the sympathies of every spectator. Unarmed—of
a livid whiteness—he stood in mute
and impotent hate; first, aghast with the certainty
that he had launched the death-bolt, and afterward,
to find himself utterly in the power of a man so
deeply resolute and indignant, and against whom
he had just given such a dire evidence of malice.

“I shall now proceed,” said Leslie, without exhibiting
the slightest astonishment or alarm, but
laying an iron hand on the bosom of his foe, “to
inflict upon you, my friend, the chastisement you
so richly merit. You are a coward—you are an
impostor—you are guilty of the baseness which
your rancorous tongue has charged on me—you
have swindled at cards. Hereafter, Sir Count,
never show your face in the society of gentlemen;

but, lest you should, I mark you for what you are
—a craven and a scoundrel!”

He raised the whip.

“Leslie,” said Clairmont, almost inaudibly, “do
not—do not, for your own sake. Mark me—I warn
—I warn you, Leslie—do not—”

Rage, fear, and intense emotion had so transformed
his countenance, that, with his ashy face,
and a ring of black beneath each eye, he looked
more like a devil than a man.

“Carry your warnings, sir, to those who regard
them,” said Leslie.

Deliberately, and with a powerful hold on his
throat, he applied the long whip to his writhing
and quivering foe with all the strength of his athletic
and indignant arm. No one interfered. For
several moments the determined youth continued
the application of his blows, till, foaming at the
mouth, covered with dust, struggling, trembling,
and ever and anon uttering a half-suffocated groan
of anguish and revenge, his exhausted victim hung,
with drooping body and unbraced limbs, apparently
senseless on his arm.

“I have castigated this man, gentlemen,” said
Leslie, with a voice actually gentle in its tone—so
calm is true passion—“I have castigated this man
for no ordinary personal pique, no mere common
hatred. I hold him up to you not only for a swindler,
a slanderer, an impostor, and a scoundrel
—I have good reason to believe him a midnight
assassin.”

In the scuffle Clairmont's hat had fallen—his
valet now appearing, picked it up, and lent an arm
to the support of his master, who, finding himself released,
lifted his head, gazed wildly around, gnashed
his teeth, half incoherently uttered, “God!
oh God!” and striking his face deliriously with
his hands, rushed mad and foaming into the hotel.