Hearts Afire

DUELING FOR LOVE.

Sir Edward was intensely angry, and his dark eyes glowed beneath their dropped lids with a passionate hate. But he left his father with an assumed coldness and calmness which made him mutter as he watched Sir Edward down the road. For the elder, judging his son by the impetuosity of his own youthful temper, expected him to go directly to Charlotte Morgan's house. But there were qualities in Sir Edward which his father forgot to take into consideration, and their influence was to suggest to the young man how inappropriate a visit to Charlotte would be at that time. Indeed, he did not much desire it. He was very angry with Charlotte. He was sure that she understood his entire devotion to her. He could not see any necessity to set it forth as particularly as a legal contract, in certain set phrases and with conventional ceremonies.

But his father's sarcastic advice annoyed him, and he wanted time to fully consider his ways. He was no yellow coward; he was a fine swordsman, and he felt that it would be a real joy to stand with a drawn rapier between himself and his rival. But what if revenge cost him too much? What if he slew Harleigh, and had to leave his love and his home, and his fine business prospects? To win Charlotte and to marry her, in the face of the man whom he felt that he detested, would not that be the best of all “satisfactions”?

He walked about the streets, discussing these points with himself, till the shops all closed, and on the stoops of the houses in Brooklyn there were merry parties of gossiping belles and beaux. As he returned to home. Half a dozen gentlemen were standing before the King's Arms Tavern, discussing some governmental statement in the “Weekly Mercury;” but though they asked him to stop, and enlighten them on some legal point, he excused himself for that night, and went toward Harleigh Daly's. He had suddenly resolved upon a visit. Why should he put off until the tomorrow what he might begin that night?

Still debating with himself, he came to a narrow road which ran to the street, along the southern side of Harleigh Daly's house. It was only a trodden path used by locals, and made by usage through the unenclosed ground. But coming swiftly up it, as if to detain him, was Harleigh Daly. The two men looked at each other defiantly; and Sir Edward said with a cold, meaning emphasis,—

“At your service, sir.”

“Sir Edward, at your service,”—and touching his sword,—“to the very hilt, sir.”

“Sir, yours to the same extremity.”

Harleigh Daly yawned delicately and took a pinch of snuff.

“I fear you not; I very much fear you not. I would advise you to stay away from Charlotte Morgan.” Sir Edward leaned toward Harleigh.

“Sir Edward, you are a little late;” and Harleigh pushed aside his embroidered coat in order to exhibit to Sir Edward the bow of orange ribbon beneath it.

“I will stain it crimson in your blood,” said Sir Edward, passionately.

“Until that day, I have the felicity of wearing it;” and with an offensively deep salute, Harleigh terminated the interview.

“Love and a crown no rivalship can bear.

Love, love! Thou sternly dost thy power maintain,

And wilt not bear a rival in thy reign.”

The next morning Sir Edward's first emotion was not so much one of anger as of exultation. The civilization of the Van Heemskirk's was scarce a century old; and behind them were generations of fierce men, whose hands had been on their daggers for a word or a look. “I shall have him at my sword's point;” that was what he kept saying to himself as he headed toward Charlotte Morgan's house. The front-gate stood open; and he walked through it to the back-stoop, where Joris Morgan was smoking.

Charlotte sat upon the steps of the stoop. Her head was in her hand, her eyes red with weeping, her whole attitude one of desponding sorrow. But, at this hour, Sir Edward was indifferent to adverse circumstances. He was moving in that exultation of spirit which may be simulated by the first rapture of good wine, but which is only genuine when the soul takes entire possession of the man, and makes him for some rare, short interval lord of himself, and contemptuous of all fears and doubts and difficulties. He never noticed that Joris was less kind than usual; but touching Charlotte, to arouse her attention, said, “Come with me down the garden, my love.”

She looked at him wonderingly. His words and manner were strange and potent; and, although she had just been assuring herself that she would resist his advances on every occasion, she rose at his request and gave him her hand.

Then the tender thoughts which had lain so deep in his heart flew to his lips, and he wooed her with a fervour and nobility as astonishing to himself as to Charlotte. He reminded her of all the sweet intercourse of their happy lives, and of the fidelity with which he had loved her. “When I was a lad ten years old, and saw you first in your mother's arms, I called you then my little wife. Oh, my Charlotte, my sweet Charlotte! Who is there that can take you from me?”

“Sir Edward, like a brother to me you have been. Like a dear brother, I love you. But your wife to be! That is not the same. Ask me not that.”

“Only that can satisfy me, Charlotte. Do you think I will ever give you up? Not while I live.”

“No one will I marry. With my father and my mother I will stay.”

“Yes, till you learn to love me as I love you, with the whole soul.” He drew her close to his side, and bent tenderly to her face.

“No, you shall not kiss me, Sir Edward,—never again. No right have you, Sir Edward.”

“You are to be my wife, Charlotte?”

“That I have not said.”

She drew herself from his embrace, and stood leaning against an elm-tree, watchful of Sir Edward, full of wonder at the sudden warmth of his love, and half fearful of his influence over her.

“But you have known it, Charlotte, ay, for many a year. No words could make the truth-plight truer. From this hour, mine and only mine.”

“Such things you shall not say.”

“I will say them before all the world. Charlotte, is it true that good for nothing scoundrel is wearing a bow of your ribbon? You must tell me.”

“What mean you?”

“I will make my meaning plain. Is Harleigh Daly wearing a bow of your orange ribbon?”

“Can I tell?”

“Yes. Do not lie to me.”

“A lie I would not speak.”

“Did you give him one? Yes an orange one!”

“Yes. A bow of my Christmas ribbon I gave him.”

“Why?”

“Me he loves, and him I love.”

“And he wears it at his breast?”

“On his breast I have seen it. Sir Edward, do not quarrel with him. Do not look so angry. I fear you. My fault it is; all my fault, Sir Edward. Only to please me he wears it.”

“You have more Christmas ribbons?”

“That is so.”

“Go and get me one. Get a bow, Charlotte, and give it to me. I will wait here for it.”

“No, that I will not do. How false, how wicked I would be, if two lovers my colors wore!”

“Charlotte, I am in great earnest. A bow of that ribbon I must have. Get one for me.”

“My hands I would cut off first.”

“Well, then, I will cut my bow from Harleigh's breast. I will, though I cut his heart out with it.”

He turned from her as he said the words, and, without speaking to Joris, passed through the garden-gate to his own home. His mother and Mrs. Gordon, and several young ladies and gentlemen were sitting on the stoop, arranging for a turtle feast on the East River; and Sir Edward's advent was hailed with ejaculations of pleasure. He affected to listen for a few minutes, and then excused himself upon the “assurance of having some very important writing to attend to.” But, as he passed the parlor door, his father called him. The elder was casting up some kirk accounts; but, as Sir Edward answered the summons, he carefully put the extinguisher on one candle, and turned his chair from the table in a way which Sir Edward understood as an invitation for his company.

A moment's reflection convinced Sir Edward that it was his wisest plan to accede. It was of the utmost importance that his father should be kept absolutely ignorant of his quarrel with Harleigh; for Sir Edward was certain that, if he suspected their intention to fight, he would invoke the aid of the law to preserve peace, and such a course would infallibly subject him to suspicions which would be worse than death to his proud spirit.

“Well, Sir Edward, my dear lad, you are early home. Where were you the night?”

“I have just left Charlotte, sir, having followed your advice in my wooing. I wish I had done so earlier.”

“Ay, ay; when a man is seventy years old, he has read the book of life, specially the chapters about women, and he knows all about them. A bonnie lass expects to have a kind of worship; but the service is na unpleasant, quite the contrary. Did you see Harleigh Daly?”

“We met near Broadway, and exchanged civilities.”

“A good thing to exchange.

“I see you are casting up the kirk accounts. Can I help you, father?”

“I have everything ready for the consistory. Sir Edward, what is the good of us speaking of this and that, and thinking that we are deceiving each other? I am very anxious about affairs between Harleigh Daly and yourself; and I'm afraid you'll be coming to hot words, maybe to blows. My lad, my dear lad! You are the Joseph of my sons; you are the joy of your mother's life. For our sake, keep a calm soul, and don’t let a fool provoke you to break our hearts, and maybe send you into God's presence uncalled and unblessed.

“Father, put yourself in my place. How would you feel toward Harleigh Daly?”

“Well, I'll allow that, I would not feel kindly. I dont feel kindly to him, even in my own place.”

“As you desire it, we will speak plainly to each other about this subject. You know his proud and hasty temper; you know also that I am more like yourself than like Moses in the way of meekness. Now, if Harleigh Daly insults me, what course would you advise me to adopt?”

“I wouldn’t give him the chance to insult you. I would keep out of his way. There is nothing unusual or discreditable in taking a journey to Boston, to look after the welfare of your brother Alexander.”

“Oh, indeed, sir, I cannot leave my affairs for an insolent and ungrateful fool! I ask your advice for the ordinary way of life, not for the way that cowardice or fear dictates. If without looking for him, or avoiding him, we meet, and a quarrel is inevitable, what then, father?”

“Ay, well, in that case, God prevent it! But in such a strait, my lad, it is better to give the insult than to take it.”

“You know what must follow?”

“Who doesn’t know? Blood, if not murder. Sir Edward, you are a wise and prudent lad; now, is not the sword of the law sharper than the rapier of honor?”

“Law has no remedy for the wrongs men of honor redress with the sword. A man may call me every shameful name; but unless I can show some actual loss in money or money's worth, I have no redress. And suppose that I tried it, and that after long sufferance and delays I got my demands, pray sir, tell me, how can offences which have flogged a man's most sacred feelings be atoned for by something to put in the pocket?”

“Society, Sir Edward”—

“Society, father, always convicts and punishes the man who takes an insult on view, without waiting for his indictment or trial.”

“There ought to be a law, Sir Edward.”

“No law will administer itself, sir. The statute-book is a dead letter when it conflicts with public opinion. There is not a week passes but you may see that for yourself, father. If a man is insulted, he must protect his honor; and he will do so until the law is able to protect him better than his own strength.”

“There is another way—a more Christian way”—

“I am to turn the other cheek.”

“I didn’t say the like of that, Sir Edward. But I'm in such strait. But I'll trust you to your prudence.”

“That is a good consolation, father.”

“It is all that I can do.”

“In such comfortable assurance, sir, I think we may say good-night. I have business early in the morning, and may not wait for your company, if you will excuse me so far.”

“Right; very right, Sir Edward. The dawn has gold in its hand. I used to be an early worker myself; but I'm an ald man now, and may claim some privileges. Good-night, Sir Edward, and a good-morning to follow it.”

Sir Edward then lit his candle; and, not forgetting that courteous salute which the young then always rendered to honorable age, he went slowly upstairs, feeling suddenly a great weariness and despair. If Charlotte had only been true to him! He was sure, then, that he could have fought almost joyfully any pretender to her favor. But he was deserted by the girl whom he had loved all her sweet life. He was betrayed by a man who had crept in unaware, compelled to hazard a life opening up with fair hopes of honor and distinction.

In the calm of his own chamber, through the silent, solemn hours, when the world was shut out of his life, Sir Edward reviewed his position; but he could find no Honorable way out of his predicament. Physically, he was as brave as brave could be; morally, he had none of that grander courage. He was quite sensible that his first words to Harleigh Daly that night had been intended to provoke a quarrel, and he knew that he would be expected to redeem them by a formal defiance. However, as the idea became familiar, it became imperative; and at length it was with a fierce satisfaction that he opened his desk and without hesitation wrote the decisive words:

To Harleigh Daly:

SIR: A person of the character I bear cannot allow the treachery and dishonorable conduct of which you have been guilty to pass without punishment. Convince me that you are more of a gentleman than I have reason to believe, by meeting me tonight as the sun drops in the wood on the Kalchhook Hill. Our seconds can locate the spot; and that you may have no pretense to delay, I send by bearer two swords, of which I give you the privilege to make choice.

In the interim, at your service,

Sir Edward Van Heemskirk.

He had already selected Guy Barrington as his second. He was a young man of wealth and good family, exceedingly anxious for social distinction, and, moreover, so fastidiously honorable that Sir Edward felt himself in his hands to be beyond reproach. As he anticipated, Barrington accepted the duty with alacrity, and, indeed, so promptly carried out his principal's instructions, that he found Harleigh Daly still sleeping when he waited upon him. But Harleigh was neither astonished nor annoyed. He laughed lightly at “Sir Edward's impatience of offence,” and directed Mr. Barrington to Ewan Rawden as his second; leaving the choice of swords and of the ground entirely to his direction.

“A more civil, agreeable, handsome gentleman, impossible it would be to find; and I think the hot haughty temper of Sir Edward is to blame in this affair,” was Guy Barrington's private comment. But he stood watchfully by his principal's interests, and affected a gentlemanly disapproval of Harleigh Daly's behavior.

And lightly as Harleigh had taken the challenge, he was really more disinclined to fight than Sir Edward was. In his heart he knew that Sir Edward had a just cause of anger; “but then,” he argued, “Sir Edward is a proud, pompous fellow, for whom I never assumed a friendship. His street corner friendliness I regret in any way to have abused; but who the deuce could have suspected that Sir Edward Van Heemskirk was in love with the adorable Charlotte? In faith, I did not at the first, and now tis too late. I would not resign the girl for my life; for I am sensible that life, if she is another's, will be a very tedious thing to me.”

All day Sir Edward was busy in making his will, and in disposing of his affairs. He knew himself well enough to be certain, that, if he struck the first blow, he would not hesitate to strike the death blow, and that nothing less than such conclusion would satisfy him. Harleigh also anticipated a deathly persistence of animosity in his opponent, and felt equally the necessity for some definite arrangement of his business. Unfortunately, it was in a very confused state. He owed many debts of honor, and his bill with Hildebrand was yet unsettled. He drank a cup of coffee, wrote several important letters, and then went to Fraunce's, and had a steak and a bottle of wine. During his meal his thoughts wandered between Charlotte and Hildebrand. After dinning he went straight to Hildebrand's store.

It happened to be Saturday; and the shutters were closed, though the door was slightly open, and Hildebrand was sitting with his granddaughter in the cool shadows of the crowded place. Harleigh was not in a ceremonious mood, and he took no thought of disturbing them. He pushed wider the door, and went clattering into their presence; and with an air of pride and annoyance Hildebrand rose to meet him. At the same time, by a quick look of intelligence, he dismissed Miriam; but she did not retreat farther than within the deeper shadows of some curtains of stamped Moorish leather, for she anticipated the immediate departure of the intruder.

She was therefore astonished when her grandfather, after listening to a few sentences, sat down, and entered into a lengthy conversation. And her curiosity was also aroused; for, though Harleigh had often been in the store, she had never hitherto seen him in such a sober mood, it was also remarkable that her grandfather should receive papers, and a ring which she watched Harleigh take from his finger; and there was, beside, a solemn, a final air about the transaction which gave her the feeling of some anticipated tragedy.

When at last they rose, Harleigh extended his hand. “Hildebrand,” he said, “few men would have been as generous and, at this hour, as considerate as you. I have judged from tradition of business, and misjudged you. Whether we meet again or not, we part as friends.”

“You have settled all things as a gentleman, Sir. May my white hairs say a word to your heart this hour?” Harleigh bowed; and he continued, in a voice of serious benignity: “The words of the Holy One are to be regarded, and not the words of men. Men call that honour which He will call murder. What excuse is there in your lips if you go this night into His presence?”

There was no excuse in Harleigh's lips, even for his mortal interrogator. He merely bowed again, and slipped through the partially opened door into the busy street. Then Hildebrand a hat upon his head and arm, and went and stood with his face toward the street, and recited, in low, rhythmical sentences, the poem called the “Assault.” Miriam sat quiet during his recital but when he returned to his place, she asked him plainly, “What murder is there to be, grandfather?”

“It is a duel between Harleigh Daly and another. It shall be called murder at the last.”

“The other, who is he?”

“The young man Sir Edward Van Heemskirk.”

“I am sorry. He is a courteous young man. I have heard you say so. I have heard you speak well of him.”

“O Miriam, There are two young lives to be put in death peril for the smile of a woman,—a very girl she is.”

“Do I know her, grandfather?”

“She passes here often. The daughter of Joris and Lysbet Morgan,—the little fair one, the child.”

“Oh, but now I am twice sorry! She has smiled at me often. We have even spoken. The good old man, her father, will die; and her mother, she was always like a watch-dog at her side.”

Then Hildebrand, with his hands on his side, and his head sunken in sorrow, stood meditating, perhaps praying; and the hot, silent moments went slowly away. In them, Miriam was coming to a decision which at first alarmed her, but which, as it grew familiar, grew also lawful and kind. She was quite certain that her grandfather would not interfere between the young men, and probably he had given Harleigh his promise not to do so; but she neither had received a charge, nor entered into any obligation, of silence. A word to the Elder Van Heemskirk would be sufficient. Should she not say it? Her heart answered “yes,” although she did not clearly perceive how the warning was to be given.

Perhaps Hildebrand divined her purpose, and was not unfavourable to it; for he suddenly rose, and, putting on his cap, said, “I am going to see my kinsman John Hildebrand. At sunset, set wide the door; an hour after sunset I will return.”

As soon as he had gone, Miriam wrote to Van Heemskirk these words:

“Good sir,—this is a matter of life and death: so then, come at once, and I will tell you. MIRIAM Hildebrand.”

With the slip of paper in her hand, she stood within the door, watching for some messenger she could trust. It was not many minutes before Van Heemskirk's driver passed, leading his loaded wagon; and to him she gave the note.

That day Elder Van Heemskirk only was in the office. But it was part of the job to stay over and attend to the people, and he supposed the strip of paper to refer to a in-house counsel or some other household necessity.

Its actual message was so unusual and unlooked for, that it took him a moment or two to realize the words; then, fearing it might be some practical joke, he recalled the driver, and heard with amazement that the Hildebrand's granddaughter had herself given him the message. Assured of this fact, he answered the summons as soon as he received it. Miriam was waiting just within the door; and, scarcely heeding his explanation, she proceeded at once to give him such information as she possessed. Van Heemskirk was slow of thought and slow of speech. He stood gazing at the beautiful, earnest girl, and felt all the fear and force of her words; but for some moments he could not speak, nor decide on his first step.

“Why do you wait?” pleaded Miriam. “At sunset, I tell you. It is now near it. Oh, no thanks! Do not stop for them, but hasten to them at once.”

He obeyed like one in a dream; but, before he had reached Joris Morgan's shop, he had fully realized the actual situation. Joris Morgan was just leaving business. He put his hand on him, and said, “Joris, no time have you to lose. At sunset, Sir Edward and that d——Harleigh Daly are to duel.”

“Eh? Where? Who told you?”

“On the Kalchhook Hill. Stay not for a moment's talk.”

At that moment Sir Edward and Harleigh were on their road to the fatal spot. Sir Edward had been gathering anger all day; Harleigh, a vague regret. The folly of what they were going to do was clear to both; but Sir Edward was dominated by a fury of passion, which made the folly a revengeful joy. If there had been any thought of an apology in Harleigh's heart, he must have seen its hopelessness in the white wrath of Sir Edward's face, and the calm deliberation with which he assumed and prepared for a fatal termination of the affair.

The sun dropped as the seconds measured off the space and offered the lot for the standing ground. Then Sir Edward flung off his coat and waistcoat, and stood with bared breast on the spot his second indicated. This action had been performed in such a passion of hurry, that he was compelled to watch Harleigh's more calm and leisurely movements. He removed his fine scarlet coat and handed it to Guy Barrington, and would then have taken his sword; but Barrington advanced to remove also his waistcoat. The suspicion implied by this act roused the Harleigh's indignation. “Do you take me to be a person of so little honor?” he passionately asked; and then with his own hands he tore off the richly embroidered satin garment, and by so doing exposed what perhaps some delicate feeling had made him wish to conceal,—a bow of orange ribbon which he wore above his heart.

The sight of it to Sir Edward was like oil flung upon flame. He could scarcely restrain himself until the word “go” gave him license to charge Harleigh, which he did with such impetuous rage, that it was evident he cared less to preserve his own life, than to slay his enemy.

Harleigh was an excellent swordsman, and had fought several duels; but he was quite disconcerted by the deadly reality of Sir Edward's attack. In the second thrust, his foot got entangled in a tuft of grass; and, in evading a lunge aimed at his heart, he fell on his right side. Supporting himself, however, on his sword hand, he sprang backwards with great dexterity, and thus escaped the probable death-blow. But, as he was bleeding from a wound in the throat, his second interfered, and proposed a reconciliation. Sir Edward angrily refused to listen. He declared that he “had not come to enact a farce;” and then, happening to glance at the ribbon on Harleigh's breast, he swore furiously, “He would make his way through the body of any man who stood between him and his just anger.”

Up to this point, there had been in Harleigh's mind a latent disinclination to slay Sir Edward. After it, he flung away every kind memory; and the fight was renewed with an almost brutal impetuosity, until there ensued one of those close locks which it was evident nothing but “the key of the body could open.” In the frightful wrench which followed, the swords of both men sprang from their hands, flying some four or five yards upward with the force.

Both recovered their weapons at the same time, and both, bleeding and exhausted, would have again renewed the fight; but at that moment Elder Van Heemskirk and Joris Morgan, with their attendants, reached the spot.

Without hesitation, they threw themselves between the young men, — Joris Morgan facing Harleigh, and the Elder Van Heemskirk his son. “Sir Edward, you dear lad, you born fool, give me your weapon, sir!” But there was no need to say another word. Sir Edward fell senseless upon his sword, making in his fall a last desperate effort to reach the ribbon on Harleigh's breast; for Harleigh had also dropped fainting to the ground, bleeding from at least half a dozen wounds. Then one of Van Heemskirk's young men, who had probably defined the cause of quarrel, and who felt a sympathy for his young master, made as if he would pick up the fatal bit of orange satin, now died crimson in Harleigh's blood.

But Joris pushed the rifling hand fiercely away. “To touch it would be the vilest theft,” he said. “His own it is. With his life he has bought it.”

“I know I felt Love's face

Pressed on my neck, with moan of pity and grace,

Till both our heads were in his aureole.”