The Convenient Marriage (16 page)

Sir Roland, casting a dispassionate and expert eye over his principal, got up and went over to the wash-basin and dipped one of his lordship's towels in cold water. This he wrung out and silently handed to the Viscount, who took it gratefully and bound it round his aching brow. It seemed to assist him to clear his brain, for presently he said: 'Quarrelled with someone, did I? Damme, my head's like to split! Devilish stuff, that burgundy.'

'More likely the brandy,' said Sir Roland gloomily. 'You drank a deal of it.'

'Did I so? You know, there was something about a hat - a damned thing with pink roses. It's coming back to me.' He clasped his head in his hands, while Sir Roland sat and picked his teeth in meditative patience. 'By God, I have it! I've called Crosby out!' suddenly exclaimed the Viscount.

'No, you haven't,' corrected Sir Roland. 'He called you. You wiped your feet on his hat, Pel.'

'Ay, so I did, but that wasn't it,' said the Viscount, his brow darkening.

Sir Roland removed the gold toothpick from his mouth, and said succinctly: 'Tell you what, Pel, it had best be the hat.'

The Viscount nodded. 'It's the devil's own business,' he said ruefully. 'Ought to have stopped me.'

'Stop you!' echoed Sir Roland. 'You flung a glass of wine in the fellow's face before anyone knew what you was about.'

The Viscount brooded, and presently sat up again with a jerk. 'By God, I'm glad I did it! You heard what he said, Pom?'

'Drunk, belike,' offered Sir Roland.

'There's not a word of truth in it,' said the Viscount with grim meaning. 'Not a word, Pom, d'you take me?'

'Lord, Pel, no one ever thought there was! Ain't one fight enough for you?'

The Viscount grinned rather sheepishly and leaned back against the bed-head. 'What's it to be? Swords or pistols?'

'Swords,' replied Sir Roland. 'We don't want to make it a killing matter. Fixed it all up for you out at Barn Elms, Monday at six.'

The Viscount nodded, but seemed a trifle abstracted. He discarded the wet towel and looked wisely across at his friend. 'I was drunk, Pom, that's the tale.'

Sir Roland, who had resumed the use of his toothpick, let it fall in his surprise, and gasped: 'You're never going to back out of it, Pel?'

'Back out of it?' said the Viscount. 'Back out of a fight? Burn it, if I didn't know you for a fool, Pom, I'd thrust that down your gullet, so I would!'

Sir Roland accepted this shamefacedly, and begged pardon.

'I was drunk,' said the Viscount, 'and I took a dislike to Crosby's hat— Damn it, what's he want with pink roses in his hat? Answer me that!'

'Just what I said myself,' agreed Sir Roland. 'Fellow can wear a hat at Almack's if he likes. Do it myself sometimes. But pink roses - no.'

'Well, that's all there is to it,' said the Viscount with finality. 'You put it about I was in my cups. That's the tale.'

Sir Roland agreed that ought certainly to be the tale and picked up his hat and cane. The Viscount prepared to resume his interrupted slumber, but upon Sir Roland's opening the door, opened one eye and adjured him on no account to forget to order breakfast at Barn Elms.

Monday dawned very fair, a cool lifting mist giving promise of a fine day to come. Mr Drelincourt, accompanied in a coach by his seconds, Mr Francis Puckleton and Captain Forde, arrived at Barn Elms some time before six, this excessive punctuality being accounted for by the irregularity of the

Captain's watch. 'But it's no matter,' said the Captain. 'Drink a bumper of cognac and take a look at the ground, hey, Crosby?'

Mr Drelincourt assented with rather a wan smile.

It was his first fight, for though he delighted in the delivery of waspish speeches he had never until that fatal Friday felt the least desire to cross swords with anyone. When he had seen the Viscount stalking towards him at Almack's he had been quite aghast, and would have been perfectly willing to eat the rash words that had caused all the bother had not the Viscount committed that shocking rape upon his hat and wig. Mr Drelincourt was so much in the habit of considering his appearance above anything else that this brutal action had roused him to a really heroic rage. At that moment he had quite genuinely wanted to spit the Viscount on the end of a small-sword, and if only they could have engaged there and then he had no doubt that he would have acquitted himself very well. Unfortunately etiquette did not permit of so irregular a proceeding, and he had been forced to kick his heels for two interminable days. When his rage had died down it must be confessed that he began to look forward with apprehension to Monday's meeting. He spent a great deal of the weekend perusing Angelo's
Ecole d'Armes
, a work that made his blood run quite cold. He had, of course, learned the art of fencing, but he had a shrewd notion that a buttoned foil presented a very different appearance from a naked duelling sword. Captain Forde congratulated him on having hit upon a worthy opponent in the Viscount, who, he said, though he was perhaps a trifle reckless, was no mean swordsman. He had already fought two duels, but one had been with pistols, with which weapon he was considered to be very dangerous. Mr Drelincourt could only be thankful that Sir Roland had chosen swords.

Captain Forde, who seemed to take a gruesome delight in the affair, recommended his principal to go early to bed on Sunday night and on no account to drink deep. Mr Drelincourt obeyed him implicitly, but passed an indifferent night. As he tossed and turned, wild ideas of inducing his seconds to settle for him crossed his brain. He wondered how the Viscount was spending the night and entertained a desperate hope that he might be drinking himself under the table. If only some accident or illness would befall him! Or perhaps ioo he himself could be smitten by a sudden indisposition? But in the cold light of dawn he was forced to abandon this scheme. He was not a very brave man, but he had his pride: one could not draw back from an engagement.

Mr Puckleton was the first of his seconds to arrive in the morning, and while Crosby dressed he sat astride a chair sucking the knob of his tall cane and regarding his friend with a melancholy and not unadmiring eye.

'Forde's bringing the weapons,' he said. 'How do you feel, Crosby?'

There was an odd sensation in the pit of Mr Drelincourt's stomach, but he replied: 'Oh, never better! Never better, I assure you.'

'For myself,' said Mr Puckleton, 'I shall leave it all to Forde. To tell you the truth, Crosby, I've never acted for a man before. Wouldn't do it for anyone but you. I can't stand the sight of blood, you know. But I have my vinaigrette with me.'

Then Captain Forde arrived with a long flat case under his arm. Lord Cheston, he said, had engaged to bring a doctor with him, and Crosby had better make haste, for it was time they were starting.

The morning air struck a chill into Mr Drelincourt's bones; he huddled himself into his greatcoat and sat in a corner of the coach listening to the macabre conversation of his two companions. Not that either the Captain or Mr Puckleton talked about the duel; in fact, they chatted on the most mild subjects such as the beauty of the day, the quietness of the streets, and the Duchess of Devonshire's
al fresco
party. Mr Drelincourt found himself hating them for their apparent callousness, yet when the Captain did mention the duel, reminding him to meet so dashing a fighter as the Viscount with steadiness and caution, he turned a sickly hue and did not answer.

Arrived at Barn Elms they drew up at an inn adjacent to the meeting place, and there the Captain discovered that his watch was considerably in advance of the correct time. Casting a knowing glance at his pallid principal, he then made his suggestion they should drink a glass of cognac, for, said he in Mr Puckleton's ear: 'We'll never get our man on the ground by the looks of it.'

The brandy did little to restore Mr Drelincourt's failing spirits, but he drank it, and with an assumption of nonchalance accompanied his seconds out of the back of the inn and across a field to the ground, which was pleasantly situated in a sort of spinney. Captain Forde said that he could not have a better place for fighting. 'Upon my word, I envy you, Crosby!' he said heartily.

After that they walked back to the inn, to find that a second coach had driven up, containing Lord Cheston and a neat little man in black who clasped a case of instruments, and bowed very deeply to everybody. At first he mistook Captain Forde for Mr Drelincourt, but this was soon put right, and he bowed again to Crosby and begged pardon.

'Let me assure you, sir, that if it should chance that you are to be my patient you need have no alarms, none at all. A clean sword wound is a very different affair from a bullet wound, oh, very different!'

Lord Cheston offered his snuff-box to Mr Puckleton. 'Attended a score of these affairs, haven't you, Parvey?'

'Dear me, yes, my lord!' replied the surgeon, rubbing his hands together. 'Why, I was present when young Mr Ffolliot was fatally wounded in Hyde Park. Ah, before your time, that would be, my lord. A sad business - nothing to be done. Dead on the instant. Dreadful.'

'Dead on the instant?' echoed Mr Puckleton, turning pale. 'Oh, I trust nothing of that sort - really I wish I had not consented to act!'

The Captain gave a scornful snort and turned his shoulder, addressing Cheston. 'Where's Sir Roland, my lord?' he asked.

'Oh, he's coming with Winwood,' replied Cheston, shaking some specks of snuff out of his lace ruffle. 'Daresay they'll drive straight to the ground. Thought Pom had best go and make sure Winwood don't over-sleep. The very devil to wake up is Pel, you know.'

A faint, last hope flashed into Mr Drelincourt's soul that perhaps Sir Roland would fail to bring his principal to the meeting place in time.

'Well,' said the Captain, glancing at his watch, 'may as well go on to the ground, eh, gentlemen?'

The little procession started out once more, the Captain striding ahead with Lord Cheston, Mr Drelincourt following with his friend Puckleton and the doctor bringing up the rear.

Dr Parvey hummed a little tune to himself as he trod over the grass; Cheston and the Captain were talking casually of the improvements at Ranelagh. Mr Drelincourt cleared his throat once or twice and at last said: 'If - if the fellow offers me an apology I think I should let it rest at that, d-don't you, Francis?'

'Oh, yes, pray do!' agreed Mr Puckleton with a shudder. 'I know I shall feel devilish queasy if there is much blood.'

'He was drunk, you know,' Crosby said eagerly. 'Perhaps I should not have heeded him. I daresay he will be sorry by now. I don't - I don't object to him being asked if he cares to apologize.'

Mr Puckleton shook his head. 'He'd never do it,' he opined. 'He's fought two duels already, so I'm told.'

Mr Drelincourt gave a laugh that quivered uncertainly in the middle.'Well, I hope he mayn't have sat up over the bottle last night.'

Mr Puckleton was inclined to think that even such a mad young buck as Winwood would not do that.

By this time they had reached the ground and Captain Forde had opened that sinister case. Reposing in a bed of velvet lay two shining swords, their blades gleaming wickedly in the pale sunlight.

'It still wants a few minutes to six,' observed the Captain. 'I take it your man won't be late?'

Mr Drelincourt stepped forward. 'Late? I give you my word I don't intend to wait upon his lordship's convenience! If he does not come by six I shall assume he does not mean to meet me, and go back to town.'

Lord Cheston looked him over with a certain haughtiness. 'Don't put yourself about, sir: he'll be here.'

From the edge of the clearing a view of the road could be obtained. Mr Drelincourt watched it in an agony of suspense, and as the moments dragged past began to feel almost hopeful.

But just as he was about to ask Puckleton the time (for he felt sure it must now be well over the hour), a gig came into sight, bowling at a fine rate down the road. It drew up at the gate which stood open on to the meadow and turned in.

'Ah, here's your man!' said Captain Forde. 'And six of the clock exactly!'

Any hopes that Mr Drelincourt still nursed were put to flight. The Viscount, with Sir Roland Pommeroy beside him, was driving the gig himself, and from the way in which he was handling a restive horse it was evident that he was not in the least fuddled by drink. He drew up on the edge of the clearing, and sprang down from the high perch.

'Not late, am I?' he said. 'Servant, Puckleton, servant, Forde. Never saw such a perfect morning in my life.'

'Well, you don't see many of 'em, Pel,' remarked Cheston, with a grin.

The Viscount laughed. His laughter sounded fiendish to Mr Drelincourt.

Sir Roland had picked the swords out of their velvet bed and was glancing down the blades.

'Nothing to choose between 'em,' said Cheston, strolling over to him.

The Captain tapped Mr Drelincourt on the shoulder. 'Ready, sir? I'll take your coat and wig.'

Mr Drelincourt was stripped of his coat and saw that the Viscount, already in his shirt-sleeves, had sat down on a tree-stump and was pulling off his top boots.

'Take a drop of cognac, Pel?' inquired Sir Roland, producing a flask. 'Keep the cold out.'

The Viscount's reply was clearly wafted to Mr Drelincourt's ears. 'Never touch spirit before a fight, my dear fellow. Puts your eye out.' He stood up in his stockinged feet and began to roll up his sleeves. Mr Drelincourt, handing his wig to Mr Puckleton's tender care, wondered why he had never before realized what sinewy arms the Viscount had. He found that Lord Cheston was presenting two identical swords to him. He gulped, and took one of them in a damp grasp.