Mr Puckleton was the first of his seconds to arrive in the morning, and while Crosby dressed he sat astride a chair sucking the knob of his tall cane and regarding his friend with a melancholy and not unadmiring eye.
“Forde’s bringing the weapons,” he said. “How do you feel, Crosby?”
There was an odd sensation in the pit of Mr Drelincourt’s stomach, but he replied: “Oh, never better! Never better, I assure you.”
“For myself,” said Mr Puckleton, “I shall leave it all to Forde. To tell you the truth, Crosby, I’ve never acted for a man before. Wouldn’t do it for anyone but you. I can’t stand the sight of blood, you know. But I have my vinaigrette with me.”
Then Captain Forde arrived with a long flat case under his arm. Lord Cheston, he said, had engaged to bring a doctor with him, and Crosby had better make haste, for it was time they were starting.
The morning air struck a chill into Mr Drelincourt’s bones; he huddled himself into his greatcoat and sat in a corner of the coach listening to the macabre conversation of his two companions. Not that either the Captain or Mr Puckleton talked about the duel; in fact, they chatted on the most mild subjects such as the beauty of the day, the quietness of the streets, and the Duchess of Devonshire’s
Arrived at Barn Elms they drew up at an inn adjacent to the meeting place, and there the Captain discovered that his watch was considerably in advance of the correct time. Casting a knowing glance at his pallid principal, he then made his suggestion they should drink a glass of cognac, for, said he in Mr Puckleton’s ear: “We’ll never get our man on the ground by the looks of it.”
The brandy did little to restore Mr Drelincourt’s failing spirits, but he drank it, and with an assumption of nonchalance accompanied his seconds out of the back of the inn and across a field to the ground, which was pleasantly situated in a sort of spinney. Captain Forde said that he could not have a better place for fighting. “Upon my word, I envy you, Crosby!” he said heartily.
After that they walked back to the inn, to find that a second coach had driven up, containing Lord Cheston and a neat little man in black who clasped a case of instruments, and bowed very deeply to everybody. At first he mistook Captain Forde for Mr Drelincourt, but this was soon put right, and he bowed again to Crosby and begged pardon.
“Let me assure you, sir, that if it should chance that you are to be my patient you need have no alarms, none at all. A clean sword wound is a very different affair from a bullet wound, oh, very different!”
Lord Cheston offered his snuff-box to Mr Puckleton. “Attended a score of these affairs, haven’t you, Parvey?”
“Dear me, yes, my lord!” replied the surgeon, rubbing his hands together. “Why, I was present when young Mr Ffolliot was fatally wounded in Hyde Park. Ah, before your time, that would be, my lord. A sad business—nothing to be done. Dead on the instant. Dreadful.”
“Dead on the instant?” echoed Mr Puckleton, turning pale. “Oh, I trust nothing of that sort—really I wish I had not consented to act!”
The Captain gave a scornful snort and turned his shoulder, addressing Cheston. “Where’s Sir Roland, my lord?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s coming with Winwood,” replied Cheston, shaking some specks of snuff out of his lace ruffle. “Daresay they’ll drive straight to the ground. Thought Pom had best go and make sure Winwood don’t over-sleep. The very devil to wake up is Pel, you know.”
A faint, last hope flashed into Mr Drelincourt’s soul that perhaps Sir Roland would fail to bring his principal to the meeting place in time.
“Well,” said the Captain, glancing at his watch, “may as well go on to the ground, eh, gentlemen?”
The little procession started out once more, the Captain striding ahead with Lord Cheston, Mr Drelincourt following with his friend Puckleton and the doctor bringing up the rear.
Dr Parvey hummed a little tune to himself as he trod over the grass; Cheston and the Captain were talking casually of the improvements at Ranelagh. Mr Drelincourt cleared his throat once or twice and at last said: “If—if the fellow offers me an apology I think I should let it rest at that, d-don’t you, Francis?”
“Oh, yes, pray do!” agreed Mr Puckleton with a shudder. “I know I shall feel devilish queasy if there is much blood.”
“He was drunk, you know,” Crosby said eagerly. “Perhaps I should not have heeded him. I daresay he will be sorry by now. I don’t—I don’t object to him being asked if he cares to apologize.”
Mr Puckleton shook his head. “He’d never do it,” he opined. “He’s fought two duels already, so I’m told.”
Mr Drelincourt gave a laugh that quivered uncertainly in the middle.”Well, I hope he mayn’t have sat up over the bottle last night.”
Mr Puckleton was inclined to think that even such a mad young buck as Winwood would not do that.
By this time they had reached the ground and Captain Forde had opened that sinister case. Reposing in a bed of velvet lay two shining swords, their blades gleaming wickedly in the pale sunlight.
“It still wants a few minutes to six,” observed the Captain. “I take it your man won’t be late?”
Mr Drelincourt stepped forward. “Late? I give you my word I don’t intend to wait upon his lordship’s convenience! If he does not come by six I shall assume he does not mean to meet me, and go back to town.”
Lord Cheston looked him over with a certain haughtiness. “Don’t put yourself about, sir: he’ll be here.”
From the edge of the clearing a view of the road could be obtained. Mr Drelincourt watched it in an agony of suspense, and as the moments dragged past began to feel almost hopeful.
But just as he was about to ask Puckleton the time (for he felt sure it must now be well over the hour), a gig came into sight, bowling at a fine rate down the road. It drew up at the gate which stood open on to the meadow and turned in.
“Ah, here’s your man!” said Captain Forde. “And six of the clock exactly!”
Any hopes that Mr Drelincourt still nursed were put to flight. The Viscount, with Sir Roland Pommeroy beside him, was driving the gig himself, and from the way in which he was handling a restive horse it was evident that he was not in the least fuddled by drink. He drew up on the edge of the clearing, and sprang down from the high perch.
“Not late, am I?” he said. “Servant, Puckleton, servant, Forde. Never saw such a perfect morning in my life.”
“Well, you don’t see many of ’em, Pel,” remarked Cheston, with a grin.
The Viscount laughed. His laughter sounded fiendish to Mr Drelincourt.
Sir Roland had picked the swords out of their velvet bed and was glancing down the blades.
“Nothing to choose between ’em,” said Cheston, strolling over to him.
The Captain tapped Mr Drelincourt on the shoulder. “Ready, sir? I’ll take your coat and wig.”
Mr Drelincourt was stripped of his coat and saw that the Viscount, already in his shirt-sleeves, had sat down on a tree-stump and was pulling off his top boots.
“Take a drop of cognac, Pel?” inquired Sir Roland, producing a flask. “Keep the cold out.”
The Viscount’s reply was clearly wafted to Mr Drelincourt’s ears. “Never touch spirit before a fight, my dear fellow. Puts your eye out.” He stood up in his stockinged feet and began to roll up his sleeves. Mr Drelincourt, handing his wig to Mr Puckleton’s tender care, wondered why he had never before realized what sinewy arms the Viscount had. He found that Lord Cheston was presenting two identical swords to him. He gulped, and took one of them in a damp grasp.
The Viscount received the other, made a pass as though to test its flexibility, and stood waiting, the point lightly resting on the ground.
Mr Drelincourt was led to his place, the seconds stepped back. He was alone, facing the Viscount, who had undergone some sort of transformation. The careless good humour had left his handsome face, his roving eye looked remarkably keen and steady, his mouth appallingly grim.
“Ready, gentlemen?” Captain Forde called. “On guard!”
Mr Drelincourt saw the Viscount’s sword flash to the salute, and setting his teeth went through the same motions.
The Viscount opened with a dangerous thrust in prime, which Mr Drelincourt parried, but failed to take
