The Duel (Punshon)

BY

E. R. PUNSHON

HRISTABEL WYNNE was thinking of going to bed. Her mother was already there Her brother, in training, had retired there with a high and stern resolution fully an hour before. Her father, deep in the city article of his daily paper, limited his conversation to grunts. She herself had been sitting for the last hour at the piano, playing Beethoven and thinking alternately of Willy Ker and Charley Reade—poor dear fellows. She wished very much they wouldn't, and she played a few notes so sadly that her father looked up from his dull old city article and asked if she had not better go to bed.

Christabel replied with dignity that she was not sleepy, and at that moment a tempest burst into the room by way of the French window which opened on the garden.

“Hullo, that you?” said Christabel, lightly to the tempest.

“What is the matter now?” asked her father, testily.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Wynne,” said the tempest, apologetically, at the same time making at Christabel the most extraordinary, the most wonderful, the most truly marvellous grimaces that a pretty girl of one-and-twenty ever twisted her face into.

“Go on, Dorothea, dear,” urged Christabel, truly interested.

“Something’s happened,” said Dorothea in a whisper, “something awful, terrible ... I must see you at once.”

Christabel sprang to her feet. She was very pale. She clasped her hands. “Oh ... Dorothea!” she gasped.

Dorothea nodded her head three times. She was as pale as Christabel. They faced each other. The situation was one of tragic intensity. Christabel said slowly:

“Dorothea ... I know.”

“You ... know?" gasped Dorothea, appalled.

“Mrs. Jones has told you she can’t get my new frock done in time?” asked Christabel, breathlessly.

Dorothea shook her head. “It’s something much more awful than that,” she said, simply.

Christabel’s eyes and mouth grew round. You had the impression that her nose and chin and other features would have become round also had that been possible. She was bewildered, amazed, incredulous, but that was all. Her father, one finger on the city article to mark his place, looked up and said patiently: “If you two girls ...”

“Come on, Dolly,” said Christabel. They vanished into the conservatory, and there, amid the innocent flowers, the scented innocent flowers, Dorothea prepared to launch her news

“Chris,” she said, intensely. “Chris.”

“Well, what is it?” asked Christabel. “Because if it isn't about my new frock, I don’t see that it can be anything so very awful.”

Dorothea nerved herself for the disclosure. “Willy Ker ...” she said.

Christabel started perceptibly.

“Charley Reade ...” said Dorothea.

Christabel clasped her hands.

“They’ve challenged each other,” said Dorothea, in a voice that would have been a shriek, only she was afraid of Mr. Wynne hearing.

“What?” said Christabel, puzzled.

“And they’ve accepted.”

“Who?” asked Christabel, more puzzled still.

“And they’re to meet at half-past seven to-morrow morning meadow by the river where that duel was fought a hundred years ago, and I know they’ll both be killed, I do.”

“Dorothea!” gasped Christabel.

Dorothea wept.

“You don’t mean ... you don't,” Christabel panted, “You can’t ever possibly mean that they are going to fight ... a duel ... in the river meadow? You don’t mean...”

“Yes, I just do,” said Dorothea. And she fairly howled.

“About ... about ... us?” asked Christabel.

“I'm afraid so, I am,” Dorothea wailed.

Over Christabel’s pale and startled features slowly dawned the faint beginnings of a smile. “The dear fellows,” she said, musingly.

“Chris—ta—bel!” cried Dorothea, indignantly.

Christabel had at least the grace to blush. “Still, it’s very sweet of them,” she urged.

“But they'll be killed!” cried Dorothea and this time it really was a shriek, whether Mr. Wynne heard or no.

“Of course, I wouldn't like them to hurt themselves,” agreed Christabel.

“What are we to do?” demanded Dorothea. “Isn't it just awful?”

“How did you find out about it?” Christabel enquired.

Dorothea appeared slightly embarrassed. “They were in the billiard-room,” she explained. “They were talking rather loud ... I just happened to be near ... I just happened to hear ... and I know he'll be killed, I do.”

“He?” asked Christabel, with interest and a trace of doubt.

Dorothea did not so much blush as become crimson incarnate. “Of course, I meant ‘they,’” she explained.

“Story!” observed Christabel, but without heat.

“Well, so are you!” retorted Dorothea

“Christabel,” called her father from within. “Bedtime. Tell Dolly it’s time she went home.”

Dorothea clutched Christabel’s arm wildly. “What shall we do?” she demanded, in a tragic whisper.

Christabel had an inspiration. “We'll be there,” she said, in a hoarse whisper.

Dorothea was appalled “Oh ... Christabel!” she gasped. “I ... I daren’t!”

“You must,” said Christabel, sternly. “I'll throw a stone at your window at seven to-morrow morning. Mind you are ready. Yes, papa, I’m coming—Doll’s just off. Seven sharp,” she added, in a commanding whisper

Dorothea—pale, tragic, scared—floated forlornly out of the house into the night and across the lawn to her own habitation. Christabel bolted the conservatory door after her and kissed Mr. Wynne, and got her candle, and went upstairs, just as though it were all quite an ordinary night. But in the privacy of her own chamber, seated before her mirror, with her mouth full of hairpins and one coil plaited and one loose—ah! that was different, with no one to observe her. A duel ... a genuine duel ... pistols, swords, cannon perhaps ... what would all the other girls say?

“Golly,” murmured Christabel, “if this don’t lick creation.”

The phrase pleased her: she had heard her brother use it, and it seemed to her at once picturesque and forcible. She repeated it, though the second time it happened that she got it slightly wrong. “Creation,” she said, “if this don’t lick golly.”

However, it pleased her just as much as before, and, if anything relieved her feelings even more. Thoughtfully she got into bed, having first carefully set the alarm for a quarter to seven.

“We mustn't be late,” she said to herself. It seemed to her that this was true romance. A duel! She told herself it was as good as being born a hundred years ago and being Queen of the Tournament (history was never Christabel’s strong point) and all that—yes, and better, too. She passed into a peaceful sleep, from which she was dragged, reluctant, by the persistent clamour of the alarm. How she wished it would stop. But the silly thing would not. And she had put it on her bath too, according to a useful tip received from her brother. With a sigh she resigned herself to waking, and all at once she remembered—the duel.

In just about two seconds she was up and dressed and slipping down the stairs with her heart in her mouth lest her father should put his head out and ask: “Where are you going, Christabel?”

She felt it would be so very awkward to reply: “To stop a duel, papa.” And, besides, probably he would not believe it. But, fortunately, in her parents’ room the god of slumber reigned undisturbed to the accompaniment of those heavy snores that are his subjects’ loyal acclamations. Christabel opened the front door undisturbed and ran across the lawn and through the gap in the hedge by which her family and Dorothea’s kept up informal intercourse: on “at home” days, of course, they went round by the front, but seldom on other occasions.

Dorothea, who had not slept well, was up and waiting, and came tip-toeing from the house the moment she saw Christabel appear.

“Oh, Chris,” she whispered, “I ... I ... I ...”

“There’s nothing to blub about,” said Christabel, severely. Dorothea sniffed meekly and rubbed her eyes with a handkerchief, so damp it made them even more wet than before.

“I'll lend you my handkerchief if you like,” volunteered Christabel.

“I do think you are unkind,” said Dorothea.

“We won't let them hurt themselves,” Christabel assured her. “I've got it all planned out.”

“I wish I were like you, Christabel,” said Dorothea, humbly.

Christabel accepted the compliment very nicely. It was twenty-five past seven when they reached the meadow by the river, where, as history tells, one of the last fatal duels ever fought in England had taken place.

The old willow beneath which on that occasion the victim had been placed to die was still standing. Between it and the river a little south, stood a clump of bushes. Opposite them, a little north of the willow, was another clump of bushes. The two girls concealed themselves behind the bushes to the south and waited. At half-past seven exactly Willy Ker appeared. He looked silent and tragic, and once he shivered but Dorothea knew it was with cold and not with fear. Round his neck he had a towel, which he slowly untwisted. No doubt he had brought this for bandages, if required. What a light did such a precaution throw on the probable deadliness of the intended duel. Almost immediately Charley Reade came up on his bicycle. He, too, had come provided with a towel. The two girls trembled; it seemed so cruel and bloodthirsty to prepare thus deliberately for death and wounds. Instinctively they held each other’s hands.

The two young men wasted no words in courteous greeting.

“So you haven’t funked it?” Charley called, with an insulting laugh.

“Funk yourself,” Willy answered, with a look stern and high.

Dorothea trembled till the bush shook as though a gale were blowing “Hadn’t we better ...?” she whispered.

“Hush,” said Christabel, sternly. She had her plans laid At the very last moment they would burst from their concealment, confront the two rash and guilty youths, cover them with humiliation and confusion, give them such a talking to as they would never forget, forgive them only on condition of their being on their very best behaviour for—oh, for ever so long. But it would not do for them to show themselves too soon; half the effect would be spoiled by a premature appearance.

Willy moved a few steps and stood beneath the old willow tree where years before the victim of that other duel had been laid to die. Christabel shivered, and somehow was a little glad that Willy and not Charley stood on that ill-omened spot. She felt herself tremble, so violently, indeed, that she told Dorothea, in a fierce whisper, to keep still or she would pinch her. Evidently the two young men felt the awful nature of the moment, for neither seemed inclined to hurry. Dorothea would have screamed, only she simply did not dare while Christabel glared at her so. She hid her face instead. But Christabel watched, all ready to leap out with lifted hand and cry “Hold!”

Willy Ker sat down and began to remove his boots and socks. Charley imitated his example. Christabel could not make it out, and as Willy’s bare white feet appeared, Dorothea took a trembling peep and whispered, “Why, what are they doing?”

Christabel was puzzled herself, but she was not going to betray ignorance and so inflict what might be a fatal blow upon her prestige. “Oh, they always begin like that,” she answered, jauntily.

Having removed their boots, the two young men rose and started at the other end, beginning to take off their collars, their coats. The two girls watched, fascinated. Dorothea began to betray signs of some uneasiness.

“I hope they'll stop soon,” she murmured.

Willy did, in fact, now stop, for the purpose of emitting a mighty yawn But Charley continued steadily, remorselessly.

“You see, they mean to fight in their shirts ... it’s always done,” Christabel explained, quickly.

“But they’re not stopping at their shirts,” Dorothea pointed out, blushing.

Indeed, Charley was already struggling with that garment to remove it, while Willy seemed to be hurrying to catch him up. As for Christabel and Dorothea, they had both become very pale. Christabel trembled like a leaf, and into Dorothea’s mind there crept a horrible, a devastating suspicion.

“They're going on,” Christabel muttered, wildly. They were.

“Oh, Chris,” Dorothea gasped. “It isn’t a duel, it’s a bathe.”

Such was, indeed, the simple, painful truth. Now Dorothea understood only too well that what she had overheard had been a challenge to an early morning swim, and not to a duel at all. Now Christabel could bear it no longer, and she screamed. Only just in time. “It’s girls!” gasped Willy Ker.

He ran. So did Charley Reade, clutching wildly at his trousers, from which he had just removed the braces. Willy, poor fellow, was not so fortunate. Behind that clump of bushes, growing a little north of the old willow, they found a welcome refuge, and fell breathless behind it. Behind the other bushes, facing these, Christabel and Dorothea remained, scared, crouching, clasped in each other’s arms. Between them the river meadow lay, peaceful and solitary in the rising sun—solitary, that is, save for a scattered shirt or two and sundry socks, shoes and ties the startled youths had dropped in their flight.

What a situation! Has the world ever seen the like? I trow not. Unprecedented and unique, and a little chilly, too, and still behind their bushes crouched the youths, and behind their bushes, trembled the maidens, and not one of all the four dared venture forth. It lasted thus for a space—not a very long perhaps, but one that seemed to all of them like eternity.

In desperation, Dorothea whispered to Christabel: “What shall we do?”

But Christabel had no answer to give. Instead, she wiped away a tear. Thus are the proud humbled and the mighty brought to naught. Dorothea, thrown back on her own resources, decided and—peeped. At the same moment Willy Ker did the same. They saw each the other’s head protruded, and each at once instantly, like lightning, withdrew his—hers.

“Oh, he saw me!” Dorothea quavered, crimson.

“Who?” asked Christabel.

And she, too, peeped. At the same instant Charley Reade did the same thing. Each saw the other’s head protruded, and each at once, instantly, like lightning, withdrew his—her—own.

“Oh, he saw me,” Christabel gasped to Dorothea.

“Who?” asked Dorothea.

As she spoke she peeped again. So did Christabel. From the bushes opposite appeared to the right the head of Willy Ker; to the left, the head of Charley Reade. “I ... I ... I ...” quavered Charley

“I ... he ... we ... beg your pardon; awfully sorry,” stammered Willy. The heads of Christabel and Dorothea moved graciously. They felt Willy had placed the conversation on a suitable footing. Dorothea was specially pleased.

“We hadn't the least idea,” Charley assured them; “We had just come for a swim.”

“We came to gather flowers,” explained Christabel, calmly.

“Buttercups,” added Dorothea, who admired this statement, but felt it needed all the support to be obtained from confirmatory detail.

“If you wouldn't mind looking the other way,” said Willy, earnestly, even piteously, “just for half a second.”

“Certainly not,” said Christabel, severely. “You must stay where you are till we are gone. Then there will be no need to look the other way. Come, Dorothea.”

The two young men experienced a pang of swift desperation and Charley swallowed something in his throat and cried aloud: “If you come out, so will I—and I've practically nothing on.”

Christabel screamed and vanished. So did Dorothea. Charley shouted a warning and scuttled out and in; never did test match cricketer field a ball more smartly than did Charley his—no matter. Willy had even more to get, and never did Rugby footballer seize on the ball and score a try more cleverly than did Willy secure his. However, that is neither here nor there. Safe behind bush Christabel murmured to Dorothea, “Some men are masterful ... it’s rather nice sometimes somehow.”

A cough to the left, an apologetic murmur to the right, them all was safe. They issued cautiously: two smart well-dressed, polite, composed young men were bowing there, the only sign of the appalling past being that, whereas originally Charley had black socks and Willy blue, now each of them had one blue and one black. But of this they were unconscious, and, besides, they didn’t care, and they all went home together, two by two, and from that pleasant early morning walk there date two engagements that recently have been confirmed in two pretty weddings at the same church, the same day. But whether two husbands have yet been told the truth of how they were thought to gone forth to duel when really they merely intended a swim—why that is more than the present chronicler can say.