‘Speak not so wildly—they will hear—I beg you!’
‘
They!
Why, let them hear! They have long believed—they have long said—nay, I will speak no more on the topic! Follow after your lady mother—Go where you will. Forgive me. A strange phrenzy was just now upon me—regard it not.’
‘I shall not.’
‘I am calm again. You are right—it were best you go into the country.’
‘Yes.’
‘See that you take good care of our child. Send me word of her. And of yourself.’
‘I shall do so.’
‘It is well—it is well!’
On the morrow, then, they were gone—a coach and a waggon—his infant daughter astonishingly furnished, like Royalty, with more necessities than Ali had before known existed—and at the coach’s window he took Catherine’s hand, and kissed it—how cold it was!—and stepping back gave signal to the driver. His wife retreated into the coach’s seat, and into the furs in which she wrapt herself—and Ali saw her no longer—nor was he ever again to see her more!
For ‘now began the tempest to his soul’—and whether he stopt at home, or went abroad—whether he meditated alone, or threw himself into Company—where’er he went, between him and Pleasure, between him and Forgetfulness, fell a Shadow, the shadow of
what
he dared not think—of his own confusion, or of horrid possibilities he would not believe the world contained. As though a beast of supernal cunning tempted him to the hunt, and left its spoor, and its trace, in every place, even let its form be glimpsed as it skipt away, Ali saw—or
thought
he saw—the Ghost that haunted him, his pursued Pursuer, in every street and house, every Crowd and corner. Vain was it for Peter Piper and others of his friends to dismiss his fears—to point out the unreasoning suspicions to which he was subject, and how he
would
put two or three trivial
mysteries
together with one or two innocent
coincidences,
and from them conceive a Plot, or a Nemesis, that was no more material than his own figure in a glass. For it is exactly this that Ali most fears—not that he is
conspired against,
but that he is
mad
! In the low society wherein he mingles, Ali begins to hear, at second and at
third
hand, rumours concerning himself—things he is said to have done, dishonour he is charged with, old tales of his Father that had been forgotten, and of his own History—none of it
all
true, and much of it all false. Who speaks so of him? Do untruths sprout rankly unfathered from foul ground, like toadstools, or is there one who
sponsors
them, and
authors
those that are without basis in Fact? Who? Ali can find no single source, and fears there may be none—that all he hears, or hears
of,
comes only from his own poisoned mind! ‘That he beguiled the late Lord when he was in Albania—had relations with him not now to be spoken of—convinced him to adopt him as his
son
—and always with this object in mind, his present Eminence!’—‘That the Child born to his Wife was not his—that moreover it was conceived before the Wedding, against all the uses of good Society, where illicit children are properly conceived
after
marriage, not before!’—‘That he forced upon his wife certain Enormities brought from the East, and unknown in this land, ruinous to her Health, and her Soul—that when she resisted these he threatened her Life—that the Child of their union was born monstrous, or deformed—that he attempted to
dispatch
it with a pillow before it had taken breath!’ At last Ali fixes upon
one
whom he believes responsible for these things—not without some justice, for the fellow has indeed
passed on
the slanders, though he has invented none—a hopeless sot, the son of a sot, yet a gentleman, and loose of speech enough in company that Ali catches him out in circumstances that allow him no denial—he strikes the fellow, challenges him, crying out upon him in such insensate rage even as he button-holds him, his face so close to the young Esquire’s, that spittle flies upon him.
The young gentleman—let his name be Brougham, I care not, or Black, or White—soon puts forth a pair of Seconds no more capable than himself, who are certain their friend has been grievously insulted—injured—besmirched—and though the Honourable, acting for Ali, this time in form proper, points the way they might go, to make the bad better, and avoid the worst, there is no help for it—Brougham-Black, Esq, and his high-mettled friends blaze on, Ali in his empty house broods and may not be spoken to, and closer draws the appointed Day. Ah! Little recks the common Reader, how it grieves an Author, when—the dictates of Fate being unalterable, once he has
decided
upon them—he must push his Hero to commit an enormity, or even a foolishness—how he longs to warn him, dissuade him, appeal to Reason or to the angel of his better nature, even as the skirling of his pen propels the poor fellow onward!
Chill November has come upon the world—the bitter smell of coal-burning is sharp upon the damp air—new-dropped dung smoaks in the street—Ali stands shivering and near witless upon his step in the dawn, not knowing why he stands there—and the Postman’s red coat appears, he and his Bell more regular than the English sun, and presents him with a letter from his Wife. Ali pays his penny and reads—and finds that Catherine intends not to return to him, or to their house, but to separate, and live apart. ‘I beg that you not address me directly upon this matter—I do not trust myself to read your letters, and I hope you will forgive me, conceiving (if you can) how little I may resist you—but write only to my Father at this address, and make arrangements with Messrs Bland, Attorneys, who will act on my behalf—You know my reasons, and I will not state them—I long believed that you might be
ill
and that a disorder of the brain (such as you have described to me) might cause you to be
unwittingly
unkind, and to behave when fever’d in your imagination as you would not if entirely well—and if you were ill then I should be obliged to remain with you, and I surely would. But certain information has now come to me, from sources which I think
you may guess,
which makes me more believe you are responsible for your actions, and your actions are such that I may no longer share your house, and your bed,’ &c., &c., all of which Ali reads over as he stands there before the house to which she will not return, and reads
unmoved,
as though it were a Gazette concerning the doings of people he knows not. Lastly—and as though in a different hand—or written on a different day, or a different
mood
—is appended this:—‘Ali—A dark star presided at our meeting—I feel a doom upon me that I cannot limn! Remember—where there is sin, there may be Forgiveness—if there is Repentance. It will be my constant prayer for you.—The child is well and I hasten to tell you of it for I believe you are fonder of it than I am, and fonder of it than you are of me.—C
ATHERINE
.’
A carriage, just at that juncture arriving, deposits before Ali the Honourable Mr Peter Piper, done up in fur-collar and gauntlets, all again prepared as before. Without words Ali brings him within the house—from which by now the plate, the valuables, the books and most of the moveables have been taken away for sale—and on the last chair before the last table he takes paper, and in the few words necessary he makes a Will, repudiating all previous ones, and leaving all that he may possess, in whatever kind, to Catherine, Lady Sane, and to her Daughter—this he sands, and turns it to the Honourable, that he may witness. ‘All is accomplished,’ then quoth Ali. ‘I have presentiment I shall not ever return to this house. Do you keep that, and see that Mr Bland, of the Temple, receives it.’
‘I shall do all you ask,’ said that faithful gentleman, with all his kind heart, and nothing foolish added, of unwarranted hope, or good cheer.
‘Then let us share a glass,’ said Ali, ‘and be off!’
So we must make our way again to the dark neighbourhood of shuttered shops and dull hoardings where men may meet without the Law’s notice, there to await the election of Fate. On this occasion, however, all went according to the world’s way, without
mysteries
. The light was clear—as clear as the smoky air of London, that half-unquench’d Volcano, may ever be—and the Seconds discoursed in the field, and made their measurements, and here kick’d away an inconvenient Stone, and there tossed a Straw into the air to see which way the breeze blew, and examined the case of Pistols which the Honourable had again provided, the young gent from indifference (or Dutch courage) not caring to choose, as was his right. Ali in his place felt an indifference too, that frightened him more than the prospect of a slug in his heart—it seemed he cared for nothing, that
Nothing
had swarmed up from the lock’d place where it had always dwelt within him, and cloaked him in its cloud—and if that were so, then he might upon the moment carelessly toss away his Life—which he truly wished he cared to keep—a philosophical tangle that only a
double soul
can know! Thinking on these things, he stept to the centre of the ground, where the Honourable had been elected to toss a Coin determining which gentleman should fire first. Ali now saw clearly the bloodless cheek of the boy before him—the tremble of his lip—bethought him that the man was some mother’s son, some Father’s hope—and he
cared not
. The Gods thereupon, noting his indifference—so like their own!—favoured him, and the shilling came down with the King’s likeness facing up.
‘
Lord Sane
will have the choice, if he first give fire, or receive,’ said Mr Piper—whose voice fluttered like his cognomen’s instrument, for fear of his friend’s safety, of which Ali himself seemed so little aware. The question is indeed a nice one, which choice is the more honourable, and (on the contrary) which gives the greater Advantage, to fire or receive first—but these niceties shall not trouble us, for they did not trouble Ali, who immediately elected to receive, as this was likely to bring the quickest end to the matter—or to
himself
—the youngling being known as a competent Shot when not in drink. But Ali now standing at the prescribed distance saw his opponent tremble, his former
bravado
gone, and turn back to his seconds for their support—which they lent him very literally—taking him by the arms and turning him to face Ali again, and lift his weapon. Ah, how little they may know of the sweetness of existence, who have not stood upon this ground of Honour, and seen Life exit from their mouths in a cloud upon the cold air of dawn, and felt Life tremble about their rib-cage, where in a moment the ball or blade may pierce—
I
have not, indeed, but I can well believe it is a sure cure for
ennui,
and better than Prayer for lifting the soul to think of last things.
The young gentleman’s shot went through Ali’s cloak, scored his shoulder, and pass’d away without doing more hurt. The physician whom the Honourable had brought wish’d immediately to inspect the wound, but Ali refused; he stept toward the young man, and—as in a play, where the Ending is first conceived, and all the Incident that precedes is foreordained by it—he lifted his pistol—fired—but coolly now, and aiming somewhat to the left of the slight figure before him, so as to spare him—yet at the same instant the young man’s courage fled him, and he shrank to his
right,
to avoid the shot he expected—which therefore struck him full in the breast!
For a moment, as all present hastened to attend to the fallen man, Ali but stood, as though become nerveless and insensitive as stone. Only when the Doctor arose, and turned away—signifying that there was naught to be done by
him
—did Ali approach, and look down at the fellow, and his sorrowing friends, who held up his head. ‘You have killed me,’ he whispered, seeing Ali. ‘You have satisfaction!’ To which Ali responded nothing—only look’d upon the man, and his white linen turn’d to ruby, and his face to grey, and then to silence—and he thought
I have done this thing, that may not be undone
—which he may well have considered beforehand, and had not. Then the Honourable drew him away, with urgings to quit the place, before the Authorities arrived, and endless trouble resulted.
‘Never fear,’ said the Honourable. ‘You will not need to remain long abroad—I shall arrange all, and soon enough this Matter will vanish, as if of its own accord—there will be no Prosecution—you will be understood to have acted as you must, and shall be pardoned—you have my word—and shall return.’
‘No,’ said Ali, for he saw now where his Destiny pointed him, as we sometimes may—as those poor fellows chained up in Plato’s cave may of a sudden break away from a world of Shadows, and come out into the Sun—which burns their bedimmed eyes, but with the Truth of things. ‘I shall depart—but I shall not return. I have lived too long in this land, whither I never chose to come. I am
satisfied
—yes, fully satisfied—I am gorged—I am surfeited.’ He grasped the hand of his friend, and that Gentleman could protest no further, seeing Ali’s piercing eye, and the firm resolve therein. ‘Be my agent,’ said he. ‘Put not yourself at risk, or at charges—I cannot bear that you should—but be my eyes, and ears—my steward—my post-office.’
‘But where will you go?’
‘I know not,’ said Ali—‘Only that I shall
not
return.’
‘Then let us be gone,’ said Peter Piper with the greatest firmness. ‘We make for Plymouth, where passage is already purchased—here, take my arm—let me but make a Memorandum, of all the business I may do for thee—No, no, speak not yet—Mount, Sir, Mount! I shall be beside thee, wheresoever thou goest, in
thought
at the least! Now Silence, and Flight!’
So at dawn on the following day Ali found himself once again upon a ship’s deck, awaiting the turning of the tide, and the sail’s filling. The seas rocked impatiently, and ‘fair stood the wind for France’. Ali lifted his cap to the lone figure of the Honourable upon the dock, who answered with a wave of his white handkerchief, his other hand busied with keeping his own hat upon his head. Ali remembered then, as there he stood, a tale he had heard told in the great room of the Pacha’s house in Albania far away, on a night when the Pacha’s fighters in their coloured head-cloths and embroidered coats were foregathered there. Long ago, the tale went, in a certain Pacha’s lands, a wicked magician was abroad, doing evil and thwarting his Lord’s designs. At length, by force and cunning, the Pacha captured the magician and made him prisoner in his palace. On a night when noble visitors gathered at the Pacha’s divan, when the pilaff was eat and the sherbets drunk, the Pacha was of a mind to summon the prisoner, and have him perform some wonder for the amusement of the Company. The magician was brought forth, and when he had done many things that mystified and astounded the Pacha’s guests, he called for a large Bowl of Water to be brought. Into this bowl he tossed a handful of Salt, and asked his auditors to look within. Did they not see the Ocean, rolling there? And they did. Look more closely, said he—do you see a harbour there, and is it not the harbour at Malta? They marvelled to see that it was. And a ship in that harbour, just setting its sails? Yes—a fine ship—a black flag—a broad deck they looked down upon. The magician then arose, and, lifting the skirts of his robe, he put his toe into the basin of water—and before the eyes of those gathered there, he vanished—only to reappear (they all witnessed it) dropt through the air and fallen upon the deck of that ship. He made a mocking obeisance to those who look’d down on him, and took the wheel—and graceful as any steed the ship turned into the wind, and was away! ‘Where then did he go?,’ the Company demanded of the teller to know—for the tale seemed not complete—and that clever fellow said that of course
he
did not know—how could he?—but it was later said that the magician sailed to America, where he still lived, grown rich and still doing much evil.