Part 42 (1/2)
”There is no doubt of it,” replied I.
”You never will find your father, sir, if you go on this way,” said Timothy, as if to divert my attention from such a purpose.
”Not in this world, perhaps, Tim; perhaps I may be sent the right road by a bullet, and find him in the next.”
”Do you think your father, if dead, has gone to heaven?”
”I hope so, Timothy.”
”Then what chance have you of meeting him, if you go out of the world attempting the life of your old friend?”
”That is what you call a poser, my dear Timothy, but I cannot help myself: this I can safely say, that I have no animosity against Mr Harcourt--at least, not sufficient to have any wish to take away his life.”
”Well, that's something, to be sure; but do you know, j.a.phet, I'm not quite sure you hit the right road when you set up for a gentleman.”
”No, Timothy, no man can be in the right road who deceives: I have been all wrong; and I am afraid I am going from worse to worse: but I cannot moralise, I must go to sleep, and forget everything, if I can.”
The next morning, about eleven o'clock, a Mr Cotgrave called upon me on the part of Harcourt. I referred him to Captain Atkinson, and he bowed and quitted the room. Captain Atkinson soon called: he had remained at home expecting the message, and had made every arrangement with the second. He stayed with me the whole day. The major's pistols were examined and approved of. We dined, drank freely, and he afterwards proposed that I should accompany him to one of the h.e.l.ls, as they are called. This I refused, as I had some arrangements to make; and as soon as he was gone I sent for Timothy.
”Tim,” said I, ”if I should be unlucky to-morrow, you are my executor and residuary legatee. My will was made when in Dublin, and is in the charge of Mr Cophagus.”
”j.a.phet, I hope you will allow me one favour, which is, to go to the ground with you. I had rather be there than remain here in suspense.”
”Of course, my dear fellow, if you wish it,” replied I; ”but I must go to bed, as I am to be called at four o'clock--so let's have no sentimentalising or sermonising. Good night, G.o.d bless you.”
I was, at that time, in a state of mind which made me reckless of life or of consequences; stung by the treatment which I received, mad with the world's contumely, I was desperate. True it was, as Mr Masterton said, I had not courage to buffet against an adverse gale. Timothy did not go to bed, and at four o'clock was at my side. I rose, dressed myself with the greatest care, and was soon joined by Captain Atkinson.
We then set off in a hackney-coach to the same spot to which I had, but a few months before, driven with poor Carbonnell. His memory and his death came like a cloud over my mind, but it was but for a moment. I cared little for life. Harcourt and his second were on the ground a few minutes before us. Each party saluted politely, and the seconds proceeded to business. We fired, and Harcourt fell, with a bullet above his knee. I went up to him, and he extended his hand. ”Newland,” said he, ”I have deserved this. I was a coward, in the first place, to desert you as I did--and a coward, in the second, to fire at a man whom I had injured. Gentlemen,” continued he, appealing to the seconds, ”recollect, I, before you, acquit Mr Newland of all blame, and desire, if any further accident should happen to me, that my relations will take no steps whatever against him.”
Harcourt was very pale, and bleeding fast. Without any answer I examined the wound, and found, by the colour of the blood, and its gus.h.i.+ng, that an artery had been divided. My professional knowledge saved his life. I compressed the artery, while I gave directions to the others. A handkerchief was tied tight round his thigh, above the wound--a round stone selected, and placed under the handkerchief, in the femoral groove, and the ramrod of one of the pistols then made use of as a winch, until the whole acted as a tourniquet. I removed my thumbs, found that the haemorrhage was stopped, and then directed that he should be taken home on a door, and surgical a.s.sistance immediately sent for.
”You appear to understand these things, sir,” said Mr Cotgrave. ”Tell me, is there any danger?”
”He must suffer amputation,” replied I, in a low voice, so that Harcourt could not hear me. ”Pray watch the tourniquet carefully as he is taken home, for should it slip it will be fatal.”
I then bowed to Mr Cotgrave, and, followed by Captain Atkinson, stepped into the hackney-coach and drove home. ”I will leave you now, Newland,”
said Captain Atkinson: ”it is necessary that I talk this matter over, so that it is properly explained.”
I thanked Captain Atkinson for his services, and was left alone; for I had sent Timothy to ascertain if Harcourt had arrived safe at his lodgings. Never did I feel more miserable; my anxiety for Harcourt was indescribable; true, he had not treated me well, but I thought of his venerable father, who pressed my hand so warmly when I left his hospitable roof--of his lovely sisters, and the kindness and affection which they had shown towards me, and our extreme intimacy. I thought of the pain which the intelligence would give them, and their indignation towards me, when their brother first made his appearance at his father's house, mutilated; and were he to die--good G.o.d! I was maddened at the idea. I had now undone the little good I had been able to do. If I had made Fleta and her mother happy, had I not plunged another family into misery?
PART TWO, CHAPTER THIRTY.
THIS IS A STRANGE WORLD; I AM CUT BY A MAN OF NO CHARACTER, BECAUSE HE IS FEARFUL THAT I SHOULD INJURE HIS CHARACTER.
Timothy returned, and brought me consolation--the bleeding had not recommenced, and Harcourt was in tolerable spirits. An eminent surgeon had been sent for. ”Go again, my dear Timothy, and as you are intimate with Harcourt's servant, you will be able to find out what they are about.”
Timothy departed, and was absent about an hour, during which I lay on the sofa, and groaned with anguish. When he returned, I knew by his face that his intelligence was favourable.
”All's right,” cried Timothy; ”no amputation after all. It was only one of the smaller arteries which was severed, and they have taken it up.”
I sprang up from the sofa and embraced Timothy, so happy was I with the intelligence, and then I sat down again, and cried like a child. At last I became more composed. I had asked Captain Atkinson to dine with me, and was very glad when he came. He confirmed Timothy's report, and I was so overjoyed, that I sat late at dinner, drinking very freely, and when he again proposed that we should go to the _rouge et noir_ table, I did not refuse--on the contrary, flushed with wine, I was anxious to go, and took all the money that I had with me. On our arrival Atkinson played, but finding that he was not fortunate, he very soon left off.