Kate Beaumont :: :: University of Virginia Library

Meeting the head of the family, he took
his arm, led him out upon the lawn in front
of the house, and asked, “Beaumont, when
is this affair between Vincent and Wallace
McAlister to come off?”

“O, so you have heard of it!” stared
Beaumont. “I am sorry. Come off? I understand
it is to be day after to-morrow.”

“It is a very unfortunate business, Beaumont.
Under the circumstances, doubly
unfortunate. Only a few days ago Frank
McAlister saved Kate's life. And now
Frank's brother and Kate's brother are to
shoot each other.”

“Yes, by heavens it is unfortunate!”
admitted Beaumont with loud candor, very
creditable to him. “It 's a devilish ugly
piece of business, under the circumstances.
It 's, by heavens, the awkwardest thing in
my experience. I wish it had n't happened.
I wish — under the circumstances, you
understand — that Vincent was honorably
out of it. That insolent, boorish, blasted
McAlister ought to apologize. A more
villanous, brutal insult I never heard of.
Calling a Beaumont no gentleman! Good
heavens!” Here his eyebrows bristled,
and he breathed short and hard with rage.
“But, under the circumstances, I would
say take his apology,” he resumed. “Yes,
Colonel, I 've come to that. I have, indeed.”

And Mr. Beaumont seemed to think he
had come a long way in the path of peace
and good-will toward men.

“But, if no apology arrives, then what?”
gravely inquired the octogenarian.

“Why then, I don't see — What can
Vincent do? He 's pinned. No getting
out of it. Must go out. Good heavens! I
don't want him to fight. But a gentleman
can't accept such language. You know as
well as I do, Colonel, that he can't.”

“But under the circumstances,” persisted
Kershaw, not domineeringly, but meditatively.

“Yes, I know, — the circumstances,”
almost groaned Beaumont. “We are under
obligations to those people. First time,
by heavens! But so it is. And, as I said,
I 'd like to have the thing settled, of course
honorably.”

He was not a little in awe of the old
gentleman. Kershaw had long ago fought
duels, and, moreover, he had served gallantly
in the war of 1812; thus he was a
chevalier sans reproche in the eyes of fighting
men, and even Beaumonts must respect
his record. Such a gentleman, too; he

could no more counsel an unworthy deed
than he could do it; it was not supposed
that he could so much as conceive of anything
dishonorable. And here he was meditating,
and evidently meditating how to
stop the duel, and so keeping his son-in-law
on the anxious seat. At last came his
decision, uttered in the impressive tones of
old age, — tones which gave it the weight
of an oracle.

“I think, Beaumont, that, considering
what we owe to the McAlisters, Vincent
might honorably withdraw the challenge, assigning
our obligation as the cause of the
withdrawal.”

“You don't mean it!” gasped Beaumont.
“Withdraw the challenge! Why, Colonel,
— why, good heavens!”

All his respect for the old man (and he
did respect him above any other being that
he knew of) could hardly keep him from
exploding with anger.

“That is my advice,” proceeded Kershaw,
gently. “You know who I am and
what my opinion is worth. I solemnly believe
that, in withdrawing the challenge on
that ground, Vincent would not only do a
gentlemanly thing, but would do the only
thing that a gentleman in his position should
do.”

Beaumont was cowed by this great authority,
and, after some further ejaculations,
lapsed into perplexed silence.

“Are you willing, my dear Beaumont,
that I should advise Vincent to this step?”
inquired the Colonel.

“Well, well, have it your own way,” returned
the other, a little impatiently. “You
ought to know; of course you do know. I
put the whole matter in your hands. You
have my consent, if you can get Vincent's.
But for God's sake, Colonel, remember that
the honor of the family is in your hands.”

He writhed as if he were handing over
his whole fortune to be the gage of some
more than doubtful speculation.

“If the step is taken, I will make it known
that it is taken by my advice,” promised
Kershaw.

“Ah!” breathed Beaumont, much relieved.

“Who is Vincent's second?” asked the
Colonel.

“Bentley Armitage. And there — speak
of the Devil, you know — there he comes.
Well now, you won't mind my quitting
you; you won't take it hard, Kershaw? I
don't object to your proposition; but I
don't want to be responsible for it.”

“I thank you, Beaumont, for letting me
assume the responsibility.”

And so they parted, the Honorable dodging
shamefacedly into the house, and the
Colonel advancing to meet Armitage.

“Colonel, good evening,” was the young
man's easy salute. “Glad to see you looking
so hearty, sir.”

“You are well, I hope, sir?” bowed Kershaw.
“And your brother and his wife?”

“All peart, I thank you. Never better.”

Bentley was a tall young man, rather too
slender to be well built, with a swinging,
free-and-easy carriage. He had a round
face, a moderately dark complexion, a deep
and healthy color, coarse and long chestnut
hair, and a small curling mustache. The
smile with which he spoke was a very curious
one, being marked by a drawing up of
the right corner of his mouth into the
cheek, which gave it an almost unpleasantly
quizzical expression. There was something
odd, something provincial, or one
might say old-fashioned, in his tone of voice
and pronunciation; but you were disposed
to infer from his manner that this peculiarity
was the result of an affectation, rather than
of a lack of habit of good society. It was
evident enough that he used such rural
terms as “peart” and “hearty” in the way
of slang.

“Excuse me, Mr. Armitage, for being
direct with you,” said Kershaw. “I understand
that you are the second of Vincent in
this affair with Wallace McAlister.”

“Just so, Colonel,” replied Bent, striding
along beside the old man, and speaking
as composedly as if it were a question of
possum-hunting. His gait, by the way, was
singular, his right foot coming down at every
step with a slap, as if it were an ill-hung
wooden one. This was the result of a shot
received in a duel (he generally spoke of it
as his snake-bite), which had caused a partial
paralysis of the lifting muscle.

Kershaw now repeated what he had said
to Beaumont, advising and urging that Vincent
should withdraw his challenge.

“I don't think that cock would fight,
Colonel,” coolly judged Bentley. “I allow
due weight to the motive which you suggest.
It is a hefty one. But withdrawing a challenge,
without a previous withdrawal of the
affront, is a step which has no sufficing precedent,
at least so far as I know. I presume
that, if it were left to my principal, he
would not consent to it.”

“I am speaking with the knowledge of
Mr. Beaumont senior,” continues the patient
and persevering peacemaker. “Have
you any objection to my discussing this
point with Vincent in your presence?”

“Not the slightest, Colonel. Walk this
way. We 'll nose him out in the oak grove,
I reckon. You see, Colonel, aside from
other considerations, this move might be
taken advantage of by the McAlisters.
They might do bales of bragging over it.
Just imagine old Antichrist blowing his
trumpet.”

“Who?” inquired the elder, with a puzzled
and rather shocked stare.

“I beg pardon. I mean Judge McAlister.
It 's a poor joke which pleases our friend,
Mr. Beaumont. — It 's a compliment to
your mas'r, anyway,” he added with a
smile, addressing Miriam, who was just then
passing the couple.

“Ah, Mars Bent!” replied the pious
negress. “You best quit that kind o' jokin'
befo' you gits into t' other world. You may
laugh on t' other side o' your mouf yet,
Mars Bent.”

Bentley took his reproof good-humoredly,
curling up his odd smile into the dimple of
his right cheek, and nodding pleasantly to
Miriam.

“There 's Vincent,” was his next remark.
“Hul-loo, there! Hold your horses. — Colonel,
excuse me for yelling. My clapper
does n't work well to-day. I mean my
right foot; it flops more than usual. I call
it my clapper, and the other one my clipper.”

“Can't that trouble be cured?” inquired
Kershaw, with honest interest.

“Don't suppose it. In fact, know it can't.
I am doctor enough to know that.”

Yes, Bentley was a physician; had graduated
at Philadelphia. By the way, it is
perfectly amazing how many medical gentlemen
there are in the South. A literary
friend tells me that, during a six months'
experience among the smaller towns and
ruder taverns of the slave States, he slept
with nearly a hundred doctors. Concerning
Bentley it is almost needless to add, that,
being a planter of considerable means, he
never prescribed, except for his own negroes.

“I should be very glad to obtain your
influence on the side of peace in this affair,”
continued Kershaw. “We are both connections
of the family.”

“Exactly, Colonel,” answered Bentley,
remembering with the utmost nonchalance
that his brother Randolph was the husband
of Peyton Beaumont's eldest daughter.
“Well, I will say this much, that I 've no
objection to any course that my principal
will accept.”

Half disgusted with this cool and irreverent
youngster, Kershaw pushed on in
thoughtful silence, and soon met Vincent.

“A proposition,” was Bentley's brief introduction
to the matter in hand. “The
Colonel has something to suggest which I
approve of his suggesting.”

Vincent, his habitual ironical smile dismissed
for the present, bowed respectfully,
and listened without a word until the old
man had stated his proposition. When he
spoke it was with a perfectly calm demeanor
and a bland finish of intonation.

“It appears to me that I am called upon
to subordinate myself too entirely to the —
we will say duties of the family. After I
have obtained my personal reparation from
Mr. Wallace McAlister, I am willing to
enter into an expression of our common
obligation to Mr. Frank McAlister. What
does my second think?”

“Just to oblige the Colonel,” explained
Bentley, “I agree to throw the affair entirely
out of my hands, and replace it entirely
in yours. That is, with your permission,
you understand. So why not play
your own cards, Vincent?”

“Come into the house, gentlemen,”
begged the Colonel.

“Why so?” asked Vincent.

“The affair is a family affair. I must
beg leave to insist upon that view of it. It
is so complicated with family obligations
and proprieties, that it cannot be treated
separately. Such is my opinion and such
will be public opinion. Let me beg of you
to discuss it in family council. I ask this as
a personal favor. I ask it as a great favor.”

If Kershaw's request was a strange one,
and if he supported it by neither precedent
nor sufficient argument, it must be remembered
that he was very old and very good,
and was, in short, the most venerable being
whom these two young men knew. After a
brief hesitation, Vincent nodded an unwilling
assent, and the three walked back to the
house. Passing the door of the dining-room,
Bentley Armitage, who was lagging a
little behind the others because of his
“snake-bite,” was arrested by a vision.
Kate was looking out upon him, beautiful
enough to fascinate him and eager enough
to flatter him.

“Mr. Armitage,” she called, — in her
anxiety it was a whisper, — unmeant, but
intoxicating compliment.

“Miss Beaumont.” And Bentley bowed
in the stiff way common to men with “game
legs.” “My relative, I venture to put it.
I have n't had the pleasure of meeting you
before in five years.”

“Yes, and I have grown and all that,”
replied Kate, trying to laugh and look coquettish,
for she was hysterically eager to
please him.

“Mr. Armitage, after five years, the first
thing is that I want a favor of you.”

“To hear is to obey,” said Bentley,
quoting from the “Arabian Nights,” —
favorite reading of his.

Desperation made Kate eager, audacious,
and straightforward.

“I know all about this duel,” she went
on. “I don't know whether you consider it
proper for me to talk about it. But I must.
Do you think, Mr. Armitage, that I like to
come home and find my brother on the
point of risking his life?”

Bentley wanted to say that he was not

responsible for the duel, but did not feel that
the code of honor justified him in such a
speech.

“It would n't be natural,” he admitted.
“I don't suppose you do like it. Very sorry
for the circumstances.”

“It makes me miserable.” (Here there
was a quiver of the mouth which moved
Bentley to his fingers' ends.) “If you can
say anything, — and I am sure you can say
something, — do say it. Do give me your
help to make peace. I am sure you can
find a word to say, I don't know what. You
will oblige me so much. You will oblige
my grandfather. You will do right. I
know it must be right to stop this duel.
Won't you, Mr. Armitage, can't you, do me
this great favor?”

There was no resistance possible. There
was a hand laid upon Bentley Armitage
stronger than the code duello. He promised
that he would throw his influence — or, as
he slangily phrased it, drop his little ballot
— on the side of peace. Kate gave him a
smile which suggested a better world, and
sent him on his way a softer-hearted man
than he had ever been before.

In a few minutes there was what might
be called a family parliament in the long
parlor. Mr. Beaumont, his three sons,
Colonel Kershaw, and Bent Armitage sat
as gravely as Indian sachems in a council.

“We ought to have calumets and wampum
belts,” whispered Bentley to Tom;
but the youngster, reverent of the code
duello and of the family honor, declined to
smile.

“Gentlemen, this is an extraordinary occasion,”
said Colonel Kershaw, rising as if
to address the United States Senate.

“It is, indeed,” burst out Vincent, unable
to control the excitability of his race. “I
believe I am the first gentleman who ever
had his family called in to prevent him from
demanding reparation for an insult. It is a
most extraordinary and embarrassing situation.
I make my protest against the absurdity
of it.”

“You 're right, old fellow,” declared Tom.
Tom was young, and he was boyish for his
age; like all boys, he felt it necessary to
take the warlike side of things; it seemed
to establish his courage and make a man of
him. “I 'd like to have this thing blow
over,” he continued. “I was mightily in
favor of having it blow over. But after the
challenge has been sent, don't see how you
can withdraw it. That 's where I draw my
line.”

“You are interrupting the Colonel,” said
Vincent, who felt that everybody was interfering
with his business, and so was petulant
with everybody.

“I understand that my principal assented
to this council,” put in Bent Armitage, see
ing that things were going against peace,
and remembering his promise to Kate.

Vincent stared. Was his second to be
against him? Was Bent Armitage going to
turn peacemaker?

“I did assent,” he muttered, fixing his
half-shut eyes on the floor, and softly
clutching his hands to keep down his irritability.

“Gentlemen,” resumed the patient Kershaw,
“I have but a few words to say. I
do not propose to attack the code duello.
Although it is repugnant to my feelings, at
least in these latter years, I do not propose
to ignore it. I know how thoroughly it is
fixed in your views of life and in the habits
of our society. I consent, though not with
satisfaction, that you should in general be
guided by it. But the code does not include
the whole of human duty and honor;
you will admit thus much. There are other
proprieties and gentilities. Now on this
extraordinary occasion it seems to me that
these other proprieties and gentilities are
more imperious than the demands of the
code. You, Beaumont, have had a daughter
saved from death by a McAlister. You,
Vincent, have had a sister saved from death
by a McAlister. Under the circumstances,
is it right for Beaumonts to shoot McAlisters?
I put one duty against another.
I say that the obligation of gratitude overbalances
the obligation of vindication of
gentility. What I propose, therefore, is
this: withdraw the challenge, because of
the debt of gratitude; make that debt the
express ground of the withdrawal. If Mr.
Wallace McAlister does not then retract
his epithet, he will, in my opinion, prove
himself ungentlemanly, stolid, and brutal,
and we can afford to despise his comments.
What do you say, my dear Beaumont?”

“By heavens, Kershaw! By heavens!”
stuttered Beaumont. “It 's puzzling, by
heavens. Well, if you must know what I
think, I admit that you have made a strong
point, Kershaw. A very strong point indeed,
Kershaw. We don't want to go before
the world as ungrateful and that sort of
thing. That is n't gentlemanly. On the
whole, Kershaw, — well, on the whole, I
say, taking into view all the circumstances,
you know, — I don't see any valid objection
to your proposition. Hem. I don't object.
That 's just it; I don't object.”

With these words, Beaumont bowed his
bristling head in great perplexity, wondering
whether he had done right or wrong.
Colonel Kershaw and Bent Armitage both
glanced anxiously at Vincent. The curious
Lawson, who had been dodging about the
hall and had overheard most of the proceedings,
peeped through a door-crack to get a
view of the same young gladiator. The
fat Poinsett nodded his large head two or

three times, as if in assent to the peace
proposition, but said nothing. Tom, overwhelmed
by his father and the Colonel
together, stared vacantly at the floor.

“I venture to say that I see no valid
cause for objection,” observed Bentley Armitage,
remembering Kate.

“I do,” burst out Vincent, looking up
angrily at Armitage. “I wish it understood
that I am as grateful as I ought to be
to Mr. Frank McAlister for his act of common
humanity. But when it comes to withdrawing
a challenge, — good heavens! I
had abundant provocation, and I have it
still. Let Wallace McAlister withdraw his
epithet. He is at full liberty to do so. That
is where peace should begin.”

Major Lawson left his post near the door,
and skipped across the hall into the dining-room.
In ten seconds more Kate Beaumont,
as pale and mild as a saint newly taken
to glory, came out of the dining-room,
crossed the hall, and entered the awful
family council. Bentley Armitage rose and
offered a chair. Poinsett smiled with an
amused look, and beckoned her to his side.
Kershaw held out his hand, and Vincent
turned away his head. Mr. Beaumont said,
in a tone of much wonder and faint remonstrance,
“Kate!”

The girl, without noticing any of the others,
advanced upon Vincent, seated herself
beside him, looked eagerly in his averted
face, and seized one of his hands.

“O Vincent, this is my first night at
home in four years,” she said in a trembling
voice. “I shall not sleep to-night. I shall
do nothing but see my brother brought
home —” She could not finish this sentence.
“And my first night at home! You
could make it such a happy one, Vincent!
Don't you think anything of my being saved
from death? There was no hope for me,
if it had not been for this man's brother. I
had bid good by to you all.”

Here her father's grim face had a shock;
he twisted his mouth oddly, and rolled his
eyes like a lunatic; he was trying to keep
from blubbering. Colonel Kershaw clasped
his wrinkled hands suddenly, as if returning
thanks to Heaven, or praying. Lawson,
listening in the hall, capered from one foot
to the other as if he were on hot iron plates,
and drew his cambric handkerchief.

“I don't want such a duel as this,” Kate
went on. “It does seem to me so horribly
unnatural. Not this time, Vincent; don't
fight this time. Do make this my first
night at home a happy one. O, I will be
so grateful to you; I will be such a sister to
you! Dear, can't you answer me?”

Mr. Beaumont rose abruptly and got himself
out of the room. He did not fully want
his son to do what he still considered not
quite chivalrous; and yet he could not bear
to hear him refuse Kate this great and passionately
sought for boon. One after another,
Kershaw, Bent Armitage, Poinsett,
and Tom followed him. The pleading sister
and the sullen brother were left alone.