53. LIII.
THE BALL IN THE RIGHT SHOULDER.
CAPTAIN,” said the Earl, with that look of deep
sadness which made his countenance at times so
touching, “my life has been more or less unhappy
from its commencement, but I think I
have suffered, within the last month—nay, within a few
days—as much as, or more, than in many years before. I
have learned what is one of the most sorrowful things in all
this world—that much happiness has been wrongfully denied
me by one of my fellow-creatures—that I have sighed where
I might have smiled—that the heaven above me has been
obscured and gloomy, when the simple act of a simple mortal
might have dissipated every cloud, and made the sun
shine brightly for me.
“But to drop these generalities and come to my narrative.
It will not be long, but shall contain the truth and
the whole truth. Men at my age do not make intimate
confidences for the pleasure of talking—and yet I experience
something like pleasure, sir, in the thought that I am
about to unburden my mind of some events and thoughts
which have long oppressed it. I do not conceal, nevertheless,
that I have my own personal object in this matter; I
repeat what I said but now, that I wish you to watch over
the person whom you know by the name of Falconbridge—
with him is connected all that I shall say.
“Listen, sir. I was born at the end of the last century,
at my father's house of `Denton,' in Yorkshire, and grew up
in sight of the patrimonial oaks of my family—in the familiar,
rustic scenes of English life. My father, Thomas, Lord
Fairfax, the fifth of the name, was a cold, but not an unkind
man; my mother, Catherine, daughter of Lord Culpeper,
was a very saint on earth. Under the tuition of these beloved
parents, and a worthy old gentleman who lived at
Denton, I grew to the age of seventeen; when I was sent to
the University of Oxford. There, I passed through the
ordinary routine of study, and neglect of study, and on
leaving the University, obtained a commission in the royal
regiment of the `Blues.' This, however, did not hold me
long. I resigned my commission from distaste for the life of
barracks, and plunged into the whirlpool of London.
My rank gave me access to the finest society of the time,
and at nineteen I had become, my friends informed me, one
of the most perfect specimens of a maccaroni to be found in
the club-houses and drawing-rooms of the capital. I enjoyed
this dissipated mode of life for some months, mingling
with delight in the political and literary circles which were
ornamented by the presence of Bolingbroke, Addison, and
other lights of the day; and then, wearied out with play,
with the theatres, with fine ladies, and simpering beaux, I
retired to Denton, and became a country gentleman again.
“And now commences the series of events which I design
relating. My life hitherto had been gay and splendid—no
cloud had crossed the bright sky of my youth; in the brilliant
circles of London, as in the jovial scenes of Oxford, I
had basked in uninterrupted sunshine, and never given a
single thought to care; never indulged in one violent or
discordant emotion. I was ere long to learn that human
life cannot glide away in one unbroken current of limpid
smoothness; that there are breakers and reefs on the most
smiling coast, which the most experienced pilot cannot always
avoid. I was no such experienced person, I need not
tell you. To great ignorance of the world, in spite of my
years in London, I added an excitable and headstrong temper
when aroused: and this defect of my blood was not long in
revealing itself. I had never quarrelled with anybody at
Oxford or in London: in both places I had lived among
scenes which are often disturbed by evil passions; but I
passed through intact. I had gone to the theatres, and
supped with wits and gallants, played tric-trac, and wandered
forth with the Mohocks at three in the morning, on
their revels and absurdities, perpetrated at the expense of
the watchmen of the city; all this I passed through without
once drawing my sword, without a single affair; how was I
to have an affair, in the apparently sluggish scene of Yorkshire.
“There was a gentleman of the neighborhood about forty
years of age, whose name was Sir William Powys. He had
once possessed a very fine estate, but owing to his want of
management, and the extravagant mode of living which he
pursued, this great property had gradually melted away.
It was covered with mortgages, by means of which Sir William
had, from time to time, raised large sums of money to
sustain him in his mode of living—and among the holders
of these mortgages was my father. He was neither by habit
nor inclination a money-lender, and long resisted the request
of Sir William, to advance him a large sum of money which
had gradually been saved from the proceeds of the Denton
Estate. At last, however, he yielded to the solicitations of
the knight, and delivered to him the sum, taking a mortgage
on the bulk of the Powys Court manor. This had happened
a year or two before my arrival—and just before I came, my
father had foreclosed the mortgage, and forced Sir William
to alienate almost his whole property. I know not if this
action of my father was harsh. From my knowledge of his
character, as from the general tenor of his life, I am convinced
that he proceeded to this apparently unkind act, in
the purest defence of the interests of his family. My sister,
since dead, was about to be married, and a settlement was
absolutely required on the part of the Fairfax family. Sir
William could not, or would not, repay the money borrowed
—and as I have said, the mortgage was foreclosed He
parted with his property without any overt act of enmity;
but it was soon whispered throughout the shire, that the
knight denounced my father at his own table and elsewhere
as a usurer, a Shylock, a Jew money-lender, and in other
terms equally insulting.
“I need scarcely say, sir, that this intelligence set my
blood on fire. My father was then a gray-haired man, full
of years; and I knew that he was physically unable to right
himself. A long, well-spent life, it is true, gave the lie to
these base insinuations and calumnies; but in our family
we are restive under insult, no matter whether it injures or
not. I saw my father's face flush more than once, when
these expressions were unguardedly alluded to in his presence—and
I longed for an opportunity to revenge upon the
calumniator the wrong which he had perpetrated toward
Lord Fairfax. I was determined to seek him, and pick a
quarrel upon some indifferent ground: and then—I said
with clenched teeth—I will put an end to him, or he shall
put an end to me.' An opportunity of carrying out my design
soon presented itself. In the vicinity of Denton, and
not far from Powys Court, was the race-course of the county.
Here, upon a certain day, were assembled all the gentlemen
and ladies of the region around. I repaired to the race-course
early, but not with any design of betting. I sought
Sir William Powys, who would attend I heard—and I was
soon gratified. I descried his tall form approaching upon
horseback, in the midst of a number of his friends; and I
even now recall his athletic and powerful figure, which in
bulk of muscle, pride of carriage, and its haughty air of superiority,
threw into the background every personage about
him. He dismounted and gave his bridle to a groom.
Then, accompanied by his friends, he approached the open
space beneath the balcony, which was filled with ladies and
gentlemen, intent on the coming festivity. The horses, in
their sweat-cloths, were being led up and down; a hundred
comments were made by the crowd who inspected them;
and bets were every moment offered and taken by the gentlemen
on the various racers which had been entered.
“I approached the group, in the midst of which Sir William
was standing and expatiating upon the merits of the
horses. As I drew near I heard him say;
“ `Three to one on the bay—in tens or hundreds.'
“ `Done, Sir William,' responded the gentleman to whom
he spoke, and who was an acquaintance of mine. His name
was Sir John Colburn.
“ `I congratulate you, Sir John,' I said, laughing; `the
bay's a miserable hack, and will probably be distanced the
first heat.'
“I saw Sir William Powys turn as if an adder had stung
him. He was proud of his knowledge of horse-flesh; indeed,
it was one of his weak points—and to have his judgment
thus sneered at, and by a mere boy, such as I happened to
be, enraged him profoundly. His eye flashed, and he surveyed
me from head to foot with a glance which was intended
to annihilate me. It failed, however. I have a faculty
of my blood in a very marked degree—I grow cooler as
I become more exasperated. I hated Sir William at that
moment, mortally—and I replied to his insulting look by a
satirical smile. This heated him more dangerously—I saw
his cheek turn crimson with anger.
“ `And who are you, sir!' he said, in a tone of excessive
rudeness, `who are you, that presume to put your opinion
against mine?'
“ `I thought you knew me, sir,' I said, with perfect coolness,
`as I remember meeting you some years since. But
no matter. My name is not important—and I presume, in
spite of your extreme dissatisfaction, to say that in my
humble opinion the bay is the poorest and most ludicrous
horse entered; it is hard to look at him without laughing
in fact—and no one but a tyro would bet on him.'
“ `What do you mean, sir!' said Sir William, turning white
with rage at my tone of disdainful indifference, and advancing
close to me as he spoke, `your meaning, sir!—if it is an
insult you intend uttering, this horse-whip shall teach
you—!'
“In an instant we had grappled. I had designed nothing
of the sort; but the sight of the degrading instrument
raised above my head, aroused the devil in me, and made
me wild. I caught at it, fully intending to wrench it away,
and apply it to his own person—and in a moment we were
locked in a furious embrace. We were parted immediately
by the bystanders, who rushed to us with loud exclamations
—and a glance at the balcony above showed me that a young
lady had fainted, and was being borne out.
“ `Who—is—this person?' panted Sir William, with powerless
fury; `had my right arm been unmaimed I would have
punished his insolence!' And he glared at me wildly, and
would have tried to strike me again, had not his friends restrained
him and told him my name.
“ `Tom Fairfax! Tom Fairfax!' he muttered, with
clenched teeth; `very well! this may be arranged elsewhere!
Ah! a Fairfax, is it?'
“ `Yes, sir,' I replied scornfully, `my name is Fairfax, almost
or quite as good a name as your own, and you shall
not have to wait very long for the “arrangement” you desire!'
“With these words we exchanged ceremonious bows, and
separated—Sir John Colburn accompanying me. In three
hours all was `arranged' as I had promised. We were to
meet with pistols, at a spot near the race-course, which had
been agreed on. The objection to the use of short-swords
lay in the condition of Sir William's right arm—he had been
kicked a short time before by one of his horses, and somewhat
disabled. He insisted very generously and fearlessly
upon swords, but his second overruled him, and pistols were
decided upon.
“Well, not to lengthen my narrative unduly—we met: at
the first fire my ball penetrated his right shoulder, and so
great was the agony which it caused him, that he fell, and
fainted from loss of blood. His ball did not touch me.
The duel ended thus, and Sir William was borne home in
his carriage. It was his daughter who had fainted in the
balcony.
“So terminated,” continued the Earl, “an affair which
was recalled to my recollection in a very strange manner
some time since—in the Ordinary yonder. But to resume.
I returned home only half pleased with the issue. Such is
the depravity of the human heart, and to such a height had
I been aroused by the wrong done my father, that—I am
sorry to say it, but I must be candid—I thirsted for my enemy's
blood. For the present, however, this desire was
doomed to disappointment. I reflected—but on the very
next day a new means presented itself. Sir William's family
consisted of a son and a daughter—Edith and Arthur,
who were twins:—well, Arthur, on the morning after my
duel with his father, sent me a challenge, which I accepted
at once. He was a few months younger than myself, but
was reputed to be an excellent swordsman. I referred his
friend to Sir John Colburn, and everything was soon agreed
upon—but the matter was all at once arrested. My father
had remonstrated with me strongly for my affair with Sir
William, and begged me to avoid in future any occasion of
renewing the quarrel. If I insisted upon fighting he would
meet Sir William himself. He soon found out my design of
meeting Arthur Powys, and rode hastily to Powys Court.
There had never been any open quarrel between the two—
and their meeting, I afterwards heard, was amicable. The
consequence of the visit was, that the elders forbade the
juniors, on pain of their displeasure and forfeit of affection,
to proceed in the matter. In the end, both Arthur and myself
were summoned to the side of the sick man—and Sir
William very nobly apologized for his insult to me on the
race-course.
“ `Had I known you, sir,' he said, `I should never have
been guilty of the act of raising a horse-whip to strike you
—that, I need not say. I saw no indication of your rank
or family—and now beg to say to you, that I deeply regret
the whole occurrence, as I regret some very inconsiderate
and ill-advised expressions which I doubt not, really led
you to provoke me into a quarrel. There must be no more
contention, Viscount, and if you refuse me this request, I
shall rise from my sick couch and meet you when you will
—if you require me, this moment.'
“This speech ended all. The apology for the hasty reflections
upon my father calmed me somewhat, and the matter
terminated by the withdrawal of Arthur's challenge.
“Ten days afterwards I was out fox-hunting with a number
of gentlemen, among whom was Arthur Powys. We
were separated from the rest, and rode side by side at a
great pace. We came to a bad fence—Arthur's horse rolled
into a ditch, and he fell beneath. I drew up quickly, and
dismounted. His leg was cruelly fractured, and taking him
in my arms like a child, I held him on the saddle, and
slowly conveyed him to Powys Court. As I entered the last
gateway, the insensible figure resting upon my bosom, the
pale face near my own, I saw a young lady rush out, wild
with terror, and hasten toward me, weeping. It was Edith
Powys, who received from my arms the unconscious form
of her brother.
“Our hands touched: it was the first time.
