University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The day broke again, and all the noises of a busy
city rose upon the air as usual. The birds were singing
in the groves, the shining river lapsed slowly
on in the sunshine, the careless passengers flowed in
the same ceaseless tide through the streets, intent
on their own affairs, of business or pleasure, of folly
or vice. How few in the serious resolutions of virtue!
Night fell with its coolness and silence—its
dewy odours—its glittering stars—its silver clouds—
its hidden scenes of mirth—of revel—of rash crime—
of dark wo.

During the day, the early dawn of which had brought
to Mrs. Denham the dead body of her husband, and
while it remained extended in bloody state upon the
spot where, so few hours before, his gay voice had
sounded, and he had held aloft the sparkling wine in
the full security of life, health, and hope, the unhappy
widow appeared able to restrain her feelings by their
very intensity, as if none of the ordinary modes of
grief could adequately give them vent. She even
spoke with Claude calmly and rationally on the subject
of her affairs; begged him to make several necessary
arrangements preparatory to her departure; alluded
to the anguish the news would cause her father,
and inquired in what way “Charles” was to be buried.
Since the first sight of him, when she had fainted on
his cold and cruel bosom, she had not ventured to see
the body, which had undergone the sad ceremonies
preparatory to interment, and been duly clad in the last
apalling toilet of the grave. It was considered necessary
to commit it to the earth in the most private
manner, and as soon as propriety would permit. Poor
Claude! who had not slept for two nights—worn out,
staggering, and exhausted—attended himself to these
painful duties—answered for the expenses—ordered all
the necessary articles, each one of which, even to name,
strikes heavily on the heart, and calls upon us like a
trumpet to remember the fleetingness, the nothingness
of life. Mrs. Denham without him would have been
alone, and it is frightful to think of the rude shocks her
anguish-stricken mind would have been subjected to
but for his firm, able, and watchful forethought and attention.
She had no arrangements to make—no men
to see—no bills to pay—no attempts at fraud to withstand.
The door of her room leading to the body was
locked, and she was seen by and she saw nobody.
Her piety was fervent and sincere; and this solitude,
which she employed in imploring support from her
Creator, strengthened her soul and calmed her despair.

Night came again—night—upon the widow. The

cool, sweet shadows which he had loved so much—the
bright, unweeping stars—and the round, soft moon,
which he was never to see again. At her request,
Mrs. Denham was left alone with the little Ellen, in
whom this trying occasion showed a mind beyond her
years. These two sweet beings were bound up in
each other, and both, like two limpid rivers stealing to
the sea, had poured all their affections upon him who
had deserted them. The night seemed to open afresh
the tenderness of their nature. Ellen stole into the
lap of her sister, who folded and pressed her in her
arms.

“We are alone in the world now, Ellen.”

“My dear sister,” was all that the affectionate and
thoughtful child could utter.

In a few moments Mrs. Denham asked for her portfolio.
It was in a little room adjoining the bedroom,
looking out on a garden. Denham had been writing
there the day before. Ellen went to get it. Instead
of returning, she remained, and Mrs. Denham heard a
sob, and followed herself. On entering, her eyes were
struck by the various objects of the room. There
was his chair—the desk he had been writing on—his
cane—and a pair of gloves, carelessly flung upon the
table by himself, and wearing the impress of his hands.
A book lay open, with a pearl paper-knife under it,
and his pencil-case. A sheet of paper half filled with
his writing. The ink seemed scarcely dry. He had
left it at her call the day of Claude's last visit. It was
a letter to her father. She read it. It was full of
gay anticipations of their intended visit to Venice.
His cloak and his travelling cap hung against the wall;
and the bereaved wife heard—so illusive is imagination—the
tones of his voice—now in light mirth—now
in kind affection—or directing a servant—or reading a
passage in poetry; then his laugh—then a tune hummed
unconsciously, peacefully.

She fell upon a sofa, and tears, as if her very soul
were dissolving in torrents, gushed from her eyes,

and her throbs threatened to suspend the functions of
life.

Claude had voluntarily slept in the room with the
body. Locking the doors, wrapping his cloak around
him, he threw himself upon a sofa at a late hour.
Even exhausted as he was with mental and bodily fatigue,
the proximity of the cold remains of the man
he most loved, and the sobs of the unhappy widow,
still, for a time, kept him from the sleep which nature
demanded. For a few moments, as he lay—now the
only protector and guide of that helpless woman,
whose rash, unreflecting husband, had abandoned her
to such horrors—he could not but feel that he had acted
rightly; that, however gallant and chivalric might
appear the course of Denham to the eye of vain pride
and worldly reason, he had acted not only unwisely,
but cruelly, and even wickedly. By submitting his
quarrel to the chances of a meeting, he had made the
pistol of a profligate duellist the arbiter of his own
honour and his wife's happiness. He had ignominiously
thrown away a life upon which rested heavy responsibilities,
and thereby gratified Elkington's wish.
What was the result of this fierce and desperate arbitrament?
Had he resented the blow? Had he wiped
out its stain? Had he punished the aggressor? No;
the aggressor had struck him with the deliberate intention
to provoke a combat, in which his skill made
the result almost certain. In yielding, he had weakly
run into the trap of a designing foe. That foe had
triumphed. He was laid low in death. His fortune
was forfeited; and even the policy of ensurance, upon
which he had so strangely depended in the hurry and
whirl of his last hour, he would have known, at any
other time, could, under the present circumstances, be
worth nothing; death in a duel being one of those acts
which break the contract between the ensurer and the
ensured. Mrs. Denham, then, was left penniless and
helpless in a foreign country. Her bursting sobs betrayed
her pangs. Where was the ear that should be
first to hear, the hand nearest to sooth them?

At length he dropped asleep in the midst of these
reflections, and for all the distress he had suffered, he
felt that secret support which attends the consciousness
of having done right. Deeply agonized as he
was at the thought that the very act of virtue which
he congratulated himself upon had caused the death
of his friend, his firm and unwavering sense of reason
taught him that the consequences, however fatal, were
the decree of Heaven. Amid the grief they occasioned
him, there was no feeling of self-reproach.

His sleep, though unbroken, was filled with dreams.
Dark forms of bloody phantoms— the dim shadows
of the waking world hovered around him. Again the
lifeless form of his friend was borne in to blast the
eyes of his distracted wife, who raved and shrieked in
her despair. Little Ellen again moved about, pale and
terrified; and the strange faces and heavy tread of
common men came and went in the details of those
arrangements, so cold to those who perform, so thrilling
to those who behold them.

Morning again dawned. Long before the gray light
had paled the stars, Claude was up, and all things were
ready to bear for ever away the sad remains of the loved
one. The rude men came in again, their heavy steps
echoing upon the uncarpeted floors and corridors.
The coffin, that uncouth shape which differs so strangely
from the same melancholy image in England and
America, was about to be closed.

The solemn, awful dead! Claude gazed long and
deeply. The features were settled from the stern look
which they had worn, into a peaceful smile and an unearthly
beauty, such as often comes over the dead ere
they are withdrawn for ever from the light of earth.

“Alas!” he thought, as he perused those fixed and
rigid features, “cold habitant of abodes we know not
of! thou seest not! thou hearest not! Thou wast
as I am. I must be as thou! Mayst thou carry with
thee into the dark realm of eternity the peace thou hast
taken from those who remain behind!”

“Ready, sir?” said the undertaker, offering to lift
on the lid.

At this moment Ellen, her cheeks almost as white
as those beside him, came to the door and beckoned
Claude. He went to her. He stooped down and kissed
her little quivering lips. She returned his embrace
with a fond affection, as if she appreciated the kindness
and wisdom of his character and conduct. Then
she drew him by the hand along into the room of Mrs.
Denham without saying anything.

“Mr. Wyndham,” said Mrs. Denham, “one farewell
look!”

Claude had dreaded this, and he turned away his
head.

“I entreat—I implore! I am perfectly calm. Only
one! I will be silent. I will be all myself. There is a
power above. He will hold, He will sustain me. One
parting look! do not fear for me—one—only!”

“Come, then,” said Claude, feeling that the shock
might perhaps be of service, by bringing her feelings
to a crisis.

Step by step—faltering — trembling—quivering in
every fibre—the agitation of the moment thrilling them
both, they passed slowly into the room. The homely
menials stood away as they approached, and Claude
regretted, long ere he reached the spot, the permission
he had accorded. It was, however, too late. Mrs.
Denham advanced. She uncovered the face. The
faint gray beams of the early day fell coldly upon it.
She gazed a moment. The silence was unbroken,
when a shriek, piercing and wild—another—and another,
announced how much she had overrated her own
strength.

The early labourer stopped in the street; the peasant
woman rested her burden, stood and listened; and
the windows of the surrounding houses were thrown
suddenly open, while Claude bore a senseless form
upon his arm from the room.

The last star was yet visible in heaven as he returned

from the neglected spot where the duellist was committed
to the bosom of our common mother, hastening
unbidden into the presence of his Creator, and leaving
behind him broken hearts and broken fortunes.