As the artist peered through the lifting wisp of smoke and saw his opponent still in the same position, apparently entirely unmoved, he turned sick and dizzy. The shot had gone wide, and it was now Sir George's turn. Gadsby mastered himself and stiffened perceptibly. For the sake of these gentlemen who stood by him, if not for his own, he must preserve a steady front whilst he received a fire that must bring death!
He watched Sir George's arm come slowly to the horizontal until he could see no more than the nozzle of his pistol across the twenty paces that separated them. Then, on the verge of physical sickness, unable to watch the approach of death, he closed his eyes.
Eternities passed, and still the shot did not come.
It seemed to Gadsby that he stood on that spot for a hundred years, so consciously felt had been every fraction of each of the few seconds that were sped. Then he heard Sir George's voice:
"Ned, will you ask Mr. Quentin if he will give me leave to speak a word with his principal?"
Gadsby looked up, startled, to see that Sir George had lowered his pistol, and he heard Quentin excitedly answering, without awaiting the formality of the words' repetition to him:
"'Tis most irregular, Sir George. 'Pon my honour it is! After you have fired your shot, if you please."
"My difficulty," said Sir George, "is that he may no longer be here to listen to me then."
Quentin turned to Gadsby, and asked the question as he was bidden. Gadsby moistened his dry lips, eagerly to utter the words that should give him this last chance, whatever it might be.
A moment later Sir George was standing before him, his seconds, at the baronet's request, have drawn out of earshot, cursing Sir George's eccentricities.
Unquestionably it was most irregular, but Sir George cared nothing for that. He was in a quandary―tormented by a doubt, confronted by a riddle that he had almost hoped the painter's bullet would have solved. He could not take this man's life in that cold-blooded fashion until he had positive knowledge that the thing he feared was true. After all, it might not be. And all he hoped from life was centered in that.
"Sir," he said, "I ask your pardon for proceeding so outrageously. But I have terms to propose, to which you may find it possible to accede. The fewest words will serve. You will have heard that I can hit a flying swallow, and you may conceive that if I fire to kill you your death will be as certain as only death itself can be. I am not going to fire to-day," Sir George continued slowly. "In the agreement into which we have entered there is no stipulation that the second shot be fired within any given time. It is mine to fire when I please and where I please provided that at the time no less than twenty paces separate us.
"Now, sir, whether I ever fire that shot at you or not shall depend upon circumstances. If these circumstances prove favourable to yourself, I shall impose that you leave town this very day, and return to Gloucester; and that before you depart you return with me to King Street to take your conge of Lady Sutliffe. On my side, I undertake to afford you the fullest amends for the affront I put upon you yesterday at White's. I shall publicly declare that the charge I then brought against you was utterly unfound. As your shot has already afforded you all the redress to which you were entitled by the laws of honour, you will perceive that such an admission as this will be extremely generous on my part."
Gadsby, who had been staring at the baronet out of a face that was woefully white, cleared his throat to reply.
"I do not think I apprehend you quite, Sir George," said he.
"I do not think it necessary that you should," was the cool answer. "I have―out of motives which I see no necessity to disclose―imposed certain conditions which may (for I do not promise absolutely that they will) save your life. For nothing less, I assure you, hangs in the balance. Reject these conditions, and I step back to my place yonder, and in twenty seconds you will be before your Maker. It is for you to make choice, sir."
Another man in Gadsby's place might have told Sir George to fire and be damned. But Gadsby was of no such fine temper, as Sir George had shrewdly judged. Indeed, the painter had a difficulty in dissembling the eagerness with which he accepted this unexpected chance of life and the terms imposed.
Thus it fell out that a half-hour later Sir George and Mr. Gadsby came together in a chaise to the baronet's handsome house in King Street. Sir George gave his order to a lackey in the hall.
"You will inform her ladyship that Mr. Gadsby is here, and desires to take his leave of her before quitting town. And on your life," he added, too low for Gadsby to overhear, "you will say no word of my presence."
The servant bowed and departed, whilst Sir George ushered his still bewildered guest into the library to wait.
Thither came the lackey presently with a scared face.
"Sir George! Sir George!" he panted. "Her―her ladyship is talken ill. She swooned away when I―when I spoke your message."
Joy leapt in Sir George's heart at that announcement. But his face remained impassive. He begged the artist to give him leave, and went upstairs, four steps at a time, to his wife's room.
He found her still unconscious in tile arms of her woman, who was almost as white, and who gasped when she saw the baronet enter.
He took his wife into his own arms, bathed her brow tenderly, and bade the woman hold salts to her ladyship's nostrils.
Presently she revived. She opened her eyes, vacant at first, then quickening, with horror, and, lastly, stared in amazement at her husband, who was bending over her.
"George!" she cried. And again. "George!" Her fingers clutched his arm. "Oh, thank God!―thank God!" she burst out, in a shuddering sob. "I thought you had been killed."
Thus had he wrested from her the truth which her perversity denied him. He was content; he was jubilant at the result of the ordeal to which he had submitted her. With a nod he dismissed her woman. Then he drew her to his heart, and kissed the face of her he loved above all worldly things.
"Oh, I did so fear for you!" she moaned. "I did so fear for you!" And when word was brought to me that Mr. Gadsby was here, I―I―"
"I know―I know, sweetheart. But all is well," he reassured her; "all is so very well."
Brokenly she begged his pardon for her wrong-headedness. But this he cut short.
"Mr. Gadsby is below, waiting to take his leave of you. Will you receive him?"
"How can I?" quoth she. "Beg him to hold me excused."
Begging her expect his immediate return, Sir George went to dismiss his guest.
"Mr. Gadsby," said he, "I present to you her ladyship's compliments and her regrets that as she is but newly risen she cannot in person receive your adieux. She desires me, further, to wish you a happy journey into Gloucester. I'll not detain you, sir, since you will be eager to set out."
Gadsby drew a breath of relief. Then he looked into the other's face, and marvelled at the change in it. Its impassivity had departed; there was a flush upon the cheek, and a sparkle in the eye. He wondered what it might portend, and he was plagued too, by a doubt, which increased when Sir George stood, at parting, by the door of the chaise.
Then, as if answer the artist's unspoken thoughts, the baronet drew a pistol from his pocket.
"This is the shot I owe you, Mr. Gadsby," said he easly. "Lest you think I boasted to you this morning, please observe."
He raised the weapon, and fired at a swallow darting overhead. But as he pulled the trigger Mr. Gadsby seized his arm, and deflected his aim, so that the bird escaped the doom that had impended.
Sir George stared at him, frowning. The artist explained:
"I would not have you, sir, destroy the life of an innocent creature to make good a boast."
Sir George's frown deepened; then it vanished, and he smiled quizzically.
"I would observe, sir, that by all the laws of honour you were wrong to touch my arm at such a moment. I might claim the right to another shot. But I shall not. Besides, I, too, was irregular, since I stood within the prescribed distance of twent
y paces."
Then he laughed good-humoredly, for his relief had brought him a great happiness, and he loved all the world that morning, including Mr. Gasby.
"At least," he concluded, "I have served my purpose―to ascertain whether you have a heart, sir. And I am glad to discover that it seems you have."
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The Ordeal Page 2
