Reprise

by Joan Smith

  “Why did you call Seville out?” she began, deeming it wise to take the offensive in an effort to gain the upper hand.

  "I called him a coward because he is one."

  “No one will believe that story! You’re fighting him because he insulted me, aren’t you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Don’t treat me like an idiot. Clarence told me everything.”

  “Why do you waste time asking then?”

  “It is not for you to take up the cudgels on my behalf. If Seville has been telling anyone he made me an improper offer, it is for my uncle to deal with him. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “I happen to be the one he told! I called him a coward, and I shall fight him. Now there is a little unpleasant business connected with it, Prudence.”

  “A marvel of understatement.”

  “One bit more unpleasant than the rest, I mean. I have been talking to Alvanley. In order for me to fight this duel, he feels it will be more proper if we resume our engagement, temporarily.”

  “No! We are a big enough laughingstock already, turning our engagement off and on like a tap. Oh, I’ll never dare to show my face on the streets again. I am ruined.”

  “It is precisely to avoid that possibility that this duel is being fought.”

  “No, it is being fought because you have an uncontrollable temper! Will it add to my consequence that I have caused a duel? Since when is that considered a feather in anyone’s bonnet?”

  “It’s more of a feather than having Seville tell the world the truth. He never asked you to marry him. Never meant that at all, as I suspected all along. How could you be so ignorant as to think he meant anything of the sort?”

  “Sorry I couldn’t have jauntered off to Cambridge for four or five years to be sly enough to understand the deceit and duplicity of men!”

  “Oh you’re naive to the point of absurdity,” he said.

  “Maybe I am, but I still don’t want you fighting a duel with Seville over me. I want Clarence to do it.”

  “Prudence, he wouldn’t have the chance of a snowball in hell against Seville! He’s an expert shot.”

  “I suppose you are, too?”

  “Certainly I am.”

  “What must be done then is to get Seville to delope. Likely when he sees it is only Clarence standing up against him, he will delope. He can have nothing against Uncle, after all.”

  “Uncle is not standing up against him! I am, and as you have caused all this bother, you can damned well be engaged to me for a few more days. You won’t look half so foolish as I do, risking my hide for a woman who makes a mockery of me in public.”

  “Why did you do it then, if you hate me so much?”

  “I didn’t say I hate you. It is my fault you ever got mixed up with the likes of Seville. I hope I know my duty. I put you in this position, and I shall extricate you.”

  “What happened exactly? What did Seville say?”

  “He made some disparaging statements about you-- you know the nature of them. There is no point repeating all that unpleasantness.”

  “I want to know. What did he say?”

  “He said he offered you a carte blanche, and you chose to tell everyone he had offered you marriage.”

  “I didn’t tell a soul but you and Hettie, and of course my family.”

  “He will tell considerably more people his story if he is not stopped.”

  “Yes, he must be stopped. I see the necessity for that, but you sha’n’t be the one to do it. If I have made you look a fool by my book--and I must say no one else takes it so much amiss--then I sha’n’t aggravate the offense by having you defend my name.”

  “No one else was engaged to you.

  "Neither were you, at the time you challenged him.”

  “You never formally cancelled the engagement-- there was no notice printed in the papers."

  “The date of the wedding came and went. You didn’t find me at the church, did you? Mama sent out cards to those invited. For the others, it is none of their business. Neither is this duel any of yours. Alvanley is quite correct--he is bound to know the proper procedure, and if he says it is up to Clarence, then I shall abide by his decision. We all must.”

  “Alvanley says if we resume the engagement..."

  "If, but we are not going to!”

  “We are!”

  She turned on him, furious. “Since when is it possible for a man to become engaged to a woman who has turned him down?”

  “It isn’t to be a real engagement, if that’s what you fear.”

  “It isn’t to be a false one, either. My God, what you were thinking of to call him out! Raking up all that old business again, when it was well forgotten.”

  “It wasn’t forgotten by Seville. It was he who raised the point, and I must say I find it hard in you to revile me for doing the proper thing.”

  “I don’t know why men must feel the most troublesome, vexatious, brutish course is the proper one. Why didn’t you just punch him, if you felt it necessary to defend my tarnished name?”

  “I did,” he answered, with a certain satisfaction.

  “Not at the ball! Not in front of everyone!”

  “There weren’t many people around, and he hightailed it out .pretty fast.”

  “Oh I think you like being the center of attention. You glory in it. Why else would you carry on as you do, going into public with Cybele, setting up that garish apartment with Turkish trappings, and asking those girls to stroke you, as though you were an alley cat!”

  “No, no, Prudence. I am a dog. You can’t have it both ways."

  “You probably arranged for me to find you with Cybele so I’d break the engagement and put you in the limelight again. This duel is more of the same.”

  He stared at her, beyond words, but Dammler was never long speechless. “By the same token, I suppose I chose the most illustrious bride I could find? The exalted, famous Miss Prudence Mallow, cynosure of all eyes!”

  “Oh, no. It was expected you would choose a gaudy beauty. You got better coverage out of an unknown spinster. A certain shock value attached to Lord Dammler’s marrying a nobody.”

  “You were not unknown!”

  “No, not after you got through with me. I’ll never be unknown again. Thanks to you I’ll go down in history as one of your playthings, a curious footnote in the infamous career of the Marquess of Dammler. Well I’ll tell you this, Allan, I don’t mean to be remembered as the cause of your untimely demise. If I am in the unenviable position of requiring my honor defended, it isn’t you who will do it.”

  “I have no intention of meeting my end at Seville’s hands. I have withstood daggers and arrows, swamp fever and malaria, and it will take more than that damned jackrabbit to finish me off.”

  “You’re not quite immortal. Not a god, impervious to bullets, despite your high opinion of yourself.”

  “I never said I was. I am not so foolish as to have my head turned by the adulation of the motley mob. l am a fair shot, however.”

  “If you take a shot at Mr. Seville in my name you had better be immortal.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Of course, it didn’t mean a thing but that she was very cross. “It means I refuse to resume the engagement. Clarence will defend me. He will have the sense to delope, or at least not kill Seville. This must be done as decently as possible. I don’t want to be the cause of anyone’s death. Oh, how did I get into this predicament?” she wailed.

  Reviewing his own case, Dammler felt he was in the worse one. He had called Seville out, precipitated a duel that would almost certainly kill her uncle if he didn’t arrange it so he could be the principal. He tried once more. “Alvanley says that if..."

  “Alvanley may go to the devil! You are not fighting Seville. I refuse to have anything to do with any engagement that allows you to murder in cold blood, and do it in my name.”

  “All right, then. I won’t kill him. A hit in the shoulder.”


  “How do you know he will do the same?”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s suicide.”

  “Call it Spanish roulette. I don’t think Seville will shoot to kill.”

  “He certainly won’t shoot to kill Clarence. That is the saner course, to pit Clarence against him.”

  “It seems to me you take a very cavalier attitude towards poor Clarence."

  “Well I like that, and you are the one chose him for a second!”

  “Yes, a second, with no danger attached to the position. Not the principal.”

  “We are wasting time and words. My mind is made up."

  “I am sending in our engagement announcement today.”

  “If you do, I’ll send a retraction in six-inch letters in the next edition.”

  “I don’t mean to go fish-fagging through the columns with you, Prudence. You must allow me to be the judge in this matter.”

  “I wouldn’t allow you to judge a mouse in the matter of morality. Clarence will fight the duel.”

  Her mind was made up, and when, after a great deal of arguing, he returned her to her door, she hadn’t budged an inch, but only become more set in her position. “If I hear of you arranging matters so that you fight Seville, I’ll--I’ll never speak to you again,” were her parting words, and she wished she could have made the threat a good deal stronger.

  Considering them as he returned to Berkeley Square, the optimist had soon placed a hopeful construction on the thing. She meant to go on seeing him afterwards then. There were sufficient insults in her talk to provide some anger, too, but over all, it was easy to imagine her concern that he not fight Seville to rest on a fear for his safety. If he stood up with Seville and lived, she would surely not mind. In fact, she would likely have a better opinion of him, whereas if Clarence got himself killed, as was entirely possible, she would really never forgive him. He would never forgive himself. No, certainly he must fight Seville.

  He tried his hand at convincing Clarence the engagement was on, but Clarence had already had words with Prudence. He could rearrange anything to his own advantage, but no rearranging was necessary on this occasion. Niece and uncle were as one in wishing the honor of being shot at to be Clarence Elmtree’s.

  Chapter Ten

  The evening preceding the duel was a cool, damp one. Clarence felt twinges of rheumatism in his elbow as he painted Prudence, arrayed in a red-fringed shawl, as became a seductress. He was half in love with her himself, to think of her having got an improper offer from a nabob, a proper one from a marquess, and caused a duel, all before her twenty-sixth birthday. The red carmine was blotched on with an extravagant, loving hand. Nothing was too good for her. As she left the room, he told her to sleep in the morning. No need for her to lose an hour’s sleep to see him off. A dasher like Prue had to stay in looks.

  “You might have a cup of tea ready against my return,” he said casually.

  She felt so guilty that she was properly penitent and respectful, and insisted she would be up to see him off. “And home,” she added.

  “Aye, if I get home,” he sighed.

  “Uncle, cannot something be arranged with Seville-- some word got to him that you mean to delope?” she asked, having a good idea this would break some item of a gentleman’s code of honor, but not worrying overly that this would deter Clarence.

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Clarence assured her. Nor was he. He went to bed and slept like a baby. Even over his tea the next morning he was as merry as a grig, making jokes about this being his last meal. Not until he was in Dammler’s carriage with the pistol between his fingers did it occur to him what a lethal thing a gun was. At Manton’s Shooting Gallery it had seemed great sport. How some of the gentlemen managed to culp that tiny wafer was a great mystery. He hadn’t hit it more than once--could hardly see it in fact. Once he had sneezed and taken a corner out of it.

  “What we must do is let Seville know you mean to delope,” Dammler said, his chin in his hands, trying to figure a resolution to this awful problem. Lord, and if Clarence tried to delope he might well hit Seville in the heart. He had never seen such a poor shot as Clarence. “Aim for the sky,” he commanded.

  “I’ll be shooting high,” Clarence replied, distracted. He was looking pale, as the moment of truth approached. “Shall we just let a window down and get a breath of air? It’s close in here.”

  Dammler let down the window, feeling the need of air himself, and Clarence did the same on the other side. The dust from the horses and wheels bothered Dammler, and he had soon rolled his up again, but Clarence’s head was hanging out the window. For the first time in the acquaintance of this oddly-matched pair, they were both silent. A duel, Clarence thought! Men standing up and shooting at each other as though they were wafers at Manton’s, giant wafers providing a target that even he might hit. It wasn’t right to kill anyone. "Thou shalt not kill.” It was right in the Commandments. Even in those old days of the Bible when nobody spoke English they knew it was a sin to kill anyone. Yet, it was impossible to back out. He did the hardest philosophizing he had ever done in his life, trying to extricate himself from the morass, but in the end manners seemed more important than morals. He would have to account to Alvanley and society that same day, whereas he might have years to patch it up with the Almighty. He would have to do it. Have to stand up, but he wouldn’t shoot to kill, or even injure. A bit of dirt from the carriage flew up and caught him in the eye. He reached to rub it out.

  Glancing at him, Dammler thought he was crying, and felt pity for the foolish old man. “Better close the window,” he said.

  Clarence did so, still rubbing his eye with his other hand. “Got something in my eye,” he said, rubbing harder.

  “Here, let me get it out,” Dammler said, pulling out his handkerchief. Then he was struck with inspiration. Clarence shouldn’t shoot with something in his eye. He made some pretense to remove the dirt, while shoving it a little higher under the lid. “I can’t seem to get ahold of it,” he said.

  “It’ll work its way out,” Clarence said. It was half a relief to be able to shed a tear without Dammler suspecting it was weakness that caused it.

  The dirt did not work its way out, and when their carriage reached Hampstead Heath, it was giving some trouble, causing the eye to water copiously. Alvanley had been at great pains to get Seville to delope. As it was known by now, Elmtree couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn door, it would be infamous to hit the old man. The whole thing was a fiasco in Alvanley’s opinion, and he was sorry he had anything to do with it. Seville had been talked into accepting this role, and was relieved in the extreme that it wasn’t that sharpshooter of a Dammler he must stand up against. Fellow would kill him as quick as look at him--had always hated him. He noted with relief that Elmtree was disabled, even thought it was an act, to call the duel off altogether. But no, Alvanley had had enough of putting off, and was not in favor of any postponement. He decreed Dammler should replace Elmtree. It was irregular of course, but when Seville pointed this out, Dammler was only too happy to call him a coward again, and institute a new duel. This removed any quibble of a doubt in the matter. Dammler was so jubilant at the decision that he burst into a smile, a smile that sent Seville’s heart sinking. It was all a trick! Dammler was out to kill him!

  Clarence, unable even to play the minor roll of charging the pistol, lent the weight of his presence while Alvanley did it, then sat on a tree stump, looking about in the cool morning at the low-lying fog, the bits of dew shining on the grass, the trees shaded into a green mist by the moisture in the air, and thought what a pretty picture it would make. He would try his hand at painting it when he got home, if only this dashed cinder would flow out of his eye. He took another poke at it, and his eye felt better. He batted the lid a few times, realizing the cinder was out. He then directed his full attention to the scene being enacted before him. Dammler and Seville were standing together; they were turning and walking each their twelve paces. What a da
ndy scene it would make for one of Nevvie’s plays. He’d tell him to slip it into his next one. Do it just like this--the foggy morning, the two tall young gentlemen in black, their collars turned up to hide the target of the white triangle of a shirt, Alvanley standing there watching them. Then as he looked, the men stopped walking, turned without either one of them so much as giving a tremble in the arm, and a deafening clap of guns going off was in his ears. Nevvie pointed his gun up high, just as they had decided. Not quite at the sky, more over Seville’s shoulder. Flickering his gaze to Seville, he disliked what he saw. The man wasn’t aiming at the sky at all. He was aiming right at Nevvie’s chest! Then some little look of confusion flashed across Seville’s face.

  When Seville saw Dammler replace Elmtree, the duel became no longer a farce but a fight to the death. There wasn’t one doubt in his mind that Dammler meant to kill him, and his own resolution was equally firm. He aimed for the heart, but in the split second between aiming and pulling the trigger, he noticed Dammler’s gun muzzle was up. He lifted his own hand as quickly as possible, in that instant. The bullet was deflected enough to miss the heart. It thudded into Dammler’s left shoulder. With mute horror, Seville realized Dammler had deloped. He wasn’t touched--the bullet came nowhere near him. He stood silent, shaking and staring, to see if Dammler would topple over.

  He did not. The gun fell from his right hand, and he clutched at his shoulder. There was a murderous light in his eyes. He regretted his own generous action, but was too wounded to do anything about it. Alvanley saw the whole, and from experience was pretty sure the wound was not a mortal one. He yelped for Marlowe, who came running forward with his black bag. Dammler was bleeding freely, but not unconscious. He had his jacket stripped away, his shirt torn off, and there in the cool meadow the wound was examined.

  “Get him into a carriage,” Alvanley ordered.

  Seville, all solicitude and apologies, and Elmtree, all confusion, aided him. Marlowe required the amenities of his dispensary. Elmtree hopped in beside him, looking to Alvanley for any further orders.