University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

“Has he come home? Is he here? Have you
seen him? Have you heard anything of him?” were
the fearful questions from every lip as Claude returned
to his hotel.

“Madam Denham is nearly distracted,” said the
landlord. “She calls for you. Pray go to her.”

“I dare not,” said Claude, with a shudder.

“She has demanded to be informed the instant you
come in,” said the man. “She is in a state of intense
excitement and agony. She walks the floor with frantic
steps, as pale as a sheet. Sometimes she groans
and weeps, sometimes she prays. She's in a terrible
way. It's quite dreadful—and the poor little girl, too,
is so distressed. My God! what sort of a man must
her husband be, to leave her in such a condition?”

A servant here came for Mr. Wyndham. He
must go instantly to Madam Denham. It was with
a faltering heart that Claude complied with this request,
and once more approached the door where so
lately he bade adieu to the friend who, perhaps, was
now in eternity. As he did so, he heard the hasty
steps of the bereaved widow—her deep groans—her
bursting sobs. He entered. Her look made him
shudder.

“Speak!” cried she. “Charles—”

“I know nothing,” said Claude.

“Have you seen Lord Elkington?”

Claude hesitated.

“Is he living?”

“He is.”

“Oh, Mr. Wyndham, for the love of God, tell me
all. You know, I am sure you do. I can bear it
better than this suspense. Tell me—my husband is

wounded—is perhaps—” she clasped her hands with
quivering lips and sobbed convulsively—“dead!”

“I do not know. I have heard nothing distinctly.
He may be alive—”

“Oh, God bless you for that word. He may yet live.
But where is he? Why does he not return? Perhaps
he is wounded. Perhaps he is this instant dying?”

She pressed her hands against her brain.

“Ah, cruel, cruel Charles! Is it you who have abandoned
me thus? you, who have torn my heart—inflicted
these horrid pangs? I will no longer wait. I
will go seek him.”

She rushed to the door.

“My dear, dear sister,” said Ellen, “you cannot go.
You do not know where he is. You are not dressed.
If he were in the street, he would soon be here. If
not, where would you go? Stay with me, my dear,
dear sister. God will take care of us;” and the sweet
child again folded her in her arms, and pressed her
ashy cheek against her little bosom.

“He might come, too, during your absence,” said
the maid, respectfully.

“Oh yes! true!” she said, with a frightful smile.

Hours passed away as if they were ages. Noon—
evening—night—and still Denham came not—and no
news. Claude had again addressed himself to the police.
They were abroad in search of the parties, but
they could obtain no intelligence as to where they had
gone, or what had become of them. Elkington was
not at his lodgings—Lady Beverly had left town the
day before for Hamburg, as if in anticipation of some
difficulty. It was reported, too, that Elkington, early
in the morning, had also gone, but whither no one
knew. His escape had been connived at by so many
gentlemen, who thought they were aiding a gallant fellow
out of an unjust danger, that the police could get
no trace of him. Indeed, from many considerations,
they conducted the pursuit with no great activity. Although

duelling was strictly prohibited in Prussia, and
particularly by the great Frederic, whose clear mind
had seen all its folly and wickedness, the crime was
then—as we fear, alas, it is now—considered as one of
those genteel misdemeanours of which a large class of
educated, and many excellent men, are rather proud
than ashamed. The magistrate who sternly sentences
a poor, ignorant creature for having stolen wherewithal
to support fainting life, cannot condemn the passionate
fool who submits his disagreements with his
friends to the chances of mortal combat, and who shows
so little respect for himself—his adversary—society—
and God, as to stake two lives on a throw, and thus
sanction one crime by joining it with another. The
police also felt that the parties were Englishmen—
that securing a surviver in such a case would place
them in an awkward dilemma. Lord Elkington's
rank and fortune, moreover, threw a sort of exemption
over his actions in the public opinion, and it was understood
also that the injury had been words offensive
to his honour as a gentleman.

Poor Mrs. Denham. It seemed impossible that she
could endure the interminable length of this day; but
the very intensity of her apprehensions prevented her
from sinking into the insensibility which nature would
otherwise have provided for her relief. As the night
approached, her agony had reached a state of nervous
excitement, which rendered it necessary to call in a
physician; but she would take nothing, and permit no
remedies to be adopted, till she should receive direct
intelligence of Mr. Denham.

Nine o'clock struck—ten—eleven—twelve; still
Denham came not, and no news of him could be obtained.
It was now near one. The widow—for all
felt that she was such except herself, and she still
hoped—was almost deprived of her senses. At every
whisper she started, at every step in the street she
trembled. Sometimes the sound of horses' feet would
advance from the distance. Her features would light

up; the noise approached, and seemed about to stop
at the door, but went on, and was lost again in the distance;
now a shout in the street startled her—now an
oath. Sometimes she heard the tramping of the soldiers'
feet, as the guard were led round to their posts;
and once a party of riotous young men went by, and,
by a cruel coincidence, stopped immediately beneath
the window, shouting forth a glee, which was interrupted
by peals of laughter. Then they departed singing,
their voices softening as they retreated, and dying
at last utterly away; leaving, they little knew what
—silence, solitude, and despair behind them.

“Mr. Wyndham,” said Mrs. Denham, suddenly, in
a voice of sternness, which made him think her senses
were failing, “you are the cause of this!”

“My dearest madam—”

“You—coward!”

“Great Heaven!”

“You knew my husband had the heart of a lion.
You knew he couldn't see his friend abused, and you
—you meanly took a blow—a blow! a base, blasting
blow! and yet you live—coward! and he, my brave,
my noble, my lion-hearted Charles, for your infamy
has risked his life—which, God in his mercy be praised,
is but a risk. He will not perish. It is impossible.
He will come. He is wounded, doubtless, but
what do I care for wounds? He will come, or he will
send for me. I shall nurse him. He will recover;
but you, sir, must never look for his friendship again;
nor his, nor mine, nor the world's esteem, nor your
own. You are a dishonoured man. I had rather be
Elkington than you. A blow! coward!”

There was suddenly a knock at the door. Mrs.
Denham fell back in her chair, laughing hysterically.
The intruder was a messenger of the police, to know
whether any news had been received of the affair.

One o'clock. The heavy peal went floating and
quivering over the silent town, and struck into the
hearts of all present, for they now foreboded the worst.

The solemn sound, as it died away, called forth new
groans, sobs, and hysterical screams. All conversation
ceased. There was as little room for remark
as for hope or consolation. They sat like those unhappy
beings we sometimes read of on a wreck, waiting
in mute despair till the broken hulk goes down
with them for ever.

Two o'clock struck. Mrs. Denham had sunk into
a state of exhaustion, when a sharp, heavy knock announced
an end of this suspense. There was decision
in it. The door was opened by a servant, and a step
was heard in the hall, quick, light, buoyant. It approached,
and all eyes were turned towards the door.

“Ah God! he is here at last,” cried Mrs. Denham,
with a smile of ineffable happiness, and gasping for
breath. The new-comer entered. It was again a
stranger. A start of horror went round the room, and
a low shudder was heard from Mrs. Denham, who buried
her face in her hands.

“Mr. Wyndham?” said the stranger, who was a
gentleman in dress and appearance.

Claude stepped forward and recognised Beaufort.

“I beg your pardon,” said that gentleman, with a
polite smile; “will you permit me to have one word
with you?”

He cast a glance around upon the rest of the company,
but without in the least changing his manner. He
was a man of the world, and well knew what he was
going to see when he undertook the mission.

Claude followed him into an adjoining chamber.

“Devilish painful duty, my dear fellow—disagreeable
thing—in fact, d—d awkward—but—”

“Speak out, and tell me what has happened,” said
Claude, sternly; “I also have my duties.”

“Sir!” said Beaufort, “your tone is very extraordinary,
but your excitement excuses any liberty; I
promised to let you know that your friend is hurt.”

“Hurt! Oh, Beaufort! Oh, Heaven be praised!
is he only hurt?”

“Why, his wound is bad—d—d bad. He—he—in
short, he's—dead, sir.”

“Dead!” said Claude, with awe, with horror unutterable.
“Denham! my friend!”

“Yes, dead enough, sir. This is possibly rather
annoying to you. I'm devilish sorry—I am, positively.”

“Dead!” echoed Claude, the sound of his friend's
living voice ringing in his ears; his beaming, laughing
eyes flashing full before his imagination.

“To say the truth, this morning at P—. He behaved
very well—devilish well—I'm quite sure you'll
be glad to hear that. The thing was perfectly well
managed, I assure you. Perfectly. Nothing could be
handsomer or fairer. Elkington missed him the first
shot. Devilish odd, too—wasn't it? The second he
hit him. He's a terrible dog. The ball went directly
through the heart. He leaped six feet in the air,
and he was a dead man before he came down. I protest
I never saw anything so handsomely done.”

“And I am to bear this news to his wife!”

“Certainly! I've done my part. I stood by him
to the last, and have brought the corpse in town. It
will be here in—let me see, half past two—it'll certainly
be three. By-the-way, madam is a fine-looking
creature. Devilish pretty in that dress. Poor girl!
I'm devilish sorry. You'll take good care of her,
Wyndham? Egad, you're a lucky dog! Where are
you going to have the body put?”

“Did—did my friend leave me no message?”

“Oh, apropos—what a forgetful dog I am! Certainly—a
note for you.”

“Give it me.”

“Yes, devilish queer that I should forget that, as the
poor man isn't likely to trouble me with another in a
hurry. He put it in my hand the very last thing. He
behaved immensely well, positively. I really thought
at first that he was going to touch Elkington; his ball
grazed his sleeve. Elkington smoked a segar through

the whole affair. He's a capital fellow. Why—I've
lost your letter—no—yes I have—no—ah, here it is.”

“Who has the body?”

“Two men. We hired 'em to bring it in town in
the carriage. Egad! it's been all day in a windmill.
We had to disperse, you see. Elkington's gone this
morning at 12; I start to-night. I shall run over to
Carlsbad. This cursed German cuisine plays the
devil with one's stomach. Won't you smoke?”

Claude did not answer. He was reading the note
he had just received, which struck his nerves and soul
with an agony of horror and grief, traced, as it was, by
one now in the grave.

“Well—adieu,” said Beaufort. “Leben sie wohl,
mein freund! Au revoir!!”

And the young man, lighting his segar and arranging
the curls around his forehead, went out.