University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Digby had scarcely got home, exhausted, hot,
nervous, hardly able to breathe in his new clothes,
which were too small for him, and completely mortified
and depressed by the events of the day—his
tight boots, not without difficulty, at length abstracted
from his swollen and inflamed feet, and displaced
by a pair of comfortable slippers, and his court suit
exchanged for a loose robe de chambre—when Peter
announced, with a respectful bow, “My Lord Beaufort.”

“My Lord Beaufort!” said Digby, turning pale.

“Why, what on airth can he want?” said Mrs.
Digby.

“Show him in,” said Digby, his head spinning
round like a top, and not distinctly knowing what
he had to expect.

Lord Beaufort came in. He had changed his
military court uniform for his usual dress, and he
entered with a cool and composed air.

“How are you, ladies? How are you, Mr. Digby?
You've got home, I see.”

“Yes, my lord!” said Mrs. Digby.

“Thank God!” added Digby.

“I hope you have enjoyed yourself, madam?”

“Oh, excessively; it was quite charming, my
lord,” said Mrs. Digby, feeling it as some remuneration
for her sufferings that she was, at least,
fairly in society with kings and princes, and lords
and countesses.

“You have not fatigued yourself dancing, I hope,
Miss Digby?”

“Oh no, sir.”

“You're very fortunate. I think that sort of thing
insufferable myself. They're horrid bores. The

ladies frightful, with a few exceptions.” He intended
this for a compliment, and marked his meaning
with a smile to his fair companions, who both
bowed, particularly Mrs. Digby.

“Oh, my lord, you're so polite. It's quite charming!”
said Mrs. Digby.

“I positively don't get over one of these nuisances
in a week. I can stand anything but a breakfast.
Dinners, suppers, balls, soireés—we bear
these—they are natural—we are accustomed to
them—but—”

“Your lordship don't like the dejooney-dangsang,
then?” said Mrs. Digby.

“Not at all, I assure you.”

“Well, that's the only sensible thing I've heard
you say yet!” said Digby, bluntly.

“Ha! capital!” said Beaufort. “By-the-way,
Mr. Digby, I have a request to beg of you. May I
speak with you a moment? I will not detain you
long.”

“Is there a fire in the study?” asked Mrs. Digby;
for she dignified a little room, where they kept
the guide-book and the French grammar, with that
name.

“No, mamma,” said Mary.

“Well, then, I'll tell you what—”

“Well, what?” asked Digby, feeling it necessary
to say something.

“Mary and I will retire into our dressing-rooms.
Mary, ring for Peter. Peter, call the maids. Miss
Digby and myself wishes to change our toylettes.
Don't decompose yourself, my lord, on my account.”

“No, I won't!” said Beaufort.

“Mary, my love—good-morning, my lord—by-by,
Digby.” And, with an affected air before the handsome
young lord, who, she presumed, had very likely
called after Mary—perhaps to make a proposal—
and upon whom she wished to leave an impression as
a “personne distinguée,” she sailed out of the room.

“A little trifle, I believe, has occurred between
you and my friend Elkington, which he has requested
me to arrange.”

“Your friend Elkington is an infamous scoundrel,”
said Digby; “an—a—a contemptible—a—a
—unprincipled—cowardly—a—a—a—puppy—a—
a—a—puppy, my lord.”

Beaufort tapped his foot with his rattan.

“I say, my lord, your friend is a rascal; a—a—
very great scoundrel; and the most infernal puppy
I ever saw.”

“Don't let me interrupt you, I beg,” said Beaufort;
“but, when you have sufficiently amused yourself
calling him names, perhaps you will receive his
message?”

“His message!” said Digby, opening his eyes;
for, so rapid had been the events of the day; so
sudden the discovery of a person at the feet of his
daughter, whom he knew he could not marry; so
great his indignation, and so obtuse his intellect,
that he had not, until this moment, distinctly conceived
what the whole was to lead to. He repeated
again, in a lower tone,

“His message!”

“Yes; allow me to hand it to you.”

Digby took it, and read:

“Why, this is—a—a—certainly—my lord—a—
are you aware—how this—a—a—of the circumstances
of the—a—a—that is—how this affair—a—a—
sprung up?”

“Who! I? Certainly not. I only deliver my
friend's message.”

“But do you know, sir,” said Digby, with feeling,
“that I—I—I am a father—a husband—and a father,
my lord?”

“I certainly had not given the subject particular
reflection; but, from the appearance of the lady
called Madam Digby, and also the very pretty
young girl who is inscribed on her card as `sa
fille,' I am induced to think you are.”

“Well, sir—that is, my lord,” said Digby, “I have
only to tell you that I did not call your friend a
rascal till he had proved himself one; not till being,
in fact, all but—a—a—a—married to another lady
—I—found—I perceived—a—a—I detected him—
a—a—my lord, making—a—a—a—love—to my
daughter.”

“You may detect a gentleman in what you
please,” said Beaufort, in a tone of very condescending
explanation; “but you really ought to be aware
that you must not call him a villain. That is a
term to be answered only in one way.”

“One?”

“Unquestionably!” said Beaufort, laughing; “you
seem to be strangely unacquainted with the usages
of good society.”

“But, my lord, I don't wish to give my Lord El
kington the pleasure of that `one way.' Sir, I've
just stepped into a fortune of £100,000 sterling, and
I wish to enjoy myself a little. I am going to travel.
I'm going to educate my daughter—to educate—to
protect her—to settle her in life. What will Mrs.
Digby do without me? Why, d—n it, sir, she'd
make a greater fool of herself than she has done already.
What would Mary do without me? She—
an innocent, perfectly inexperienced girl, whom, even
when I'm alive, I can scarcely take care of; whose
beauty—and simplicity—and—a—a—helplessness
of character, my lord—expose to the duplicity

of every scoundrel like your friend, my lord—what's
she to do when I'm dead? Her mother—so far from
being a protector, sir—would be the very one to lead
her into danger—into ruin—for, let me tell you, my
lord, that Mrs. Digby is a very weak woman, as, it's
my opinion, all the rest of them are.”

“I have heard you very patiently, I'm sure,” said
Beaufort. “And, for the confidence you have been
so obliging as to repose in me upon the subject of
your family affairs and prospects, and your opinion
of the female sex in general, and of Mrs. Digby in
particular, I must return you my grateful thanks;
but what I am here definitely for is to deliver to
you this note, and to request you to have the affair
over as soon as possible. Couldn't you arrange
matters this evening, and have it settled at day-break?”

“If I'm to be shot,” said Digby, sullenly, “because
I took my own daughter from the hands of a
scoundrel, I perfectly agree that the sooner it's done
the better.”

“Will you name a friend, then?”

“I haven't a friend in this infernal country, except,
indeed, Mr. Wyndham.”

“The very man! send him to me. I shall be at
my rooms for an hour. We shall be ready to-morrow.
Adieu!”

And, humming an air from the last new opera, he
took his leave.

Digby sat a few moments confounded. However
stupid in general matters, he had some feeling,
too, upon things connected with his own affairs, and
his heart swelled with anguish and indignation at
the unprincipled conduct of Elkington to Mary, and
his brutal intentions towards himself. His brain
swam at the idea of being upon the threshold of the
grave. It stunned him, and yet gave to his demeanour
a serious and even dignified air. He was now,
for almost the first time in his life, in danger; and

he felt within his breast all the affection of a father,
all the indignation of a man trampled on, and all the
weakness of one unprepared to die, either in his
mind or in his temporal affairs. He had never
touched a pistol in his life, and he knew that Elkington
was an avowed duellist and a deadly shot.
Had he not known perfectly that he had no chance,
in case of a meeting, of saving his life, his wrath
was so great at the whole proceeding, that he would
have gone out, even with pleasure, and committed
the result to hazard. He had no moral scruples, no
religious objections. He viewed his situation merely
as it regarded his interest and that of his family;
and he saw that, while to Elkington the transaction
was but one of twenty similar ones, for which he
was, by his principles and practice, always ready,
which brought him comparatively no danger, and
which, even if it should terminate fatally to him,
would leave him in his last moment no regret but
that of a selfish nature—no helpless wife—no daughter
exposed, without defence, to the worst dangers
which can threaten youth and beauty. Not only
was the transaction to him certain death, but it
would bring on a train of consequences, whose dark
nature and vague extent were drawn in terrible perspective
by imagination.

Bitterly deploring his wife's folly in dragging him
into circles of society infested with such vices and
by such customs, with a trembling hand and a sinking
heart he rang for the servant, ordered Mr. Wyndham
to be sent for immediately, and requested his
daughter to be called into “the study” alone. The
poor girl appeared in a few moments. A faint suspicion
of what was going on had entered her mind,
and, at the sight of her father's pale face and gloomy
expression, so different from its usual gayety, she
felt that her fears were just.

“Come here, Mary,” said he. “Come here, my
daughter.”

He drew her to him, and, passing his arm round
her waist, kissed her twice. It seemed that she
had apprehended a harsher reception; for at these
tokens of kindness the tears rose to her eyes, and,
throwing her arms around his neck, she said,

“My dear, dear father.”

“Have you said anything to your mother—about
—about—”

“Yes, sir; I have told her all. Indeed, she knew
it before.”

“Knew it before! why, what was there before?”

“Lord Elkington's passion for me.”

“Passion? Your mother—knew—”

“All, my dear father.”

“And has Lord Elkington dared—”

“Oh, sir, he is sincere and noble; indeed, indeed,
he is. He is one of the kindest, the best of men.
He is all goodness, all condescension, all purity.”

“And do you know that Lord Elkington is actually
engaged to another lady?”

“A match of interest—made up by his mother—
in which, he has assured me, his heart is not in the
least concerned, and which, since he has seen me,
he is almost determined to break off; mamma says
she's sure he will.”

“And you, Mary,” said Digby, in a lower voice,
trembling with rage, “have you been so—a—a—
so silly—as to believe—as to—allow your—your—
your—a—a—feelings to become interested in this
man?”

“Oh, sir—he—I—that is, mamma—”

She burst into tears, and hid her face in his bosom,
“The villain! The infernal profligate!” muttered
Digby.

“No, no, my father—”

“Yes—I will teach him—I will—”

But, ere he had completed his threat, all the absurdity
of attempting to teach him the desired lesson
by a duel rose to his mind. To-morrow, he

reflected, at this hour, he might be a bloody corse.
Who then would lead this simple-hearted girl
through the snares laid for her? Here, in a foreign
country, with only her mother, who was less
wise, if possible, than herself. He actually trembled
at the thought, and, for a moment, forgot his own
danger in apprehension concerning his daughter.

“Hear me, Mary—and the time may come when
you will remember my words, and when the only
mark of affection you can show me will be to follow
their counsel—Lord Elkington is an unprincipled
scoundrel. He has no idea of marrying you.”

“He swore to me that he loved me—and only
me,” said Mary, sobbing,

“He is a liar and a scoundrel!” said Digby; “and
I forbid your ever having anything to do with him.
Mark me! I lay my command on you. If ever you
speak to him again when you can possibly avoid it,
I shall consider you as a disobedient and guilty
child; and the curse of your father—whom your imprudence,
perhaps, will consign to the grave—is all I
leave you. I will have no Elkington in my house
—I—I—a—a you—why, what's the matter, Mary?”

The form of the poor girl, which lay on his bosom,
pressed more and more heavily upon him, till he
perceived her slipping to the floor, upon which she
would have fallen had he not suddenly caught her
in his arms. She had fainted. He rang the bell.
Peter came to his call, and announced Mr. Wyndham,
who entered immediately. He started on seeing
the haggard and excited face of Digby, and the
state of insensibility of his daughter.

“What is it? what is the matter?” he exclaimed,
in a tone of true sympathy, which touched the
heart of Digby.

“I am a ruined man!” said Digby; and he laid
down his forehead upon the table, and hid his face
during a moment of uncontrollable agitation. Mrs.
Digby and two maids came running in at the confusion.

“Take her, madam,” said Digby, “and see the
result of your fine fashionable plans.”

“Good God, John! what is the matter—and what
has the fool been about?”

“Leave the room, madam,” said Digby, with a
real dignity which he had never discovered before,
but which strong emotion sometimes arouses in the
plainest character. “Take your daughter where
you can recover her, and leave me.”

“Why, do you think,” said Mrs. Digby, “that
I'm a going to—”

“Your daughter, madam, is dying perhaps, while
you dispute your husband's orders; go, this instant,
or I will never see you more.”

The good dame, thunderstruck at the tone of authority
in which he spoke, and awed by a something
of determination in his manner which she had never
seen before, turned pale and obeyed. When she
was gone, Digby locked and double locked the door;
returned, fumbled a moment in his pockets, turned
pale as death, and, throwing down Elkington's note
upon the table, said,

“Read that letter, Mr. Wyndham.”

Claude opened and quietly perused it.

Digby then related the circumstances which had
led to it. When he had finished, Claude said,

“Well, and what of it?”

“What of it?” said Digby. “Mr. Wyndham—
sir—do you—a—a—inquire what of it—when I'm
a—a—going to—to—to—be shot, in about twelve
hours' time, through the head—and—a—a—with—
a—a—like a wild duck—do you sit there and ask
what of it? Upon my word—upon my honour—
this is the worst of all.”

“What is worst of all?” said Claude, calmly.

“Why—your unfeeling, singular answer—a—
a—and altogether—a—a—very unaccountable remark.
What of it? What of it, indeed! Why,
to such a friend as you, nothing perhaps; but, if you

were called out to meet such a—a—a—infamous—
bloodthirsty ruffian and avowed cutthroat as this
—a—fellow—there would be, I presume, sir—a—a
—good deal of it.”

“No there wouldn't,” said Claude, with the utmost
composure, “because I would not meet any man in
a duel. I am not a married man myself, but—”

“For which you ought to thank God!” said Digby.

“Nor have I any one dependant on me for support
and protection; yet even I will never—never
meet a fellow-creature in a duel. It is a folly so
gross, a cruelty to others so unfeeling, a remedy so
inadequate, and a crime against man and God so
obvious and so solemn, that no circumstance, however
tempting, should make me commit it any more
than I would rob a traveller on the highway, or murder
an enemy in his bed.”

You—don't—a—a—advise me—to—a—a—refuse
this challenge!” said Digby.

“I do, most positively.”

“I was going to ask your services as a friend.”

“To decline it, I will render them; to conduct
any such negotiation with the alternative of a meeting
and a death—never!”

“But he will horsewhip me.”

“That would be unpleasant, and, if possible, I
would prevent it.”

“I will carry pistols.”

“No, I would not.”

“What, would you be horsewhipped?”

“Rather than commit a murder, or rather, particularly
in your case, than be killed, and leave my
family in such a defenceless state as yours would
be. Perhaps I could not better choose the moment
to inform you what I heard this morning of Lord
Elkington and your daughter. He boasts openly of
having acquired her confidence among the young
men of the town, and has even so far worked upon

her inexperience, by his promises and fascinations,
as to persuade her into several walks with him.”

“I will meet him,” said Digby, his face inflamed
with rage. “I know not what may be the result—
I will meet him.”

“But I can tell you the result,” said Claude,
quietly.

“You can?”

“He will kill you, and he will consider your
death as an event of boasting and self-congratulation.
Your daughter would be left then without a
protector. You have—let me speak plainly to you,
my friend—you have left your own circle of society
to come into one where, unfortunately, a father may
behold his daughter torn from him at midday, and
be shot in attempting to defend her, without the
law's taking any real notice of the crime; and you
have brought this beautiful young child among men
who deem it no dishonour to ruin her happiness
and character, so long as they are ready to expose
their lives in defence of their guilt.”

“But if I refuse, what will everybody say? I
will be posted everywhere—I shall—be disgraced
and hissed at—as a—a—a—coward—and, moreover,
if he attacks me in the street—but I will carry
loaded pistols with me—and—”

The perspiration stood in large drops upon his
forehead as these alternatives succeeded each other
in his mind.

“Mr. Digby,” said Claude, “take my advice. I
have thought more upon this subject, I suspect, than
you. Duelling is not right in the eyes of God; it
is against the law, against reason, against the rights
and happiness of women. Your wife—your daughter—you
cannot expose them to such a stroke
without cruelty, selfishness, and real dishonour.
Proceed no farther in this matter. Break it off altogether.
If you are a man of sense as well as a
Christian, you will see that your presence is urgently

required here to take care of your family. If
you are brave enough to die to save your name
from an unjust and absurd aspersion, you have not
the right to do so.”

“But—I have given him my card—I have told
him I would grant him any satisfaction—after this
—can I retreat? can I withdraw? can I bear the—
the—a—a—eye of the world? Won't the very—a
—boys hoot at me as I pass along?”

“What the boys or the world may do is not your
affair. I will have nothing to do with a duel. You
must seek some other friend!”

“Let me ask you one thing; upon your honour
as a gentleman, would you, in my place, refuse to
fight?”

“Upon my honour, I would.”

“And dare you assure me that you never will either
send or accept a challenge, under no matter
what circumstances?”

“I do, most solemnly.”

“And do you, as a friend, tell me that you suppose
there are other persons—respectable, good
men—who believe as you do upon the subject of
duelling, and who would not call a man a coward
because he refused to fight?”

“I do. I am certain there are many such. All
who are truly Christians on the globe will praise
you for it. All who have correct moral feelings
will support you in it. All women will bless you
for adding your influence to put out of fashion this
bloody, senseless, and terrible custom.”

“Will you carry my refusal to Lord Beaufort?
He is waiting for you at his lodgings.”

“I will. And I shall esteem myself too happy
in being instrumental in preventing such a painful
occurrence. Go, my friend, go back to your family.
Continue their protector, their guide. The
young girl who has unhappily occasioned this disagreement
is, among such men as Elkington, surrounded

by dangers from which a father's watchfulness
can only preserve her. Let no false sense
of honour cause you to desert the post where Providence
has placed you; and, for the good opinion
of men whom you despise, do not alike violate the
dictates of sense, nature, and religion.”

“I will carry arms, though!” said Digby.

“No. Carry no weapon, not even a cane. Walk
freely abroad, with no other shield than the moral
influence of a good father and an honest man.”

“And if Elkington should strike me?”

“He will commit a crime against the law, for
which I would no more be ashamed to go to the
law for redress, than I would against any other act
of fraud or ruffianism.”

“Write me a reply, then.”

Claude sat down and wrote: