University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

“This,” continued Balcombe, “is the substance
of Miss Howard's communication. Now go to
sleep and dream about it, and to-morrow we will
think what is to be done.”

I would at once have entered into the discussion
of measures, but Balcombe cut me short by saying,
“What you are bound not to do in person, you
have no right to do by another. I am free to act
as I please. Leave me so, and beware of proposing
that I shall do anything; for whatever you may propose,
that I certainly will never do.”

I could reply nothing to this. I saw that with
all Balcombe's zeal for my happiness, his aid was
like some talismans of which we read in oriental
tales, the virtue of which was lost to the possessor
the moment fear entered his heart, or any temptation
turned him from the straight line of duty. I
therefore obeyed him so far as to hold my tongue.
Whether I slept much the reader will judge.

After breakfast the next day, when my mother
went to her household affairs, and Laura to her
lessons, Balcombe detained Ann in the parlour by
some slight pretence, and then kept her in chat too
busily to let her get away. I would have left
them, but I found that Jane, with a countenance
of great demureness, was fixing herself to her
work, with a full purpose to sit them out. I loitered
a moment, trying to devise some means to
draw her away, when Balcombe, with his accustomed
directness, said to Ann,

“I wish to have some private conversation with
you, my dear. Where shall it be?”

Jane instantly rose, and without raising her
eyes, began to gather up her work, saying something
about leaving the room to them, in that peculiar

tone which is meant to be soft and complying,
but which, proceeding from the lips of a woman, is
a sound that no practised ear will ever hear without
some apprehension of mischief. For my part,
I seized my gun, and betook myself to the fields;
but whether I saw hare or partridge that day,
the reader knows as well as I. As little do I know
how long I was out. It might have been a century,
or perhaps not more than half as much. It
certainly was no short time, though I am not sure
that the sun had moved more than fifteen or twenty
degrees before I returned to the house. As I entered,
Balcombe opened the parlour door and met
me with a smile and an extended hand. He took
mine, led me into the room, drew back, and closed
the door after him. Ann was there, and alone.

What passed? That, reader, you shall never
know. As a stranger, you cannot complain that
you have not enough of my confidence. I know
that there is precedent of high authority in favour
of my telling you of every word, and look, and
tear, and blush. But you must be content to know
that I left the room the plighted lover of one to
whom, the day before, I had not been at liberty to
speak even the name of love.

What passed for some days after this I do not
remember. My brain was in a whirl, my mind
in a tumult of bliss. I was greeted with the warmest
gratulations by my dear mother, who lost sight
of all prudential considerations in contemplating
the happiness of her children. Laura was perfectly

wild with delight, and even Jane felt the
necessity of trying to seem glad. She made a
poor hand of it. She was gloomy and sad, and I
thought it cost her an effort not to be peevish and
morose.

The cause of this, perhaps, may have been that
she saw nothing of Douglas. During our last visit
to Oakwood, he had paid her little attention, and
seemed wholly occupied with his attractive cousin.
Several days had now passed, and he had not
come near us. I had no right to complain that
under such circumstances Jane thought more of
herself than of me. At last he came, but in attendance
on Miss Howard. I was sitting with Ann
in the little parlour when they drove to the door.
She leaped from the barouche, and while he staid
to give some orders about the horses, ran into the
house, and entered the parlour.

One glance at Ann's blushing countenance told
her all. She stopped, and looked first at one and
then at the other, until Ann, advancing, took her
hand. Miss Howard, without speaking, stooped
to kiss her, when the timid girl suddenly bowed
her head, and hid it in the bosom of her friend.
Miss Howard caressed her tenderly, and then
looking up at me, with a smile and a tear, said,
“All right! all well! Thank God! thank God!”
She extended her hand to me, and had just disengaged
herself from Ann's embrace, when Douglas
entered. The family now collected, all but
Jane. After a while I went to look for her.

Nobody wanted to see her, she said. Besides,
she had never permitted herself to sit in the parlour
since the day she had been dismissed from
thence so cavalierly. I tried to rally away her
ill humour, and told her she was not sure she
might not have her turn in the exclusive use of
that room before night.

As it chanced, I had an opportunity to fulfil my
prediction. In the course of the evening, finding
none but her, Douglas, and myself in the room, I
went out, after casting a significant look at her,
which she answered by biting her lip, and looking
anything but amiable. What passed I never knew.
She was plainly out of humour with Douglas, and
a lover's quarrel, with its usual consequences, was
a matter of course. When we met again, I saw
that a perfect understanding had been restored,
but the countenance of Douglas showed that some
unpleasant feeling was on his mind; while Jane,
with the complacency of secret satisfaction, demurely
kept her eyes upon her work.

Once or twice I saw her glance at Balcombe
with some slight expression of malicious pleasure,
for which I was unwilling to account by attributing
such a feeling to the part he had acted between
me and Ann. Perhaps he had incurred her displeasure
by taking less notice of her than of either
her cousin or sister. But the grounds of his attachment
to Ann were natural and had been openly
avowed. No invidious distinction was implied in
his preference of one with whom he had been

domesticated when a child. As to Laura, she had
taken to Balcombe at first sight, and her playful
manners had long removed every feeling of
strangeness on his part. Jane, on the contrary,
not only to him but to every person, bore herself
habitually with an air which not only forbade any
familiar approach to herself, but seemed to rebuke
it between others. She had therefore no right to
complain, or be hurt that she did not receive more
of his attention than he had reason to believe would
be acceptable to herself. But perhaps she thought,
as I sometimes did, that Balcombe had looked on
her with an air of suspicion, and had tasked his
keen sagacity to find out what part she might have
had in weaving the tangled web which he had set
himself to unravel. But this was now past; and
having accomplished his object he had thrown himself
into our amusements and conversations like a
playful child, forgetful of the past, reckless of the
future, and intent only on the present moment.
An occasional allusion to his wife and child alone
showed that he had a thought or feeling not in
common with us all. Them he was impatient to
see; but the interval between the adjustment of
my little affair with Ann, and the session of the
chancery court at Fredericksburg, was too short
for a visit to them. It was his wish, too, to bring
them to see us, but the unsettled condition of our
affairs forbade that.

At a late hour Douglas returned to Oakwood,
leaving Miss Howard. The next morning he

came back, and handed her a letter from her brother.
She seemed a good deal moved while reading
it, but presently called for the barouche and
prepared to go home. The movement was so unexpected
as to excite some solicitude, with earnest
remonstrances from our whole party against her
departure. Jane seemed particularly uneasy, and
pressed so eagerly to know the cause of Miss
Howard's sudden departure, that I saw she hoped
to obtain, by that means, a sight of the letter that
occasioned it. She was not gratified, however;
and I thought the young lady met her expostulations
with an air in which there was something of
reproach. At length Jane made up to Douglas,
and I thought she asked the explanation of him.
His answer seemed to increase her uneasiness,
and in the close of the conference I thought I heard
him say,

“We could not have anticipated any such thing;
but his feelings are so wrought up that he cannot
stop on any middle ground. But this will not prevent
my seeing you as often as possible, though
not so often as heretofore.”

They now left us to wonder and guess; for Miss
Howard displayed great emotion at parting, expressing
strongly in some way her feelings towards
each of us; affectionate reverence for my mother,
the highest respect for Balcombe, kindness to me,
fondness to Laura, the most melting tenderness to
Ann, and a something the reverse of all these to
Jane. This last, however, was only manifested

so far as a lady may properly permit herself to
display such feelings.

The very next day, in riding out, Balcombe and
I met Howard. He looked wretchedly, was much
reduced, and the momentary flush which passed
over his face at the first encounter was succeeded
by ashy paleness. His salutation to me was
friendly, though I saw that he shrank from the
touch of a favoured rival's hand. To Balcombe
he merely bowed with stately coldness, which
seemed unnoticed by him. I now expressed my
regret that we had seen so little of him, reminded
him of our long visit, and pressed him to return it.
To all this he answered evasively at first; but at
length said,

“I perceive that my sister did not deliver my
message yesterday. It was not exactly suited to
a lady's mouth, but she might have handed you
my note. Did she do so?”

“She did not. What message could she have
been charged with which should have prevented
me from saying anything that I have now said?”

“I will tell you,” said Howard, gravely. “I
charged her to give you an assurance of my continued
esteem and friendship, but to say to you
that I could neither visit in person, nor permit her
to visit at a house, where we must meet on equal
terms, and treat as a gentleman, an impertinent
intermeddler in other men's affairs.”

I was completely thunderstruck at these words;
and Balcombe, with all his quickness, did not seem

at once to understand them. As soon as he did
he said, with perfect calmness,

“If I could perceive any motive, sir, that you
can have to fasten a quarrel on me, I should suppose
that remark was meant to apply to me.”

“You have no concern with my motives, sir,”
said Howard. “It is enough for you to know that
the remark was meant for you. But I have no
need, it seems, to tell you that. Conscience was
beforehand with me, and leaves nothing for me but
to punish the offence.”

“Mr. Howard,” replied Balcombe, speaking
with measured deliberation, “I have heretofore
cherished a high respect for you, and the most perfect
good will. I should now be loath to be angry
at anything you may say under the influence of a
distempered excitement. But it is necessary to
admonish you, sir, that he who attempts to inflict
unmerited punishment, must himself be punished.”

During the first part of Balcombe's speech,
Howard had permitted his countenance to relax
into cool scorn, at what perhaps seemed to him an
ill-timed expression of regard. The last three
words, and the startling coldness of the emphasis
upon them, completely undeceived him, and threw
him into a paroxysm of rage.

“Punishment, sir!” exclaimed he. “Do you
talk of punishment to me?”

“Such punishment as you talked of to me, sir,
exactly such as you propose to inflict, just such
shall recoil on your own head.”

“I understand you, sir,” said Howard. “For
the sake of a paltry advantage you would affect to
consider me the party aggrieved. You are welcome
to it, sir, if you think that any call that I can
make upon you will discharge the indignity which
I have just hurled in your teeth. I repeat, sir,
that you are an impertinent intermeddler in other
men's affairs.”

“And I,” said Balcombe, “must be savage indeed
if I could wish to add to the torture which a
man bred in the school of honour must endure,
when he comes to reflect on having uttered what
he knows to be false.”

“False, sir!” exclaimed Howard, foaming with
rage.

“False, sir,” said Balcombe. “Your sister's
ingenuousness is my pledge that she told you what
passed between us. You know of my relation to
Ann and William Napier. Therefore you know
that what you have said is false.”

“It is well, sir,” said Howard, recovering himself.
“I am glad that you will soon know that I
have not sought to withhold the advantage which
you have endeavoured to secure by this insolence.”

He now touched his hat, and moved on
haughtily.

“I am sorry for that young fellow,” said Balcombe.
“His life has been one of such prosperity,
that he is utterly incapable of bearing disappointment.
His unquestioned right to everything he

has wanted heretofore, makes him imagine that he
must be wronged when any wish is not gratified.
He is obviously quite beside himself; and if I am
to judge by his last speech, he has already entered
on some course of measures to obtain redress for
his imagined wrong.”

“How do you infer that?” asked I.

“He seems,” said Balcombe, “to think that I
wished to bandy insults with him, that I might
secure to myself the privilege of the challenged
party, and this, I understand, his magnanimity has
already accorded to me.”

“Good God!” exclaimed I, “is it possible he has
been guilty of such folly?”

“The man is mad,” said Balcombe, “and must
be dealt with as a madman.”

Arriving at home, we found Douglas there. He
was chatting with the ladies, and seemed more
than usually gay. Premonished, however, as to
the purpose of his visit, I discovered that he had
something on his mind, and was not surprised to
see him seize an occasion to speak apart to Balcombe,
and slip a note into his hand. I guessed
the nature of it, and soon gave the latter an opportunity
to speak to me.

“As I conjectured,” said he, putting the paper
into my hand. “This pampered child of fortune
has actually summoned me to the field.”

“Surely,” said I, “you don't mean to fight on
such a fool's quarrel as this?”

“Had I not been personally insulted this morning,”

said Balcombe, “I might have thought it my
duty to find some pacific means of bringing the
young man to his senses; as it is, he must take his
course, until he brings up with the consequences of
his own folly.”

“Say rather madness,” said I. “He is incapable
of anything so silly or unjust as this would be
considered as the act of a man in his right mind.
It is perfect phrensy.”

“You say right,” said Balcombe, “and I must
therefore not indulge the idea of punishing it. But
I must do the best I can to do myself justice with
out hurting him.”

“And what will that be?” asked I.

“Let time and circumstances decide,” said Balcombe.
“Mean time speak with Douglas, and tell
him, that after what passed to-day, I waive all the
privileges of a challenged party, and not only accord
to Mr. Howard the satisfaction he claims, but
leave it to him to decide on all the circumstances
of time, place, and mode.”

“Do you not make an important and gratuitous
concession?”

“Not at all,” said Balcombe. “I shall not fight
to humour this foolish boy. I do it only to redeem
my own honour, and that is not to be done by half
measures. I shall therefore give him all the game
into his own hands, and let him play it as he will.”

“This is provoking,” said I, “that one man's
folly should have power to neutralize the wisdom
of another.”

“It cannot be helped,” said Balcombe. “As
long as God is pleased to send fools into the world,
they must be treated according to their folly. We
must defend ourselves against all noxious animals,
each according to his nature, and that of his attack.
A helmet is no defence against a rattlesnake, nor
can all the wisdom of man protect his honour from
the poisonous breath of insult, but by showing a
spirit to repel and chastise it.”

“Still,” said I, “at your time of life, and with
your established character, it seems superfluous to
incur a peril which may leave your wife and child
without a protector. I do wish, therefore, you
would authorize me to try to accommodate this
matter with Douglas.”

“I have no objection,” said Balcombe, “to your
listening to any suggestions Mr. Douglas may make,
but none must come from us. I dare say he begins
to repent of the hand he has had in this foolish
business, but he must pacify his own conscience as
he may. As to my wife, were the peril real and
formidable, she would never have me shrink from
it. But there is no danger, in fact, and I am half
ashamed to see that you are giving me great credit
for coolness, and all that, when there is nothing at
all to jar my nerves.”

“The idea is new to me,” said I, “that there is
no danger in such rencounters.”

“They are dangerous enough,” said Balcombe,
“but little so to a man whose familiarity with
greater dangers has given him command of his

nerves and weapons, unless he meets one having
the same advantages.”

“He is a capital shot,” said I.

“I dare say he is,” replied Balcombe; “but the
skill of a man who can shake with rage as he did
to-day is of little avail. He who cannot command
one feeling has but little power over any other. I
don't mean to question Mr. Howard's courage. I
have no doubt he is brave. But the bravery which
shall enable a man to possess all his faculties in
danger, is not commonly found in men who have
never had to contend with their own passions.
But enough of this. You must see Douglas and
arrange preliminaries.”

I did see Douglas, and communicated Balcombe's
resolution. He seemed surprised that he
should renounce his privilege, but saw the sufficiency
of his motive as soon as I told him what had
passed in the morning.

“At least,” said he, “I shall give Howard a
little advantage as possible. Indeed none; as
shall name pistols, and I presume Mr. Balcombe is
a good shot. But I must ask the liberty to be
present when you communicate the result of our
conference. I don't expect he will offer any objection,
but I may discover if anything is unacceptable
to him, and take occasion to change it.”

We accordingly made a formal set of regulations
by which the proposed combat was to be governed,
of which each took a copy, and giving a hint to
Balcombe, we all walked out together. I the

handed Balcombe the paper, which he read without
suggesting any difficulty. As we were about to
separate, however, he said,

“Mr. Douglas, it is but fair to tell you that you
have perhaps given me an advantage of which I
ought not to avail myself. I see you limit us to
fire after one and not after three. Now, sir, I am
so quick a shot, that this short notice is altogether
in my favour.”

“I admire your frankness, sir,” said Douglas,
“and at your suggestion will substitute five for
three; but my friend will perhaps have no more
occasion for the additional time than you.”

“Perhaps not,” said Balcombe; and drawing
his pistol at the moment, he cocked it, threw a
dollar into the air, and struck it as it fell.[1]

“You see,” said he to the astonished Douglas,
“that I have dealt fairly with you. This is not
done by way of bravado, to be reported to Mr.
Howard. On the contrary, on his behalf I advise,
and on my own I beg, that you will say nothing of
it to him.”

“You are right, sir,” said Douglas; “I will be
silent; and the time shall be enlarged from three
to five.”

The hour was now fixed for twelve o'clock the

next day, during our morning ride, at a place convenient
to both parties; and Balcombe, leaving us,
returned to the house alone.

“This is a foolish business, William,” said
Douglas.

“It is so,” I replied, “and I am afraid you have
had some hand in it.”

“I fear so too,” said he, “though I have earnestly
endeavoured to prevent it. But there is a
desperation in Howard's feelings that will hear no
reason. I had no idea that he would be so moved
at the information that I gave him, especially as,
his own pretensions being withdrawn, he had
really no right to take offence.”

“And what information did you give him?” I
asked.

“Only what Jane told me, that the match between
you and Ann was brought about by Balcombe's
interference.”

“And did Jane tell you that?”

“Yes. She had no time to give particulars;
but when I inquired how the barrier which prevented
your approach to Ann on that subject had
been removed, she gave me that answer.”

“Where you aware of that barrier?” said I.

“I was.”

“By what means?”

“From Jane.”

What could I say to this? Jane was my sister,
and Douglas but an instrument in her hands. He
had, indeed, made her fault his own, but I could

never hold him responsible for it. I could but be
mortified and hurt, and bear my mortification in
silence. Indeed, seeing no motive for Jane's conduct,
and not suspecting that it could spring from
the mere wantonness of causeless malice, I could
only attribute it to indiscretion. At least I should
have been glad to do so; but I could not help
remembering that her whole manner showed that
she took little interest in my happiness, and had
thoughts and feelings of her own, of which none
of the family were made partakers.

My uneasiness at the probable consequence of
the adventure was of course increased at finding
that it had had its origin in the folly of my own
sister, and I thought with horror of the punishment
she had perhaps prepared for herself. Of all this
I could say nothing to Douglas. His esteem was
necessary to her happiness, and the care of that
was still my duty.

He left us after dinner, and returned to Oakwood.
I passed the evening and night in great
uneasiness; but Balcombe was calm and cheerful
as usual, and slept like an unweaned child.