advantage of. Now that the assault was begun his jumping nerves became steadier; he remembered Captain Forde’s advice, and tried to keep a good guard. As for luring his opponent on, he was kept too busy keeping a proper measure to think of it. An opportunity offering he delivered a thrust in tierce which ought to have ended the affair. But the Viscount parried it by yielding the foible, and countered so quickly that Mr Drelincourt’s heart leapt into his mouth as in the very nick of time he recovered his guard.
The sweat was rolling off his brow and his breath came in exhausted gasps. All at once he thought he saw an opening and lunged wildly. Something icily cold pierced his shoulder, and as he reeled the seconds’ swords struck his wavering blade upwards. It flew out of his hand, and he sank back into the arms of.Mr Puckleton, who cried out: “My God, is he killed? Crosby! Oh, there is blood! I positively cannot bear it!”
“Killed? Lord, no!” said Cheston scornfully. “Here, Parvey, neatly pinked through the shoulder, I take it you are satisfied, Forde?”
“I suppose so,” grunted the Captain. “Damme, if I ever saw a tamer fight!” He looked disgustedly down at the prostrate form of his principal, and inquired of Dr Parvey whether it was a dangerous wound.
The doctor glanced up from his work and beamingly replied: “Dangerous, sir? Why, not in the least! A little blood lost, no harm done. A beautifully clean wound!”
The Viscount, struggling into his coat, said: “Well, I’m for breakfast. Pom, did you bespeak breakfast?”
Sir Roland, who was conferring with Captain Forde, looked over his shoulder. “Now, Pel, would I forget a thing like that? I’m asking Forde here if he cares to join us.”
“Oh, by all means!” said the Viscount, shaking out his ruffles. “Well, if you’re ready, I am, Pom. I’m devilish hungry.”
With which he linked his arm in Sir Roland’s and strolled off to tell his groom to drive the gig round to the inn.
Mr Drelincourt, his shoulder bandaged and his arm put into a sling, was assisted to his feet by the cheerful doctor, and assured that he had merely received a scratch. His surprise at finding himself still alive held him silent for a few moments, but he presently realized that the dreadful affair was at an end, and that his wig lay on the ground beside his shoes.
“My toupet!” he said faintly. “How could you, Francis? Give it to me at once!”
Chapter Ten
For several days after his encounter with the Viscount Mr Drelincourt kept his bed, a pale and interesting invalid. Having conceived a dislike of Dr Parvey, he rejected all that Member of the Faculty’s offers to attend to him to his lodging, and drove home with only the faithful but shaken Mr Puckleton to support him. They shared the vinaigrette, and upon arrival in Jermyn Street Mr Drelincourt was supported upstairs to his bedchamber, while Mr Puckleton sent the valet running to fetch the fashionable Dr Hawkins. Dr Hawkins took a suitably grave view of the wound, and not only blooded Mr Drelincourt, but bade him lie up for a day or two, and sent off the valet once more to Graham’s, the apothecary’s for some of the famous Dr James’s powders.
Mr Puckleton had been so much upset by the fury of the Viscount’s sword-play, so thankful that he had not stood in his friend’s shoes, that he was inclined to look upon Mr Drelincourt as something of a hero, and said so often that he wondered how Crosby should have challenged Winwood so coolly, that Mr Drelincourt began to feel that he had indeed behaved with great intrepidity. He no less than Mr Puckleton had been impressed by the skill the Viscount displayed, and by dint of dwelling on his lordship’s two previous encounters he soon talked himself into believing that he had been pinked by a hardened and expert duellist.
These agreeable reflections were put to flight by the appearance of the Earl of Rule, who came to visit his afflicted relative on the following morning.
Mr Drelincourt had not the smallest desire to meet Rule at the moment, and he sent a hasty message downstairs that he was unable to receive anyone. Congratulating himself on having acted with considerable presence of mind, he composed himself against a bank of pillows, and resumed his study of the
He was interrupted by his cousin’s pleasant voice. “I am sorry you are too ill to receive me, Crosby,” said the Earl, walking into the room.
Mr Drelincourt gave prodigious start, and let the
“I know you did,” replied the Earl, laying his hat and cane on a chair. “He delivered your message quite properly. Short of laying hands on me there was no stopping me, no stopping me at all, my dear Crosby.”
“I’m sure I don’t know why you was so anxious to see me,” said Mr Drelincourt, wondering how much his lordship had heard.
The Earl looked rather surprised. “But how would it be otherwise, Crosby? My heir desperately wounded, and I not at his side?. Come, come, my dear fellow, you must not believe me so heartless!”
“You are very obliging, Marcus, but I find myself still too weak to converse,” said Mr Drelincourt.
“It must have been a deadly wound, Crosby,” said his lordship sympathetically.
“Oh, as to that, Dr Hawkins does not consider my case desperate. A deep thrust, and I have lost a monstrous amount of blood, and had a deal of fever, but the lung is unharmed.”
“You relieve me, Crosby. I feared that I might be called upon to arrange your obsequies. A melancholy thought!”
“Vastly!” said Mr Drelincourt, eyeing him with resentment.
The Earl pulled a chair forward and sat down. “You see, I had the felicity of meeting your friend Puckleton,” he explained. “His account of your condition quite alarmed me. My stupid gullibility, of course. Upon reflection I perceive that I should have guessed from his description of Pelham’s swordplay that he was prone to exaggerate.”
“Oh,” said Mr Drelincourt, with a self-conscious laugh, “I don’t profess to be Winwood’s match with swords!”
“My dear Crosby, I did not suppose you a master, but this is surely over-modesty?”
Mr Drelincourt said stiffly: “My Lord Winwood is known to be no mean exponent of the art, I believe.”
“Well, no,” replied the Earl, considering the point. “I don’t think I should call him mean. That is being too severe, perhaps. Let us say a moderate swordsman.”
Mr Drelincourt gathered the scattered sheets of the
“Now you put me in mind of it,” said the Earl, “I remember there was something else. Ah yes, I have it! Do tell me Crosby—if you are not too exhausted by this tiresome visit of mine, of course—why did you call Pelham out? I am quite consumed by curiosity.”
Mr Drelincourt shot a quick look at him. “Oh, you might well ask! Indeed, I believe I should have made allowance for his lordship’s condition. Drunk, you know, amazingly drunk!”
“You distress me. But continue, dear cousin, pray continue!”
“It was absurd—a drunken fit of spleen, I am persuaded. His lordship took exception to the hat I wear at cards. His behaviour was most violent. In short, before I could know what he would be at he had torn the hat from my head. I could do no less than demand satisfaction, you’ll agree.”
“Certainly,” agreed Rule. “Er—I trust you are satisfied, Crosby?” Mr Drelincourt glared at him. His lordship crossed one leg over the other. “Strange how misinformed one may be!” he mused. “I was told—on what I thought credible authority—that Pelham threw a glass of wine in your face.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. “Well, as to that—his lordship was quite out of his senses, not accountable, you know.”
“So he did throw his wine in your face, Crosby?”
“Yes, oh yes! I have said, he was most violent, quite out of his senses.”
“One might almost suppose him to have been forcing a quarrel on you, might not one?” suggested Rule.
“I daresay, cousin. He was bent on picking a quarrel,” muttered Mr Drelincourt, fidgeting with his sling. “Had
