Author Unknown
Content Warning: #1 (explanation)
No one under the cope is more amiably disposed toward charitable institutions than I am. Philosophically speaking, I regard the various asylums which ornament our city with their costly architecture as the most dignified ornaments of a humane age. Nevertheless, I aver that charity is never so truly a deity as when she is made one of the penates of a man's own hearthstone. I am convinced—and, like most of my convictions, it is an obstinate fact—that Heaven does not regard a bequest to institutions, already over-endowed, at the expense of one's needy relatives, as the largest demand upon its favor. The fashionable practice of endowing fat charitable corporations at one's decease is merely a relic of the medical superstition which often built an abbey with the proceeds of a life of rapine and violence. The man who forgets other people's orphans during his life to succour them after his death at the expense of his own, presents but poor credentials.
My grandfather—rest his jolly old soul—died at the age of ninety-one, possessed of a considerable property. The old gentleman had always manifested a strong liking for me, and on several well-remembered occasions had strongly hinted that his decease would leave me nothing to regret in the material point of view. Nor did it, perhaps, for I had a brilliant opportunity of proving my utter disinterestedness. His whole fortune was left to certain respectable asylums, already groaning with the multiplicity of endowment; to me, his natural heir, was left his blessing and his papers. I received the first meekly and patiently, as one ought always to bear a blow; the second I flung furiously into an out-of-the-way corner, where they remained until I chanced to unearth them quite recently.
If I owed the old gentlemen any deeper gratitude than that for the doubtful favor of having been somewhat instrumental in my introduction into this world, I should hesitate before making public the following experience in his earlier life. As it is, it shall amuse or disgust those who care to read the private record of a gentleman of the olden time. The date is that of November 15, 1791.
* * *
When the colonies were in the throes of revolution, I, alone of all my numerous acquaintances, remained inert at home. Some of them, whose allegiance to the German imbecile who sat on the throne of England remained unshaken, fled to the British army at Boston; the majority, however, entered the ranks of the colonial forces. I did neither. My sympathies were with the Americans, but I chose to keep my sentiments piously locked within my own breast. During the English occupation of New York, I meekly accepted a protection, as it was called, and consented to become, in effect, a traitor to my country. I told myself—and what so easy as self-delusion?—that I took this unmanly course because I was in love with Virginia Acton, and so varnished my shame with my affection. There was yet a more potent reason. I was a coward. Yes, though I blush to own it, I was afraid for my worthless carcass. I shuddered at the bare idea of bullet and bayonet I had sooner face the devil incarnate than look down a row of musket barrels, one of which, in the awful law of chances, might contain the messenger of my death.
Yet, I had strength enough to love, and to love deeply; let psychologists explain the mystery. I loved Virgina so that I thought death and separation from her was doubly frightful. For many months I had not the outrage to ask her to be my wife. I felt in my soul that she must despise me. I heard her speak in glowing terms of the patriots who had sacrificed home, wealth, and friends for their country's welfare; seeking the doubtful glory of death on the field of battle, or the slower agonies of starvation and disease. Then I had seen her glance in my direction, as if to point her remarks with a sling of shame for me, while an almost imperceptible smile of disdain curled her beautiful lip.
But untoward events brought matters to a crisis. A young English officer, Sir George Hartley by name, had been a constant visitor to the house, and there began to be talk of a probable engagement between them. I hated the man, handsome as Lucifer in his scarlet uniform—hated him because of his haughty, overbearing manner, his insolence to me, and, above all, because of the favor with which she seemed to regard him.
I have seen a half-starved, spiritless dog, chased, stoned, and beaten by a pack of ragamuffin boys, striving to get away on his three serviceable legs, howling and whimpering the while, until at length some keener blow than usual stirred the little heart there was in him, and he turned and tore a happy modicum of hide and cloth from some one of his persecutors. The simile is a vulgar one, but it suits my case. I felt myself abused and maltreated, until I was ready to dare anything, even her open scorn; I went to her, and boldly offered her my hand, and the feeble, unmanly organ I called my heart. The result might have been expected.
"How dare you ask me if I love you?" she retorted scornfully "As me rather if I despise you, and I shall find a fitting answer. Marry you! No; I would sooner remain unloved and solitary all my days than link my existence with a man whose whole life is one of fear."
"You are very hard upon me, Virginia," I muttered nervously.
"Not harder than you have been on me," she returned, passionately. "I have very nearly loved you, Anthony Jourdan. Had you exhibited one trace of manly spirit, one trace of manly courage, I might have given you my heart. As it is I shall marry no man to whom I cannot look up and admire for something better than there is in myself. Ask yourself if that something is in you, and you will answer your own question."
"I am to blame Sir George Hartley for this," I said, gloomily.
"You are to blame your own weakness and unmanliness," she responded.
"Perhaps," I answered; "but I doubt if you would have perceived my defects so clearly except through the medium of Sir George."
"He is at least a man," she returned, sharply.
"I doubt it," I answered, savagely. "I fancy there is a cur under that red coat of his. I mean to tear it off and see."
With a great show of spirit, I tapped my rapier pompously. As I did so I saw her face pale suddenly, and a look of alarm contract it. I was sure it was for her English lover, and the thought doubly irritated me.
"What do you mean to do?" she asked.
"This scarlet lover of yours has chosen to make a butt of me at every opportunity. He plays upon my acknowledged weakness, insults and abuses me because he believes me incapable of resenting his offences. He is not a true gentleman. He is not noble of heart or soul; for the strong, who is a gentleman, never oppresses the weak. But he shall find he has mistaken his man. I have been a: coward for your sake I dared not leave you; I dared not resent insult or offence, because I dared not die. For I loved you, Virginia Now that poor hope is over, let Sir George beware of me, or—"
"What?" she interrupted, breathlessly.
"As Heaven aids the right, I will kill this man," I answered, coldly.
"No, no," she cried, seizing my arm.
"But I say ay," I returned. "'You have scorned me off. Do you imagine that I will spare the scoundrel because you love him? I will make you fear and respect me as much as you have despised me, and for him——? Well, he or I must die."
And I rushed furiously out of the house, leaving her sobbing upon the back of her chair. I had taken twenty steps when I ran against Sir John Hartley, who was on his way to the house I had just left. My shame and anger had not yet time to cool, and I received his supercilious salute with an insolent stare.
"Where away so fast, Mr. Jourdan?" said he, smiling maliciously. "Pray not to the Battery! They are firing guns there, and I'm sure you have no fondness for the smell. of gunpowder."
"Your assumption, sir," I replied stiffly, "is of a piece with the rest of your character—insufferably offensive."
"Indeed," he retorted, with a sudden look of angry wonder at my spirited reply. "You have studied my character to my disfavor, it appears. "Would you know more, sir?"
"Yes," I replied hotly. "I shall endeavor to read it with something sharper than my wits."
"Blunt weapons those," he returned coolly, "but, my dear sir, I surely must be mistaken. Knowing your character as I do, I cannot imagine that you wish to quarrel with me. No, no, that is impossible."
"You are in doubt about my intentions, are you," I said coolly. "Well, sir, this will enlighten you."
And seizing him by the arm I beat him with my cane until the powder flew out of his military wig like a miniature snow-storm. I flung him violently from me with a heavy kick to expedite his movements.
"There, sir," said I, breaking the cane with which I had castigated him, and flinging it in his face. "Surely, I cannot wish to quarrel with you, as you have so aptly remarked; I merely desire to make known to you the strength of an American boot. You have now personal experience of which to speak among your fellow officers."
"You shall hear from me, sir," he foamed.
"Ah! well you have felt me, sir," I returned. "You must feel some satisfaction to know that you have been admirably beaten, and most scientifically kicked by one of the despised colonists. If you have a desire for further illustration of my good will, you know my lodgings. Now, good-day, sir."
And, lifting my hat ceremoniously, I walked away.
When I reached home the full sense of my situation rushed upon me. I had shrunk from taking my place among the the defenders of my country, only to involve myself in a quarrel where I was almost sure of losing my life. Sir George was a strong, though not extremely skilful swordsman. On the other hand, I knew less of rapier practice than my negro steward. Pistols were not to be thought of; for my enemy was a notoriously expert shot, while I literally could not have hit the side of a church at short range. The choice of weapons would be left to me; I should select rapiers as a trifle more in my favor, and be spitted like a lark at the first lunge.
Nevertheless, there was no escape. If I had declined the challenge I had deliberately invited, I should be hooted in the streets; and even a coward is ashamed of popular degradation. No, it was plain that I must accept the situation and make the best of it; and, after all, I was not without some sparks of new born determination. Having lost all hope of Virginia Acton's love, life began to appear valueless to me. The sentiment of pride, which, after all, is the sword arm of courage, led me to resolve that if I must die I would die like a man.
In this frame of mind I was sitting in my room that evening, when my servant informed me that a lady was waiting below to see me. Wondering who my nocturnal visitant could be, I went down. As I entered, the lady arose, and, flinging aside her heavy wrappings, exposed the pale and agitated countenance of Virginia Acton.
"I am here," she said, rapidly checking my ejaculation of surprise with a hurried gesture, "at the risk of my reputation, to prevent the consequence of my hasty words this afternoon. Sir George Hartley has told me of your quarrel. It must go no further."
"It must go to its inevitable conclusion," I replied, doggedly.
"And that is—"
"A meeting. But have no fear," I continued, bitterly. "Your English lover will in all probability sustain his reputation as a successful duelist. Sir George is a successful swordsman, while I know as little about the weapon as it is possible to know. You may draw your on conclusions, madam."
"You will be slain," she cried.
"Why, yes, in all probability," I returned; "I count upon that termination of the affair."
"And your death will be at my door," she exclaimed. "Oh, this must not be."
"What matter at whose door the death of such a thing as this lies," I returned. "I have lost you, what do I care for life?"
"You must not fight," she said, wringing her hands. "Sir George is inexorable. I have tried to move him, but you have insulted him too deeply. You must prevent it. Leave the city or decline to meet him, Anthony."
"And be spit upon in the street," I rejoined. "No, you ask too much."
"For my sake, Anthony," she implored, "can you not forget and forgive my wretched words?"
"I do forgive them, Virginia," I said, solemnly. "I shall forget them when my enemy's hand has darkened all the memories of life for me."
She uttered a shrill cry. "I shall have killed you," she moaned.
"No," I replied; "my own weakness will have done it. Now let us part, for I have little time in which to prepare myself for what is to come."
She did not move, but stood silent awhile in deep and apparently anxious thought. At length her face brightened with a strange look of satisfaction.
"Promise me at least two things, Anthony," she said; "oh, if you do indeed love me, promise."
"If consistent with my honor, I do," I answered, gently.
"Promise not to hasten this meeting. Sir George is to leave this city with his regiment to-morrow morning. He will desire to postpone your meeting until his return, which will be a month hence. Accede to his wish, and insist upon the duel taking place at midnight without lights or seconds. This provision will decrease your chances, so that I hope no blood will flow on either side."
"I promise," I returned after a moment of hesitation. "I care not what the result may be to myself; but, if you wish, I will make this strange condition."
"I thank you, Anthony," she said, pressing my hand. "Farewell."
Then with a singular smile, the import of which I could not guess, she threw open the door and went out into the darkness.
"She fears that I may do her lover some harm," I muttered, bitterly. "Well, poor girl, I cannot blame her. She loves him."
True to her prediction, on the following morning, a challenge arrived from Sir George, coupled with the request that I would defer the meeting for one month. I granted the request, chose the rapier as my weapon, and insisted upon the hour of midnight, without lights or seconds. The envoy received my odd conditions with a stare of wonder, but acceded to them, as indeed he was bound to do.
I hardly know how I passed the days that followed. A kind of revolution went on within me that I was only conscious of by its effects. I found myself prepared for death; and looking forward to the event which always before I had regarded as a hideous calamity, felt a melancholy sense of pleasure in contemplating it. I lived in a kind of a dream, and not a wholly unpleasant one. My sensations were such as those with which I had sat at a tragic lay, where the hero, human in his mixture of weakness and strength, goes through his part always with the mournful forecast of his fate clinging about him. I took no pains to practice with my weapon. I forgot that I was to use it for my own protection. it had become instilled in my mind that I was to die, and not to kill, and I made no attempt to remove the impression.
During this time I saw nothing of Virginia Acton. The coming duel had been noised abroad, and according to the custom of those days, the lady who was supposed to have caused an affair of honour remained in scrupulous retirement. Passing her home one day, I met a celebrated master of the fence descending the steps. In some surprise I inquired his errand there. He informed me that the eccentric young lady had taken the freak of practising with the foils.
"And a keen hand she is, too," said her. "Makes it warm even for an old blade like me."
The month wore on, Sir George returned, and the fatal preliminaries were ceremoniously arranged. For men can afford to be polite when they are about to kill each other.
The eventful day arrived and found me prepared. Sending my servant away that he might not impede my movements, I threw myself upon the bed for a few hours of rest.
Contrary to my expectations, I fell into a sound slumber, from which I was aroused by a loud knocking at the street door. I arose in haste and looked out of the window. The lighted clock from Trinity steeple marked half-past eleven.
"Who is there?" I called.
"It is I, Mr. Jourdan. Oh, come down, sir, at once!"
I recognised the voice of Virginia's maid. Seizing my rapier, I ran hastily down stairs and tried to open the door. It was locked and the key gone.
"What does this mean?" I cried; "some one has locked me in."
"Oh, sir," said the maid. "I am afraid it means some awful danger to Miss Acton. I have discovered that she bribed your servant to lock you in. And oh, Mr. Jourdan, she has gone herself to the spot where you were to fight."
A wretched idea rain through my mind. She feared that if I met her lover, skilled as he was, some unlucky chance might give me an advantage over him. Therefore, she had striven to prevent our meeting, locking me in that I might bear the dishonor, while she went to inform him that my heart had failed me. The thought crazed me. I would not be the dupe of a woman who was willing to sacrifice my life and my honor for her own selfish ends. I ran to the widows; they were padlocked; and like the door, without keys. Seizing one of the heavy hand-irons which lay upon the hearth, I beat a shutter from its hinges and climbed through the window.
Bidding the servant return home, I took her lantern to guide me over the road, and ran at full speed toward the proposed battleground. It was a piece of dense wood upon the river front, sheltered from observation, and so dark that, despite the lantern, I stumbled at every step.
As I neared the spot I heard the voice of Sir George Hartley elevated in tones of cool surprise.
"It was odd enough," he was saying, "that you should choose to fight without lights or seconds at midnight; but to preserve an obstinate silence during so interesting an affair is still more surprising. However, have your own way. Be as mute as you choose. I shall soon find you with my sword."
There was a moment of silence, followed by the fierce clash of steel. What did this mean? Who was my enemy fighting with under the delusion that it was myself? Virginia Acton had gone to the spot—but I had no time for reflection. I was so close that the sparks from the opposite weapons guided me directly to the scene of action. Then the broad glare from my lantern fell upon a strange scene.
Attired in close-fitting skirt of dark cloth, with arms bare to the shoulders and hair bound to her head by a fillet of ribbon, Virginia Acton stood confronting Sir George, a sword in her hand which she held locked against the weapon of her opponent. Her face was white as death, but her dark eyes glittered like coals of living fire. Her antagonist had wounded her on the shoulder, and a slender stream of blood was trickling down upon her white bosom.
She was fighting my duel, then. This accounted for her rapier practice and her demand for the strange conditions of our duel. What did it all mean? Could it be that she loved this man whom she was fighting for my sake? In the midst of the supreme agitation of the scene, my heart answered No; and a rush of such feeling as I had never before felt tingled in every nerve of my body.
Wild with rage, pride and joy, I pushed her aside, and confronted Sir George.
"For shame," I cried, derisively. "It is surely befitting a gentleman and officer to draw his sword upon a woman. Strike this way, Sir George, and take good care of yourself."
Faint from her wound, Virginia staggered back and leaned against a tree, an anxious spectator of the short remainder of the conflict. Shocked as he must have been, Sir George remained admirably cool, and his rapier struck spitefully against mine. But my strength was that of twenty men for the moment, and by sheer force in half dozen passes I ran him through and disabled him. Then I sprang to the side of Virginia.
"Why, oh why have you done this?" I cried.
"I did it to save you from the consequences of my rash words," she said, kindly; "after all, it is you who have saved me, for he was stronger than I."
"But, why should you have risked your dear life for one so worthless as mine?" I asked, tremulously.
"Because," she answered, smiling archly, "can you not see? Should I have risked anything if it had been worthless to me, Anthony?"
Her noble action, the tone in which she spoke, were revelations in words of fire to me. Despite the weakness which she despised in me, she had loved me well enough to risk her life for mine. Was it not for me to prove myself worthy of such a sacrifice?
Shortly afterward I left New York secretly, joined the Continental army and served till the close of the war. When peace was declared, Virginia became my wife. You will read the name of Anthony Jourdan in the roll of American officers who are said to have deserved well of their country.
Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 23 December 1880, supplement page 2
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