University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Trembling—thrilling—half blinded by horror and
grief—Claude, after several vain attempts, read the
letter. It was written in the writer's usual flowing
hand. There was no tremour, or sign of haste, or agitation,
except that two drops of wax from a candle
showed that it had been the work of the night.

As Claude finished reading, there was a slight stir
behind him. He turned—it was Mrs. Denham. Her
pale face—her wild eyes—her long loose hair—the
singular expression which terror and long agony had
called into her countenance, now heightened by the
certainty that Denham was no longer living, gave her
the aspect of a spectre escaped at the dead hour of
night from the abodes of eternal wo: she had read the
letter over his shoulder, and she stood pointing at it
with the grin of a lunatic.

“Well, then,” she said, calmly, “I know all. Charles
is dead. Charles! Charles!—my life!—my love!—
my husband!—my own beloved Charles!”

She wandered back again to her room. Claude could
not conceive, indeed, how she had been thus sufferedto
escape from it. He had not time to follow her before

he heard the wheels of a carriage rolling away from
the door, and he understood at once that the body had
arrived, and that the attention of the rest had probably
been attracted to that new and appalling scene in the
tragedy. Shuddering with a horror which he had
never experienced before, as well at the thought of the
shock which the approaching scene was about to communicate
to himself as to the appalled heart of the
widow, he overtook her once more in the room, which
was now deserted by everybody. Even Ellen was
gone.

“Where are they all?” said she, in a voice perfectly
calm and natural. “Have they gone to bed already,
without saying good-night? No. There they
are! Where have they been? What is going on?”

These queries were drawn forth by several figures
which came in, with their backs towards the apartment.
As they turned, their faces were all white and
terror-stricken. Two or three men next appeared—
waiters and strangers, among whom were some mere
chance passengers, apparently attracted by curiosity
from the street. A noise was heard in the corridor,
as the uneven tread of men with heavy shoes bearing
a burden, and a dead silence overspread all. Then
the landlord entered and whispered Claude, who took
Madam Denham's hand and led her into the adjoining
room. She accompanied him passively. Ellen, pale
and terrified, followed, but instantly darted back. The
tramping grew nearer. The adjoining room seemed
full of people.

“Lock the door!” said a voice, in a low but business-like
tone. “Shut this one.”

There was a pause, interrupted only by the heavy
tread of feet.

“Take away the little girl!” said the same voice.
“The other table—no—breadthways—now! steady!
there! a sheet!”

There was another pause.

Claude held the hand of his companion with firmness,

but, disengaging herself with a sudden start, she
darted forward and threw open the door. There—in
his usual clothes, boots, and spurs—his cravat off—
his face stark, stiff, white—his long, glossy hair hanging
back from his head—his arm fallen lifeless from
the table—his marble forehead and lip touched with
blood—lay the dear, the revered, the happy husband—
his stately form extended in death. The wife saw it
as she threw open the door. There was a quivering,
broken shriek, but low and short. She darted forward.
She pressed her hand against his brow—his
lips—his heart. She touched his closed eyes—his icy
cheeks—his stony forehead. Her fingers were chilled
and stained with blood.

“My husband!” she cried, with a convulsive sob.
Then, without a word, a tear, a murmur more, she fell
upon his bosom.

The rude men stood apart.

No one broke the silence.

And thus came back the duellist to those whom
Providence had appointed him to protect; to his wife
—to his child—to his home; but yesterday full of
happiness—of peace—of hope!