Reprise (13 page)

“You’re not quite immortal. Not a god, impervious to bullets, despite your high opinion of yourself.”

“I never said I was. I am not so foolish as to have my head turned by the adulation of the motley mob. l am a fair shot, however.”

“If you take a shot at Mr. Seville in my name you had better be immortal.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Of course, it didn’t mean a thing but that she was very cross. “It means I refuse to resume the engagement. Clarence will defend me. He will have the sense to delope, or at least not kill Seville. This must be done as decently as possible. I don’t want to be the cause of anyone’s death. Oh, how did I get into this predicament?” she wailed.

Reviewing his own case, Dammler felt he was in the worse one.
He
had called Seville out, precipitated a duel that would almost certainly kill her uncle if he didn’t arrange it so he could be the principal. He tried once more. “Alvanley says that if..."

“Alvanley may go to the devil! You are not fighting Seville. I refuse to have anything to do with any engagement that allows you to murder in cold blood, and do it in my name.”

“All right, then. I won’t kill him. A hit in the shoulder.”

“How do you know he will do the same?”

“I don’t.”

“That’s suicide.”

“Call it Spanish roulette. I don’t think Seville will shoot to kill.”

“He certainly won’t shoot to kill Clarence. That is the saner course, to pit Clarence against him.”

“It seems to me you take a very cavalier attitude towards poor Clarence."

“Well I like that, and
you
are the one chose him for a second!”

“Yes, a
second,
with no danger attached to the position. Not the principal.”

“We are wasting time and words. My mind is made up."

“I am sending in our engagement announcement today.”

“If you do, I’ll send a retraction in six-inch letters in the next edition.”

“I don’t mean to go fish-fagging through the columns with you, Prudence. You must allow me to be the judge in this matter.”

“I wouldn’t allow you to judge a mouse in the matter of morality. Clarence will fight the duel.”

Her mind was made up, and when, after a great deal of arguing, he returned her to her door, she hadn’t budged an inch, but only become more set in her position. “If I hear of you arranging matters so that you fight Seville, I’ll--I’ll never speak to you again,” were her parting words, and she wished she could have made the threat a good deal stronger.

Considering them as he returned to Berkeley Square, the optimist had soon placed a hopeful construction on the thing. She meant to go on seeing him afterwards then. There were sufficient insults in her talk to provide some anger, too, but over all, it was easy to imagine her concern that he not fight Seville to rest on a fear for his safety. If he stood up with Seville and lived, she would surely not mind. In fact, she would likely have a better opinion of him, whereas if Clarence got himself killed, as was entirely possible, she would really never forgive him. He would never forgive himself. No, certainly he must fight Seville.

He tried his hand at convincing Clarence the engagement was on, but Clarence had already had words with Prudence. He could rearrange anything to his own advantage, but no rearranging was necessary on this occasion. Niece and uncle were as one in wishing the honor of being shot at to be Clarence Elmtree’s.

Chapter Ten

The evening preceding the duel
was a cool, damp one. Clarence felt twinges of rheumatism in his elbow as he painted Prudence, arrayed in a red-fringed shawl, as became a seductress. He was half in love with her himself, to think of her having got an improper offer from a nabob, a proper one from a marquess, and caused a duel, all before her twenty-sixth birthday. The red carmine was blotched on with an extravagant, loving hand. Nothing was too good for her. As she left the room, he told her to sleep in the morning. No need for her to lose an hour’s sleep to see him off. A dasher like Prue had to stay in looks.

“You might have a cup of tea ready against my return,” he said casually.

She felt so guilty that she was properly penitent and respectful, and insisted she would be up to see him off. “And home,” she added.

“Aye, if I get home,” he sighed.

“Uncle, cannot something be arranged with Seville-- some word got to him that you mean to delope?” she asked, having a good idea this would break some item of a gentleman’s code of honor, but not worrying overly that this would deter Clarence.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Clarence assured her. Nor was he. He went to bed and slept like a baby. Even over his tea the next morning he was as merry as a grig, making jokes about this being his last meal. Not until he was in Dammler’s carriage with the pistol between his fingers did it occur to him what a lethal thing a gun was. At Manton’s Shooting Gallery it had seemed great sport. How some of the gentlemen managed to culp that tiny wafer was a great mystery. He hadn’t hit it more than once--could hardly see it in fact. Once he had sneezed and taken a corner out of it.

“What we must do is let Seville know you mean to delope,” Dammler said, his chin in his hands, trying to figure a resolution to this awful problem. Lord, and if Clarence
tried
to delope he might well hit Seville in the heart. He had never seen such a poor shot as Clarence. “Aim for the sky,” he commanded.

“I’ll be shooting high,” Clarence replied, distracted. He was looking pale, as the moment of truth approached. “Shall we just let a window down and get a breath of air? It’s close in here.”

Dammler let down the window, feeling the need of air himself, and Clarence did the same on the other side. The dust from the horses and wheels bothered Dammler, and he had soon rolled his up again, but Clarence’s head was hanging out the window. For the first time in the acquaintance of this oddly-matched pair, they were both silent. A duel, Clarence thought! Men standing up and shooting at each other as though they were wafers at Manton’s, giant wafers providing a target that even he might hit. It wasn’t right to kill anyone. "Thou shalt not kill.” It was right in the Commandments. Even in those old days of the Bible when nobody spoke English they knew it was a sin to kill anyone. Yet, it was impossible to back out. He did the hardest philosophizing he had ever done in his life, trying to extricate himself from the morass, but in the end manners seemed more important than morals. He would have to account to Alvanley and society that same day, whereas he might have years to patch it up with the Almighty. He would have to do it. Have to stand up, but he wouldn’t shoot to kill, or even injure. A bit of dirt from the carriage flew up and caught him in the eye. He reached to rub it out.

Glancing at him, Dammler thought he was crying, and felt pity for the foolish old man. “Better close the window,” he said.

Clarence did so, still rubbing his eye with his other hand. “Got something in my eye,” he said, rubbing harder.

“Here, let me get it out,” Dammler said, pulling out his handkerchief. Then he was struck with inspiration. Clarence shouldn’t shoot with something in his eye. He made some pretense to remove the dirt, while shoving it a little higher under the lid. “I can’t seem to get ahold of it,” he said.

“It’ll work its way out,” Clarence said. It was half a relief to be able to shed a tear without Dammler suspecting it was weakness that caused it.

The dirt did not work its way out, and when their carriage reached Hampstead Heath, it was giving some trouble, causing the eye to water copiously. Alvanley had been at great pains to get Seville to delope. As it was known by now, Elmtree couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn door, it would be infamous to hit the old man. The whole thing was a fiasco in Alvanley’s opinion, and he was sorry he had anything to do with it. Seville had been talked into accepting this role, and was relieved in the extreme that it wasn’t that sharpshooter of a Dammler he must stand up against. Fellow would kill him as quick as look at him--had always hated him. He noted with relief that Elmtree was disabled, even thought it was an act, to call the duel off altogether. But no, Alvanley had had enough of putting off, and was not in favor of any postponement. He decreed Dammler should replace Elmtree. It was irregular of course, but when Seville pointed this out, Dammler was only too happy to call him a coward again, and institute a new duel. This removed any quibble of a doubt in the matter. Dammler was so jubilant at the decision that he burst into a smile, a smile that sent Seville’s heart sinking. It was all a trick! Dammler was out to kill him!

Clarence, unable even to play the minor roll of charging the pistol, lent the weight of his presence while Alvanley did it, then sat on a tree stump, looking about in the cool morning at the low-lying fog, the bits of dew shining on the grass, the trees shaded into a green mist by the moisture in the air, and thought what a pretty picture it would make. He would try his hand at painting it when he got home, if only this dashed cinder would flow out of his eye. He took another poke at it, and his eye felt better. He batted the lid a few times, realizing the cinder was out. He then directed his full attention to the scene being enacted before him. Dammler and Seville were standing together; they were turning and walking each their twelve paces. What a dandy scene it would make for one of Nevvie’s plays. He’d tell him to slip it into his next one. Do it just like this--the foggy morning, the two tall young gentlemen in black, their collars turned up to hide the target of the white triangle of a shirt, Alvanley standing there watching them. Then as he looked, the men stopped walking, turned without either one of them so much as giving a tremble in the arm, and a deafening clap of guns going off was in his ears. Nevvie pointed his gun up high, just as they had decided. Not quite at the sky, more over Seville’s shoulder. Flickering his gaze to Seville, he disliked what he saw. The man wasn’t aiming at the sky at all. He was aiming right at Nevvie’s chest! Then some little look of confusion flashed across Seville’s face.

When Seville saw Dammler replace Elmtree, the duel became no longer a farce but a fight to the death. There wasn’t one doubt in his mind that Dammler meant to kill him, and his own resolution was equally firm. He aimed for the heart, but in the split second between aiming and pulling the trigger, he noticed Dammler’s gun muzzle was up. He lifted his own hand as quickly as possible, in that instant. The bullet was deflected enough to miss the heart. It thudded into Dammler’s left shoulder. With mute horror, Seville realized Dammler had deloped. He wasn’t touched--the bullet came nowhere near him. He stood silent, shaking and staring, to see if Dammler would topple over.

He did not. The gun fell from his right hand, and he clutched at his shoulder. There was a murderous light in his eyes. He regretted his own generous action, but was too wounded to do anything about it. Alvanley saw the whole, and from experience was pretty sure the wound was not a mortal one. He yelped for Marlowe, who came running forward with his black bag. Dammler was bleeding freely, but not unconscious. He had his jacket stripped away, his shirt torn off, and there in the cool meadow the wound was examined.

“Get him into a carriage,” Alvanley ordered.

Seville, all solicitude and apologies, and Elmtree, all confusion, aided him. Marlowe required the amenities of his dispensary. Elmtree hopped in beside him, looking to Alvanley for any further orders.

“This is a bad business. The less said of it the better,” was the man’s curt remark to the group. Seville felt he had been badly treated, and would likely be held up as a cur after doing what any normal person would have done. The group disbanded, it being agreed they would all say nothing of the morning’s work.

Clarence stood by in Marlowe’s dispensary watching as the bullet was extracted. While the forceps probed into the gaping wound and Dammler sat grimacing in silent agony, he was happy it was not himself who had stood up to be a target, but once it was out and a bandage was being wrapped around the shoulder, he felt Dammler had been a bit hasty in pushing himself forward to defend Prudence. Wanted to strut around town as a hero, with his arm supported in a sling. “A good thing it’s your left arm. It won’t interfere with your writing,” was his comment.

Dammler said nothing. It had gone as well as he expected. He had saved Elmtree’s life and his own. The pain in his shoulder made him nearly unconscious--it was only the brandy that kept his eyes open. “Don’t tell Prudence what happened,” he said.

“She’ll want to know. She’ll be waiting there to hear it all. Found out about it somehow.”

She had told Dammler she’d never speak to him again if he stood up against Seville, and while the circumstances had not been foreseen, he was still not eager for her to find out. Of course, she would hear sooner or later. There was no chance of Clarence’s keeping it quiet for long, but he trusted that she would at least be told the whole story. “Don’t tell her anything,” he repeated, deciding he would go to her and tell her himself. With a crippled shoulder to ignite her sympathy, she would not be intractable. But first he must get home and have a rest to recoup his strength. Clarence took him to Berkeley Square. Before parting they spoke again of remaining silent on the subject, with Dammler unfortunately using the phrase “gentleman's agreement.” Now Clarence was a gentleman, called himself and had often been called one, but to hear the words on the tongue of a lord lent them a new and marvelous significance. It was a different kind of gentleman entirely that included a marquess and a millionaire, and required some different behavior. He resolved to keep the trust. It would be the first time he had ever done so, but it was also the first time he had been involved in such reckless goings-on as a duel.

That he was just a little unhappy with his own non-part in the affair helped him to silence as well.

Prudence sat waiting on a bed of thorns for his return. She was prey to the worst imaginings and recriminations. Dammler would have had a better chance of defending himself. She ought not to have insisted it be Clarence who stood up in her defense. She had on top of this her mother’s gentle chidings. “What will we do if Clarence is
killed?
Nowhere for us to go. His son will come home and take over the house. Three children--there will be no room for us. We must go back to Kent. I wonder if Ronald Springer is still unattached.”