"Indeed, madam, I only wish that your heart was as sound," replied the husband with a sneer; "but, madam, I am not quite blind. An honest woman--a virtuous woman, Mrs Sullivan, would have immediately acquainted her husband with what had pa.s.sed--not have concealed it; still less have had the effrontery to deny it, when acknowledged by her _paramour_."

"_Paramour_!" cried the lady, with an hysterical laugh; "Mr Sullivan!

when I select a _paramour_, it shall be a handsome young man--not an old, yellow-faced--"

"Pshaw, madam! there's no accounting for taste; when once a woman deviates from the right path--"

"Right path! if ever I deviated from the right path, as you call it, it was when I married such a wretch as you! Yes, sir! continued the lady, bursting into tears, I tell it you now--my life has been a torment to me ever since I married (sobbing)--always suspected for nothing (sob, sob)--jealous, detestable temper (sob)--go to my friends (sob)-- hereafter may repent (sob)--then know what you've lost" (sob, sob, sob).

"And, madam," replied Mr Sullivan, "so may you also know what you have lost, before a few hours have pa.s.sed away; then, madam, the time may come when the veil of folly will be rent from your eyes, and your conduct appear in all its deformity. Farewell, madam--perhaps for ever!"

The lady made no reply; Mr Sullivan quitted the room, and, repairing to his counting-house, wrote a challenge to the colonel, and confided the delivery of it to one of his friends, who unwillingly accepted the office of second.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

He's truly valiant, that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides; to wear them, like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.

SHAKESPEARE.

The colonel, in the meantime, had returned to the house where he was residing, when he was immediately accosted by Captain Carrington, and the other gentlemen who had been let into the secret of the plot.

During his walk home the colonel had been ruminating on his dismissal, and had not quite made up his mind whether he ought or ought not to resent the conduct of Mr Sullivan. Naturally more inclined for peace than war, by the time that he arrived home he had resolved to pocket the affront, when Captain Carrington called him on one side, and obtained from him a recapitulation of what had pa.s.sed; which probably never would have been given if the colonel had not considered the communication as confidential. This, however, did not suit the intentions of Captain Carrington, who felt inclined for more mischief; and when the colonel had concluded his narrative, he replied, "Upon my word, colonel, as you observe, this conduct on the part of Mr Sullivan, is not exactly what can be permitted by us military men. I hardly know bow to advise; indeed I would not take the responsibility; however, I will consult with Mr S--- and Mr G---, and if you will leave your honour in our hands, depend upon it we will do you strict justice:" and Captain Carrington quitted the colonel, who would have expostulated, and, walking up to the other gentlemen, entered into a recapitulation of the circ.u.mstances. A wink of his eye, as his back was turned to the colonel, fully expressed to the others the tenor of the advice which they were to offer.

"Well, gentlemen, what is your opinion?" said the captain, as he concluded his narrative.

"I think," replied Mr S---, with a serious face, "there can be but one--our gallant friend has been most grossly insulted. I think,"

continued he, addressing the colonel, who had quitted the sofa, in his anxiety to know the issue of their debate, "that I should most decidedly ask him what he meant."

"Or rather demand an apology," observed Mr G---.

"Which Mr Sullivan as a man of honour is bound to offer, and the colonel as a gentleman and an officer has a right to insist upon. Do you not think so, Captain Carrington?" said Mr S---.

"Why, I always have been more inclined to be a peacemaker than otherwise, if I can," replied Captain Carrington. "If our gallant friend the colonel is not sure that Mr Sullivan did use the words, 'I won't trouble you to call again,'--are you positive as to the exact words, colonel?"

"Why, to the best of my recollection," replied the colonel, "I rather think those were the words.--I may be mistaken:--it was certainly--most certainly--something to that effect."

"Were they, 'requesting you to call again?'" said Captain Carrington.

"No, no,--that they certainly were not."

"Well, they could be but one or the other.--Then, gentlemen, the case is clear--the words were uttered," said Mr S---, "Now, Captain Carrington, what would you advise?"

"I really am vexed to say, that I do not see how our friend, Colonel Ellice, can do otherwise than demand an apology, or a meeting."

"Could not I treat him with contempt, Captain Carrington?" demanded the colonel.

"Why, not exactly," replied Mr S---. "Sullivan is of good family; the Sullivans of Bally c.u.m p.o.o.p. He was some time in the 48th regiment, and was obliged to retire from it for challenging his colonel."

"Well, gentlemen," replied the colonel, "I suppose I must leave my honour in your hands, although it does appear to me that our time is very short for such arrangements. We sail early to-morrow morning; Captain Carrington; at daylight, I think you said, and it will be too late to-night."

"My dear colonel, I will risk a rebuke from the Admiralty," replied the captain, "rather than not allow you to heal your wounded honour. I will stay till the day after to-morrow, should it be requisite for the arrangement of this business."

"Thank you: many thanks," replied the colonel, with an expression of disappointment. "Then I had better prepare the letter?"

"Carta por senhor commandante," interrupted a Portuguese, presenting a letter to the colonel; "O senhor embaixo; queir risposta."

The colonel opened the letter, which contained Mr Sullivan's challenge,--pistols--to-morrow morn, at daylight--one mile on the road to Machico.

The colonel's countenance changed two or three shades less yellow as he read the contents: recovering himself with a giggle, he handed the letter to Captain Carrington. "You see, captain, the gentleman has saved me the trouble--He, he, he! these little affairs are common to gentlemen of our profession--He, he! and since the gentleman wishes it, why, I presume--He, he! that we must not disappoint him."

"Since you are both of one mind, I think there will be some business done," observed Mr S---. "I perceive that he is in earnest by the place named for the meeting. We generally settle our affairs of honour in the Loo-fields; but I suppose he is afraid of interruption.--They want an answer, colonel."

"Oh! he shall have one," replied the colonel, t.i.ttering with excitement; "he shall have one. What hour does he say?"

"Oh! we will arrange all that. Come, colonel," said Captain Carrington, taking him familiarly by the arm, and leading him away.

The answer was despatched, and they sat down to dinner. Many were the friendly and encouraging gla.s.ses of wine drank with the colonel, who recovered his confidence, and was then most a.s.siduous in his attentions to the ladies to prove his perfect indifference. He retired at an early hour nevertheless.

In the mean time Mr Sullivan had received the answer, and had retired to his counting-house, to arrange his affairs in case of accident. He had not seen his wife since the fracas. And now we will leave them both for awhile, and make a few remarks upon duelling.

Most people lament, many abuse the custom as barbarous; but barbarous it is not, or it would not be necessary in a state of high civilisation.

It is true that by the practice we offend laws human and divine; but at the same time, it must be acknowledged, that neither law nor religion can keep society in such good order, or so restrain crime. The man who would defy the penalty of the law, and the commandments of his G.o.d against seduction, will, however pause in his career when he finds that there are brothers to avenge an injured sister. And why so?--because in this world we live as it were in a tavern, careless of what the bill is which we run up, but dreading the day of reckoning, which the pistol of our adversary may bring at once. Thus duelling may be considered as a necessary evil, arising out of our wickedness; a crime in itself rare in occurrence, but which prevents others of equal magnitude from occurring every day; and until the world is reformed, nothing can prevent it. Men will ever be governed by the estimation of the world: and until the whole world decide against duelling--until it has become the usage to offer the other cheek upon the first having been smitten, then, and not till then, will the practice be discontinued. When a man refuses to fight a duel, he is stigmatised as a coward, his company is shunned; and, unless he is a wretch without feeling, his life becomes a burden.

Men have refused from purely conscientious motives, and have subsequently found themselves so miserable from the neglect and contumely of the world, that they have _backslided_, and have fought to recover their place in society. There have been some few, very few, who, having refused from conscientious motives, have adhered to these resolutions, because they feared G.o.d and not man. There was more courage in their refusal than if they had run the gauntlet of a hundred duels; a moral courage, which is most rare, preferring the contempt of man to the wrath of G.o.d. It is, however, the most trying situation on this side of the grave. To refuse to fight a duel, is in fact to obey the stern injunction, "leave all, and follow me."

For my part, I never have and never will fight a duel, if I can help it.

I have a double motive for my refusal; in the first place, I am afraid to offend the Deity; and in the next, I am afraid of being shot. I have therefore made up my mind never to meet a man except upon what I consider fair terms; for when a man stakes his life, the gambling becomes rather serious, and an equal value should be laid down by each party. If, then, a man is not so big--not of equal consequence in the consideration of his fellow mites--not married, with five small children, as I am--not having so much to lose--why it is clear that I risk more than he does; the stake is not equal, and I therefore shall not meet him. If, on the contrary, he presents a broader target,--if he is my superior in rank, more patriarchal at home, or has so many hundreds per annum more, why then the disadvantages will be on his side; and I trust I am too much of a gentleman, even if he offers to waive all these considerations, to permit him to fight. It would be _swindling_ the man out of his life.

The best advice I can offer to my friends under these unpleasant circ.u.mstances is, first to try if they cannot persuade their adversaries to make an apology: and if he will not, why then let them make one themselves; for although the making an apology creates a very uneasy sensation, and goes very much _against_ the stomach, yet, depend upon it, a well-directed bullet creates a much more uneasy feeling, and, what is worse, goes _directly into it_.

We left Mrs Sullivan sobbing in her anger, when her husband bounded out of the room in his heroics. At the time that he made the threat she was in no humour to regard it; but as her anger gradually subsided, so did her alarm increase. Notwithstanding that she was a coquette, she was as warmly attached to her husband as he was to her; if she trifled, it was only for her amus.e.m.e.nt, and to attract that meed of admiration to which she had been accustomed previous to her marriage, and which no woman can renounce on her first entry into that state. Men cannot easily pardon jealousy in their wives; but women are more lenient towards their husbands. Love, hand-in-hand with confidence, is the more endearing; yet, when confidence happens to be out of the way, Love will sometimes a.s.sociate with Jealousy; still, as this disagreeable companion proves that Love is present, and as his presence is what a woman and all a woman asks, she suffers Jealousy, nay, sometimes even becomes partial to him for the sake of Love.

Now that Mrs Sullivan had been most unjustly accused, the reader must know, and moreover, that she had great reason to feel irritated. When her tears had subsided, for some time she continued in her chair, awaiting with predetermined dignity the appearance and apology of Mr Sullivan. After some time had elapsed, she wondered why he did not come. Dinner was announced, and she certainly expected to meet him then, and she waited for some minutes to see if he would not take this opportunity of coming up to her;--but no. She then presumed that he was still in the sulks, and had sat down to table without her, and therefore, as he would not come--why, she went; but he was not at the table. Every minute she expected him:--Had he been told?--Where was he?--He was in the counting-house, was the reply. Mrs Sullivan swallowed a few mouthfuls, and then returned up stairs. Tea was made-- announced to Mr Sullivan, yet he came not. It remained on the table; the cup poured out for him was cold. The urn had been sent down, with strict injunctions to keep the water boiling, and all was cleared away.

Mrs Sullivan fidgeted and ruminated, and became uneasy. He never had been at variance for so many hours since their marriage, and all for nothing! At last the clock struck ten, and she rang the bell.--"Where was Mr Sullivan?"--"In the counting-house."--"Tell him that I wish to speak with him." Mr Sullivan had not answered him, and the door was locked inside. This intelligence created a little irritation, and checked the tide of affection. "Before all the servants--so inconsiderate--it was quite insulting!" With a heavy heart, Mrs Sullivan lighted the chamber candle, and went up stairs to bed. Once she turned down the stairs two or three steps, intending to go to the counting-house door; but her pride restrained her, and she re-ascended.

In an hour Mrs Sullivan was in bed, expecting her husband every minute, listening at the slightest sound for his footstep; but two o'clock came and he was still away. She could bear up against her suspense and agitation no longer; she rose, threw on her _robe de nuit_, and descended the stairs. All the family had long retired, and every thing was still: her light foot made no noise as she tripped along. As she neared the door, she perceived the light gleaming through the key-hole.

Whether to peep or to speak first--he might be fast asleep. Curiosity prevailed--she looked through the key-hole, and perceived her husband very busy writing. After he had finished his letter he threw down the pen, pressed his forehead with both hands, and groaned deeply. Mrs Sullivan could refrain no longer. "William! William!" cried she, in a soft imploring voice: but she was not answered. Again and again did she repeat his name, until an answer, evidently wrung from him by impatience, was returned--"It is too late now."

"Too late, dear William! Yes, it is very late, it's almost three o'clock. Let me in William,--pray do!"

"Leave me alone: it's the last favour I probably shall ever request of you."

"The last favour! Oh, William! you frighten me so:--dear William--do-- do let me in. I'm so cold, I shall die:--only for one moment, and I'll bless you. Pray do, William!"

It was not until after repeated and repeated entreaties of this kind, that Mr Sullivan, worn out by importunity, at last opened the door.

"Mary, I am very busy; I have opened the door to tell you so, and to request that you will not interrupt me. Now oblige me by going to bed."

But getting in was every thing; and a young and pretty wife, in dishabille and in tears, imploring, entreating, conjuring, promising, coaxing, and fondling, is not quite so easy to be detached when once she has gained access. In less than half an hour Mr Sullivan was obliged to confess that her conduct had been the occasion of a meeting being agreed for upon that morning, and that he was arranging his affairs in case of a melancholy termination.

"You now, Mary, must see the consequences of your conduct. By your imprudence, your husband's life is risked, probably sacrificed; but this is no time to be at variance. I forgive you, Mary,--from my soul, I do, as I hope for pardon myself."