University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Twilight was just coming on, when Henry left
Helen Murray. He hurried gloomily to his room, at
the hotel, and, filling himself a large glass of brandy,
he drank it, and threw himself upon his bed. In
many incoherent exclamations and curses, he vowed
vengeance on Helen Murray; and he struck his
clenched first against his brow in mortification and
rage, when he reflected, that the story would get
abroad, and all his boasting prove falsehoods. Again
he arose and drank, and again threw himself upon
the bed, with passions still more inflamed. Sometime
after night had set in, and after having swallowed
several other potations, which did not permit
him to be entirely his own master, he rang violently
for his servant, bid him brush his coat, and proceeded
to the theatre.

The first objects that met Henry's eye, on his entrance,
were Helen Murray and Mr. Davidson,
seated together. Helen was dressed with regal display,
and was in her best spirits; for while conversing
in the liveliest manner, she would acknowledge,
in some distant box, the salutation of a beau, with
her blandest smile; or gaily comment on the passing
scene, to those beside her. She sat in conscious

beauty, the admitted star of attraction to the most
fashionable men of the city. Unseen, through the
aperture in an opposite box door, Henry stood and
watched her, until maddened with jealousy, rage,
and the draughts he had taken, he had almost resolved
to enter the box and seat himself beside her.
Finding, when he made the attempt, that his courage
failed him, he proceeded upstairs to the bar-room, to
drink again. Here he met a number of his acquaintances—Stansbury,
Wraxall, and others.

“Something is the matter with Beckford,” said
Stansbury, in a whisper to Wraxall; “he has been
both drinking deep and playing deep, I expect.”

Wraxall scrutinized him as he advanced towards
them, and said:

“Yes, he is in for it. Beckford,” he continued
aloud, as Henry approached them, “where have you
been all day? Is this your first appearance? That
rich planter is below, what's his name?—with the
Murray, breezing her in fine style. I'll swear to it,
he understands the creature.”

“Damn the creatures,” exclaimed Henry, “come,
let's drink. Are there any `birds of paradise' upstairs?”
alluding to those of the sex who there do
congregate.

“Yes, a plenty of them,” replied Wraxall; “and
I see your lady fair among the rest.”

“What,” exclaimed Henry, “is she there? Come,
drink—give me brandy, waiter;” and Henry took a

deep dráught; and taking an arm of each of his companions,
he went up into the third tier.

“Beckford,” said Wraxall, as they passed up the
steps, “do you intend to let that planter take the
Murray?”

“He'll take her if he can get her, I suppose,” said
Henry; “and he may for me.”

“Sour grapes, Hal! sour grapes,” said Stansbury.

“I don't understand you, sir,” said Henry, angrily
releasing his arm from Stansbury's.

“Don't understand?” ejaculated both Wraxall
and Stansbury, “ha! ha! ha! You are dull to-night,
Beckford,” continued Wraxall.

“What do you mean by this, gentlemen?” asked
Henry, facing both alternately, as they reached the
top of the steps.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Wraxall.

“Mean,” said Stansbury; “Don't be provoked,
Hal, accidents will happen; Brummel himself was
not always successful. By gad, they do say though,
that she flung you sky high—and she shows your
letters to prove it.”

Henry turned away his face to hide his shame
and rage, and he beheld the girl of whom we spoke
enter the bar-room. Glad of a harmless object to
vent his rage on, and forgetful where he was, in the
mad, maudlin moment, and with whom he was
about quarrelling in the third tier of a theatre, Henry

grasped his rattan, and stepping up to her, said, in a
menacing tone—

“Did I not tell you not to come here to-night?”

“Don't strike me,” said the girl, in evident alarm;
“just come here, I'll tell you—”

“Did I not order you not to come here,” reiterated
Henry.

“Beckford,” said Stansbury, laying his hand on
his shoulder, and speaking in a whisper, “don't
strike her here and expose yourself; you have been
drinking—let's go below.”

But Henry shook him off, and bid him mind his
own business. By this time a crowd, attracted by
his loud voice, had gathered in the room. Unmindful
of it, Henry again asked, in a tone louder than
before,

“Did I not order you not to come here?”

“Henry Beckford,” at last exclaimed the girl, “I
am not your slave, to be ordered about by you.
And now, once for all, I won't stand it. You have
beat me already to-day; and now you may go your
way and I will go mine.”

“But you shall stand it,” exclaimed Henry. And
he sprang at her furiously, and struck her repeatedly
over the face and shoulders.

The girl was beautiful, and the crowd instantly
called out “Shame! shame!” and hissed. Regardless
of them, Henry was about repeating his blows,
when she felt hastily in her pocket, and the next
moment, before any one could arrest her arm, she

exclaimed, “I will stand it no longer,” and discharged
a pistol full at the breast of Henry Beckford.

“She has shot me, Stansbury, help! she has shot
me!” exclaimed Henry, as he fell back and was
caught by Stansbury, who stood immediately behind
him.

Amidst the confusion that instantly occurred,
Stansbury, Wraxall, and some others of Henry's
friends, with great difficulty bore him out of the
theatre. He fainted from loss of blood, or from
pain, before they could get him into a hack. He
recovered a few minutes after they had placed him
in it; and after looking around unconsciously, and
inquiring where he was, he requested them to drive
him to his lodgings at the hotel, and send for his
mother and a physician.

Meanwhile, a great excitement prevailed at the
theatre. Many of those above stairs hurried below,
to be out of harm's way; while many of those below
hurried above, to see what was the matter.
Groups of young men stood in the lobbies, boxes,
and bar-rooms, discussing the case.

The news soon reached the fashionables below,
in the shape of a rumour that a man had attempted
to beat a girl, and that she had killed him on the
spot, and that there had been a general row in consequence
thereof. It soon came in a more authentic
shape, and at last Henry Beckford's name, with the
particulars pretty much as they happened, reached

the ears of Helen Murray, through the channel of a
“damn'd good-natured friend,” of Henry's, who was
giving himself much trouble to inform their mutual
acquaintances of the fact.

“Mercy! is it possible!” exclaimed Helen, while
a pang of self-reproach darted through her bosom.
“Do, Mr. Davidson, be so kind as to learn for me
if Mr. Beckford is much hurt. Mr. Townsend (their
informant) will be my guardian until you return.”

Mr. Davidson instantly complied, but returned in
a few minutes, saying, all he could learn was, that
Mr. Beckford had been shot, and that he had fainted
as his friends were placing him in the hack, but that
they had driven off with him—taken Henry to his
lodgings, he supposed—and the result of an examination
of the wound by a physician was not known.

“This has shocked me so much, Mr. Davidson,”
said Helen, “that if my carriage is at the door I
will return home, and send and inquire how Mr.
Beckford is. O! how it will distress his poor mother
and his father.”

Mr. Davidson observed, that but a moment before
he had seen Miss Murray's carriage, at the door.
He conducted her to it, and in a few minutes she
was at home. She immediately sent a servant, first
to Henry's father's, and then to his lodgings, to inquire
how he was. The servant returned from the
latter place, and informed her that the doctor had
just examined the wound, and pronounced it a very
dangerous one.