George Balcombe a novel |
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| 20. | CHAPTER XX. |
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 | CHAPTER XX. George Balcombe |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
Bear it, that the opposer may beware of you.
Shakespeare.
In the morning, as we rode together to the
ground, he said to me,
“I see you feel some solicitude on my account,
and more, perhaps, on that of your friend Howard.
I will tell you, therefore, that I don't mean to hurt
him, or to let him hurt me.”
“The first,” said I, “depends on your will, but
how will you guard against the other?”
“Quite easily,” he replied. “Our pistols are to
be held perpendicular until the word `one' is uttered;
and I have no doubt that I can strike his
from his hand before he can bring it down.”
“Will you not throw away your fire on a ticklish
experiment?” said I.
“If it were doubtful,” replied he, “I would not
hazard it. I would make his arm my mark, and,
as it is, I shall take care if I miss the pistol to strike
that. I stipulated to have the time prolonged on
purpose that he might not be hurried. Douglas
will certainly advise him not to contend vainly for
deliberately after drawing my fire. So be under
no uneasiness on my account.”
We reached the ground in time. Douglas and
Howard were there already. The latter seemed
quite resolute, but his air was haughty and constrained,
and his manner rather cold than simply
cool. Balcombe, on the contrary, was bland, courteous,
and easy in his deportment, displaying the
same unpretending simplicity of character which
always graced his noblest actions. The one either
required, or thought he required an effort to
command himself. The other made none, and
needed none.
The ground was measured, and the parties
posted. Douglas gave the word; and hardly had
it reached my ear before I heard the report of Balcombe's
pistol, and saw that of Howard fly from
his grasp. I perceived by the twitching of his fingers,
that the hand was, for the time, disabled by
the jar, but he immediately asked for another pistol.
I now said, in a low voice, to Douglas,
“Are you aware that that shot was not accidental?”
“How do you mean?” said he.
“I mean that Balcombe told me he would do
exactly what he has done, and the precision of his
shot shows that the life of Howard was absolutely
in his power.”
“You say true,” said Douglas. “Howard must
know this.”
He accordingly approached his friend, and told
him in a low voice what I had said. I never saw
mortification and perplexity greater than the countenance
of Howard displayed at this communication.
At length he said aloud,
“I see, gentlemen, that I can go no further with
this business. But I am sensible I ought not to
accept my life at Mr. Balcombe's hands without
making an apology, which, wronged as I am, I do
not in my conscience feel to be due.”
On hearing this I turned to Balcombe, whose
countenance, now for the first time, showed resentment.
I asked him privately whether he would
insist on an apology from Howard.
“None is necessary,” said he. “But to him I
do not say so. I am here at his bidding. I promised
that his proposed punishment should recoil
on his own head, and I shall not help him to escape
or mitigate it.”
I was now asked if Mr. Balcombe required an
apology, and replied that Mr. Balcombe had no
answer to give.
“What did he propose?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he wish another fire?”
“To that he had no answer to give.”
The perplexity of Howard was now at its
height; and he at length sought to escape it by
saying that if Mr. Balcombe would do nothing
else, the business for which he came must go on.
To this Balcombe only replied by coolly holding
course, I did not give him. Howard had received
his before his friend had been informed of Balcombe's
intention; but Douglas insisted on knowing
whether Mr. Balcombe would fire at Howard.
To this question he received no answer, and then
declared that the affair should proceed no further.
Howard immediately, with an impatient gesture,
turned, moved a step or two, and then went back
to Douglas. Balcombe remained stationary. Observing
this, I said to him, that Mr. Howard having
left his post, he was at liberty to do so too.
“I am aware of what Mr. Howard has done,”
said Balcombe; “but, as I don't mean to govern
myself by his example, I shall stay here until I
am discharged by the voice of his friend.”
“You are discharged, sir,” said Dougals, giving
his hand to Balcombe. “You have done all that
becomes a gentleman.”
“Then,” said Balcombe, without moving, “I
have done nearly all that I proposed. But I have
kept my promise to Mr. Howard but in part.
The full weight of the punishment he proposed for
me must now fall on his own head. I will now say
that I ask no acknowledgment from him. I have
no need to ask it. If he is satisfied without redressing
the wrong he imagines he has received,
or acknowledging that which he has actually done,
it is his affair, not mine. It is enough for me to
know that Mr. Howard can have no doubt that the
injurious language applied by him to me is not
his admitting this. That is a matter which concerns
his own honour. Mine is clear.”
While Balcombe said this, Howard stood pale
and ghastly, with his eyes fixed on the ground.
During the last sentence he lifted them, and glared
wildly on Balcombe, and then turning fiercely on
Douglas, said,
“How is this, sir? Is it in your keeping that
my honour has been tarnished?”
“Had you acted by my advice, Henry,” replied
Douglas, “I should hold myself bound to answer
that question.”
“By your advice!” cried Howard. “And was
it not by your advice I left my post?”
“Yes,” said Douglas; “but against my consent
you first took it. But if you think your honour
can be cleared by lifting your hand against the
life of one who has given you yours, you can resume
it. Mr. Balcombe is still at his post.”
“My life! my life!” cried Howard, furiously.
“And is it that paltry boon, the enforced acceptance
of which has bound me hand and foot to submit
to dishonour and insult?”
Saying this, he suddenly turned his pistol against
himself. It was not cocked, and Douglas, wresting
it from his hand, fired it in the air. The fury
of Howard was now uncontrollable, and he was
restrained with difficulty from doing mischief to
himself or others. His impotent struggles at length
exhausted the violence of his passion. He sunk
to be led by Douglas to his barouche, and carried
home.
On our part we took the road to Craiganet.
Balcombe rode a while in silence, and at length
said,
“I can never be thankful enough to Heaven for
having been enabled to save myself without hurting
that unfortunate young man. I only regret
having said so much before I discovered his situation.”
“What have you discovered?” I asked.
“That he is actually mad,” said Balcombe;
“unequivocally mad. You will find it so. His
disappointment has shaken his brain, and his phrensy
would naturally turn itself against you or me.”
This idea had not occurred to me before; but I
now clearly saw that it was well founded, and rejoiced
with Balcombe at his forbearance. We
reached home too early to give occasion to any
remark on our absence; and, but for my concern
on account of poor Howard, I should again have
enjoyed without alloy the pleasures which flow
from the perennial fountain of love avowed, approved,
and reciprocated. There was, indeed, another
drawback. I could not consider Jane as the
intentional author of the mischief that had been
done, but her cold selfishness, her heartless indifference
to the happiness of her friends, her ingratitude
for Balcombe's generous zeal in our service,
and her peevish disposition to take offence at everything
were sources of deep mortification. What
effect the discovery of what had just passed might
have upon her I could not anticipate. It could
not change her nature, but I did hope it might
bring her to a sense of her fault, and dispose her
to live in future not so wholly for and in herself.
Her very attachment to Douglas seemed, indeed,
but a modification, and a slight one, of her ruling
principle of self-love. Decidedly his superior in
intellect, she exercised over him an influence
which seemed exerted only for her own gratification.
Indeed, her chief delight appeared to be in
the amusement she found in playing on his feelings.
She was well-pleased to make him happy;
but if that could not be, the next best thing was to
make him miserable. That she should form no
part in the happiness or misery of any with whom
she had to do, and of him especially, was what she
could not bear. That he should be either grave
or gay, merry or mad, or neither, without her
agency or in spite of her, was nothing short of
high treason. Poor fellow! the spell was upon
him, and he could not break it. She had talent,
accomplishment, beauty, address, and tact; and it
was vain to expect that he should ever escape
from her toils. He was much her junior, too; a
circumstance that, up to a certain age, much increases
a woman's power over her lover. As her
brother, I was glad to have his constancy thus secured;
as his friend, I might have regretted it.
man, he had not the qualities which I would choose
in a friend, though I could not object to him as a
future brother-in-law.
We saw nothing of him for a day or two, nor
did we hear directly from Oakwood. A flying
rumour, indeed, reached us, that Howard was ill
and delirious. Of the truth of this Balcombe and
I had little doubt; but it was our cue to seem to
disregard it. At last the intelligence came direct
in a note from Douglas to Jane, excusing his absence.
My mother immediately urged me to visit
Howard. I made such objections as I could without
hinting at the truth, but they were overruled.
I could ascertain whether the sight of me might
have an injurious effect, and keep myself aloof, if
necessary. I went, accordingly, and at the door
was met by Miss Howard, who seemed in the
greatest distress.
“For God's sake, Mr. Napier,” said she, “what
can be the matter? My poor brother raves continually
about Ann, and you, and Mr. Balcombe,
and dirks, and pistols, and duels; and seems, at
times, bent even on self-destruction. Surely he
has not been so unreasonable as to quarrel with
you?”
“Not at all,” said I, “I have seen him, and we
parted on the most friendly terms.”
“His pique against Mr. Balcombe,” said Miss
Howard, “is the most unaccountable thing; and if
it is not altogether the effect of the disorder of his
disables him to prosecute his revenge.”
I now inquired for Douglas, and ascertained that
the tone of Howard's ravings generally softened
whenever my name occurred to him, and that he
seemed to connect me in his imagination with the
happiness of Ann, of whom he always spoke with
the most melting tenderness. We thence inferred
that the sight of me might be rather beneficial to
him than otherwise. I accordingly proposed to
Douglas to conduct me to his room.
I found him in bed, pale and squalid, with his
hands and face besmeared with blood, which I
supposed had been taken from his arm. As I entered,
he looked at me with a stupid, vacant gaze,
in which there was little of recognition, and, as I
approached the bed, held out his hand in silence.
I took it, and he, grasping mine, continued to keep
his eye upon me. For a moment a glimpse of
meaning gleamed in it, and then relapsing into the
same appearance of stolidity, he let go my hand,
and hid his under the bedclothes. I seated myself
by him, and remained silent. In a few minutes
he turned to me, and said, in a deep, hoarse
whisper,
“Did you say she was well?”
“She is,” said I, guessing at his meaning.
“And happy?” added he.
“As happy,” said I, “as her concern for your
illness will permit.”
“Her concern for me!” he exclaimed, with a
she is concerned for me,” he added, in a touching
tone. “She is so good. But she must not mind
me. She must be happy. I am well—very
well.”
Saying this, he raised himself, and seemed about
to leave his bed, when he fell back dizzy with loss
of blood. Indeed, I ascertained that the calm state
in which I found him had been the effect of profuse
and repeated bleeding, which had left him
utterly exhausted. I learned, also, that he had
passed several days without sleep, and that anodynes
had been administered which appeared to
have composed him. The doctor, it seemed, looked
to sleep as his great auxiliary, and his efforts now
were to bring that to his aid.
Finding the effect of my presence not injurious,
I determined to spend the night by his bedside, and
give poor Douglas a chance to snatch some repose.
I accordingly obtained the necessary instructions,
and after supper took my post for the night. My
patient continued until a late hour to oscillate between
stupor and occasional fits of excitement.
At length after midnight he sank into a profound
sleep. About daylight I roused Douglas, and went
to bed. It was near noon when I awoke, and
Howard still slept. When I entered his room he
lay still and pale, and but for his low deep breathing
I should have thought him dead. I was impatient
to see him open his eyes, for I could not look
at him without fearing he might never open them
pulse of the patient, pronounced that he was doing
well, and encouraged us to hope he would awake
in his senses.
He was not mistaken. Howard at length slowly
opened his eyes, and looked around the room with
a countenance intelligent and calm, though bewildered.
He looked inquiringly at every person
present, then at his hands, and at the bloody bedclothes,
and at length said,
“What does all this mean? Have I been ill?”
Being told that he had been, he asked a few
more questions, the answers to which seemed to
awaken a sort of dreaming recollection. After
musing some minutes, he requested all to leave the
room but Douglas and me. Then turning to him
he said,
“How is this, Angus? How much of this is
true—how much a dream?”
“I cannot tell that,” said Douglas; “but you
have been ill, and delirious many days.”
“Then I have perhaps imagined it all?”
He relapsed into silence, and at length with
some quickness asked for his pistols. Douglas
brought him one.
“The other! the other!” said he. “I want
both.”
Douglas now handed him the other, which had
been shattered by Balcombe's ball. It had struck
near the lock, and torn it off. As Howard looked
eyes he said,
“It was no dream. Where is Mr. Balcombe?
Not hurt! was he? I hope not. I think not.
Perhaps I don't remember all things aright.”
“He is well,” said I, “and will be glad to learn
that you are better.”
“I thank him,” said Howard. “He is a noble
fellow. Have I not acted foolishly, wickedly,
madly? I fear so. I wish to see Mr. Balcombe
and tell him so. I must learn to love him for her
sake.”
He now held out his hand to me and grasped
mine feebly. A tear rose to his eye as he said,
“I once thought to love you, William, for my
sister's sake. But you must be still dearer to me
now. You must make her happy, William, and
when she sheds a tear to my memory, tell her I
died blessing her, and her tears will not be bitter.”
He was again silent. After a few minutes he
spoke again.
“I have been selfish and unjust,” said he. “Will
not Mr. Balcombe come to see me? I have no
right to ask it, but I wish to take him by the hand,
and hear him say he forgives my insolence. I
remember something of it, but I fear not all. I
remember, too, he acted nobly, and shamed me
into the dust. But I deserved it. Did I not?”
“You were not yourself, Henry. We are all
now sensible of that. Mr. Balcombe was the first
to discover it. He has no unkind feeling towards
can see him.”
We now prevailed on Howard to take some
nourishment, and a servant was despatched to
Craiganet to say that he was better, and expressed
a wish to see Balcombe. I enforced this request
by a note which removed all Balcombe's difficulties,
and he came next morning. Another night's
rest had completely calmed Howard's mind, and
he now seemed to distinguish clearly between
those recollections in which he could, and those in
which he could not trust his memory. There was,
indeed, a cloud on all that had happened, since
the day he left Craiganet a discarded suitor;
and he obtained from Douglas an exact account
of all.
When Balcombe arrived, he was immediately
conducted to Howard's room. Miss Howard was
present when he entered. She was the first to
greet him with great cordiality. He then approached
Howard, who holding out his hand, said,
“This is very kind, Mr. Balcombe. I take your
visit as a pledge that I am forgiven. But it will
be gratifying to me, because it will humble my
pride, to hear you say so.”
Balcombe now, with the utmost delicacy, gave
him the desired assurance, telling him he had no
idea that he could be justly blamed for anything
he did in the distempered condition of his mind.
“But you were not aware of that at the time,
and therefore my gratitude must be measured by
that it is due to Mr. Balcombe's magnanimity that
you still have a protector. I will not offend his
delicacy by telling the story in his presence, but
you must know all. Angus must tell you all.”
Miss Howard turned an inquiring look on Balcombe,
but he merely smiled and shook his head,
saying,
“A foolish quarrel; nothing more.”
“Yes, there was much more,” said Howard;
“and when you know all, Margaret, you must
thank Mr. Balcombe for me as he deserves.”
“I do thank him,” said the young lady. “I know
he deserves all my thanks.”
Saying this, she left the room. I returned home,
and Balcombe remained all night. The next day
I returned to relieve Balcombe, but was told by
the doctor that the presence of my friend was of
great advantage to Howard, and that he had prevailed
on him to stay there. Indeed it was delightful
to see how the mind of Howard calmed itself
under the mild ministrations of Balcombe, and
how the originality of his thoughts, and the vividness
of his conceptions and language, took possession
of the faculties of the patient, and wiled him
away from all subjects of painful reflection. There
was, indeed, a healthfulness in the action of Balcombe's
mind, which seemed to impart itself to all
he associated with, dispelling phantasies, and healing
sickly sensibilities as if by magic. His philosophy
was nothing but plain common sense. The
The time now approached when it would be
necessary to attend the chancery court at Fredericksburg.
A few days before a letter was received
from Major Swann, saying that he had intended
to go to Fredericksburg, and there prepare his
answer, but that his health would not permit it.
As it was desirable to me that this document should
be full and clear, I had expressed a wish to see it
before filing. He therefore proposed that Balcombe
and I should return to Raby Hall, and take
with us a professional gentleman of the major's
acquaintance to prepare the answer. I determined,
therefore, to set out immediately, and would
have asked the company of Balcombe, but that I
saw he was become a sort of necessary of life to
Howard. We parted, therefore, with an agreement
to meet the night before court in Fredericksburg.
Balcombe also requested, that as there
would be no longer any need of John's services
at Raby Hall, I would send him to Craiganet.
“I have no particular use for him,” said he,
“but I like to have him about me. He is quick
and apprehensive, and I am never at a loss when
I have him with me. Besides, I have been listening
to good English so long, that I begin to long
for some of his stories told in his own terse
dialect.”
| CHAPTER XX. George Balcombe | |