University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Long before they reached the Hall, however, they were met by several domestics
who had come forth to seek them; or who, seeing the abruptness with which Sherlock
had wheeled his horse out of the carriage road, and galloped across the park, had suspected
some peril to their young mistress, and rushed out, although too late, to her
assistance. Manifold were the exclamations of wonder, pity, and dismay, that fell from
their lips, as they beheld the testimonies of her danger in the rent sleeve and bloody
dress of her bold protector, and heard in a few words what had passed; but indignation
prevailed in their minds, and anger, over all other sentiments. Two or three who were
armed—for a park-keeper with his musketoon was one of the number, and a falconer
with hawking-pole and wood-knife—started immediately in pursuit of the insolent ruffians
who had dared to insult their beloved lady within the very precincts of her own
grounds—others ran to the park gate to meet the worthy farmer and lend their aid to
the old major-domo Jeremy—and many others hurried back to the house, to collect
weapons of all sorts, and scour the country round, and all the neighboring woodlands,
determined at all hazards to seize and punish the marauders.

Meanwhile old Master Selby, having been made aware by the bustle and running to
and fro that something more than common was in progress, had come down from his
library, and learning there, not without some exaggeration, what had taken place, rushed
out, bareheaded as he was, in more than mortal terror. Words cannot paint the deeper
and more powerful emotions of the human mind; at best they can but feebly image to
our senses the external signs of the strange workings constantly in process within that
finest of volcanoes—the secret heart of man. A deep flush shot across the high and
pallid forehead of the father, and the big drops gushed out like summer rain from those
eyes long unused to weep at any earthly sorrow, as he clasped to his bosom, full of
thoughts far too deep for speech, his innocent and lovely child; while she with like
emotion clung to his close embrace, and wept in silence within the sheltering circle of
the frail arms which trembled as they pressed her.

“Blessed be God!” he faltered forth at length. “My child—my own, own child!”
and with the words kissing her pale fair brow, he surrendered her to the care of her
maidens, and turned to grasp, with scarce inferior energy of love and gratitude, the
hand of her defender. “And thou,” he said, “Henry, thou too! thou, that hast ever
been my affectionate kinsman and true friend, be now, henceforth for ever, be my son!”
and he drew him to his aged breast, and held him for a moment there, like himself
speechless from the very force and depths of his feelings.

But scenes like this must, from their very nature, have speedy terminations; and,
although in that instance all the spectators fully and freely sympathized with the emotions
of the actors; though there was no broad glare of idiot curiosity, no sneer of apathetic
dull brutality, to jar and jangle on the nerves attuned to so high a pitch, it was
—as always is the case with spirits of a sensitive and elevated order—with a sense of
something nearly akin to shame, that on recovering from their ecstacy, they withdrew
from the gaze—too near, though it was friendly—of the small group which stood in
mute attention around them.

It was some time before any of the three were again visible. Henry was borne off
to a chamber which from his childhood upward had been set apart to his use and designated
by his name; and there his hurts were looked to with a solicitude that could not
be surpassed, and with a degree of skill, which, although often found in those days possessed
by persons not professional, would now be looked for only in a regular surgeon
of high practice. Alice retired with her women to the seclusion of her own apartments,
and it was not a little while before she could control her agitated feelings enough to
reflect with any degree of calmness on the dangers she had that day undergone; much
less to bring down her mind to other matters, equally at least, if not more, pressing.

The noontide meal passed that day, for the first time at Woolverton in many, many
years, unhonored by the presence of any member of the family; and those who were
collected round the ample board, the higher servants namely of the household, instead
of displaying by an increase of levity, or any show of boisterous merriment, their freedom
from restraint imposed by the presence of superiors—as would assuredly be the
case now-a-days—were graver and more silent than their wont, and even downeast, if
not sad, in the expression of their homely features. The afternoon passed dully—the
arrival of the servants, headed by Sherlock, bearing on their shoulders the still senseless
body of the old butler, tended in no degree to produce any alteration in their feelings
for the merrier. So severe were the injuries, and so critical the state of the faithful
servitor, that, his case evidently requiring skill far beyond that of the housekeeper, famed
though she was through all the parishes about for the rare virtue of her simples; an
express was sent off to Long Darringford, a little country town some five miles distant,
for Doctor Trowbridge, who on his coming gave an opinion, guarded indeed and far
from positive, that he would painfully and tediously recover. Having administered a
soothing potion to his fair patient, whose first entrance into this world of pains and
sorrows he had witnessed; and having honored with his approbation the strings and
bandages wherewith his rival—as he always called her—worthy mother Trueman had
accommodated Henry's arm, and which he refused to remove or alter, he packed his
short-legged round-barrelled cob, and trotted soberly off between his well-stuffed saddle-bags,
to the benefit of some poor sufferer at ten or twelve miles' distance.

Soon after his departure, Alice sent down a message to her father praying that he
would visit her forthwith; and on his coming she dismissed her women, and they
remained for more than two hours alone in close and anxious conversation. At the
end of this period, having apparently recovered quite from the trepidation and embarrassment
which had been the natural consequences of the morning's terror, and showing
only by an unusual paleness of her pure delicate complexion that anything uncommon
had befallen her, she descended leaning on her father's arms to the library, where she
lay down upon the cushioned ottoman which fitted the embrasure of the deep window,
and soon fell into a calm and gentle slumber, the old man watching over her with almost
painful tenderness. Meanwhile the sun set calmly in the west, and his last rays ceased
to gild the sere tops of the lofty forest-trees which sheltered the old mansion, and the
hoarse cawing of the homeward rooks was heard no longer—but in Mark Selby's library
no lamp was lighted that night, nor did he pore over his favorites of by-gone ages,
immersed as he was for a little while in a more anxious study, as he hung over his fair
child—sole idol of his withered heart—still sleeping in so tranquil and immoveable a
stupor, so ashy white withal, and so supernaturally calm in the expression of her face,
that but for the faint fluttering pulsation of her sweet bosom, it might have well been
taken for that long trance whose bed is the cold grave—whose waking is eternity.
Suddenly, some few moments after the last echo of the last chime of the stable clock-house,
as it struck eight o'clock, had died into utter silence, she sat up, wide awake in
an instant, and perfectly collected—as the quiet tones of her tuneful voice proved beyond
doubt.

“Father,” she said, for it had now become quite dark, “are you there, father?”

“Surely,” replied the old man, “I am beside your head, and have not moved thence,
darling, since first you seemed to sleep. How fare you, dearest, now?”

“Quite well,” she answered cheerfully—“oh, quite well, father. My long sleep has
refreshed me, and I am now as strong and well as ever. I have not, I trust, slept
overlong—the hour has not passed, has it? Oh, father dear, you should have roused
me sooner.”

“Nay! nay! be not alarmed,” replied her father—“be not alarmed without cause,
Alice. The clock has but this moment stricken eight, and Launcelot hath not yet announced
supper. I will now call for lights, and then go down to the hall. I shall forbid
that any of the household enter in hither, lest they disturb your slumbers. Compose
yourself again for awhile, and then you may fulfil your purpose.”

“Well, if it must be so! yet, father, I do feel no small repugnance to visit the young
gentleman alone—so far removed, too, from all earthly witnesses.”

“It must be so, my Alice—it must be so, however,” answered he. “Already once
to-day was I well nigh found absent, when so to be found would have been utter ruin.
Moreover, dearest child, the force of circumstance is vast; and that which would in
one case be judged—and rightly judged—unmaidenly and forward, becomes in another,
the most natural thing in the world. He were a villain, too, such as nor earth has ever
held, nor Heaven looked down upon, if he could ever dream of wronging you.”

“Oh no! no, father,” replied Alice, a deep blush mantling all her lovely features;
“I never even thought of that—I only feared that I might seem to him, as you have
said, unmaidenly and over-bold.”

“Ever strive you to act rightly, child,” the old man answered, “as with your upright
soul and pure heart, you will, I fear not, alway—and never heed what this man or that
woman think or say of it. If they be pure minded and noble, why then they will judge
candidly and nobly—if other, then it matters not how they regard it.”

“Well, father,” she replied, “I will go visit him anon: tell me, I pray you where
you have hid the basket?”

“It is within the passage, Alice,” he replied, “and a light burning. Tarry awhile,
and listen on your return before you come in hither, lest Chaloner should quit his
chamber and seek to find you here. Farewell, dear child, and linger not overlong.”
Once more, as he ceased speaking, he folded her to his breast, whispered a gentle blessing,
and, without waiting any further answer than the kiss which melted on his lips,
left her alone in the dim twilight chamber. For some time afterwards she did not move
at all from the couch on which she had been leaning, but continued buried in deep and
painful meditations, reluctant to set forth upon her self-elected duty, to which—now
that the first excitement and novelty of the adventure had passed away—she felt herself
unfitted by something of timidity and bashfulness, which she had never experienced at
any time before so heavily oppressive. Al last, manning herself, as it were, with a sudden
courage, she started to her feet hastily, not, perhaps, daring to trust her own thoughts
any longer, lest they should quite overpower her firmness; and opening the concealed
door, not without some embarrassment, hurried into the vaulted passage, closing the
entrance carefully behind her. It did not occupy her many minutes to thread, with her
light step and ready knowledge of the way, the intricacies of that gloomy hiding-place,
and she was at the very door of the secret chamber, before she had fairly collected her
thoughts for the half dreaded, half desired interview. One little moment she paused at
the door, her cheek suffused with a deep crimson flush, and her heart throbbing with
so convulsive violence, that she felt quite exhausted and at the point of fainting. She
rallied however instantly, and tapping the panel very gently, “open,” she uttered, in
her soft low-toned voice—“open to me, captain Wyvil—it is I only, Alice Selby!”

The instant she spoke, a hurried step sounded within, the bolts were withdrawn, the
door was thrown open, and the young soldier led his bright hostess to a seat, pouring
forth all the while such protestations of eternal gratitude, couched in words so feelingly
yet simply eloquent, and those words uttered too in tones so rich, so full of manly melody,
that no created ear of woman but must have given them heed.

“Oh! how—how may I ever prove,” he said—“how speak in living language, the
tittle of what I feel, dear lady? Words may not tell—the human heart itself may barely

comprehend its own deep feelings. For do not I owe life, and more than life, to your
calm, gentle courage—to your sweet sympathy with the good cause—to your brave,
generous, self-oblivion?”

“Do not, I pray you, captain Wyvil,” she replied, her presence of mind having come
back to her at once, when the first step was taken—“do not, I pray you, put me to the
blush by praises that savor more, I fear, of courtly politesse than of hard-featured honest
truth. I should imagine you but spoke in mockery, did not your courtesy forbid
construction so ungentle; for surely I did nothing that any other lady would have
doubted to do in like circumstances, for any of the gallant soldiers who have so faithfully
done battle for king Charles.”

“Most natural it is that you should deem so, lady, seeing that the pure and noblehearted
ever—till sad experience has taught them the reverse—believe the souls of others
to be all truth, and honor, and high generosity; and find in everything about them, so
strong does their undoubting fancy work, a clear reflected portrait of their own in-born
worth. But trust me, lady, when thou didst step forth boldly to succor the distressed
and flying stranger, ten would have fled in selfish terror, leaving him to the mercy of
his bitterest foemen. Where thou didst take no thought of self at all in sympathy for
one thou didst not even know, save as a fellow being, ten would have taken no thought
else. Nay, more! of the few noble spirits who would have aided, had the time been
given for calm deliberate action, half would have doubted till the occasion had gone
by—half pitied merely, or marvelled till too late; or had they even resolved to act at
all, would so have acted, with hurry, fear, and trepidation, that all had been discovered
and rendered useless! Oh! no, dear lady, no! it may not be denied that I owe life
itself to your kind sympathy, to your energy, decision and courage! Nor, now that I
have seen my fair deliverer, would I for untold worlds be free from that sweet obligation;
henceforth, for ever, I am yours—your bondsman, your sworn soldier, and your
slave!”

“Well, be it as you will, sir,” answered Alice, with a calm smile; “it cannot
but be most agreeable to me to know myself in any wise the saviour of a human life;
and if you so esteem it, I cannot be so churlish as to refuse your thanks. Meanwhile,
as it seems necessary that you should be a prisoner for some days yet in this dark
den, I have brought you some trifles whereby to make your time pass the less gloomily
—some wax-lights, books, and wine; and I must tell you now, ere I forget it, that fresh
search will be made for you betimes to-morrow—my father has instructed you how to
avoid your enemies, and you shall not want timely notice—but one thing has occurred
to me, which I believe my father had forgotten; you must not bar the door within, and
the key must be left without; forget not this, I do beseech you, else will all our endeavors
be lost labor; and now,” she added, taking up her basket, the contents of which she
had deposited upon the table during the conversation—“now I will bid you farewell;
I fear I may be missed, an if I tarry longer.

Oh, go not yet—go not yet, lovely Mistress Alice,” exclaimed the young man passionately,
rising up from his chair, as if to detain her; “you do not know, you cannot dream,
how wearisome—how terrible a thing it is, for one used from his boyhood up to the
free liberal air, to the broad face of the sunlighted heavens, to the green loveliness of
earth; to be pent here, taking no note of time, without so much as a stray mouse to bear
him company—day after day, night after night, in solitude and sadness. Oh, go not yet,
I do beseech you! linger a little while to make this gloomy cell radiant by your bright
presence. You know not, oh! you know not, nor can fancy, how I have watched, and
prayed, and panted for this interview—how I have dreamed all night, and pondered all
day, on the sweet half-seen features of you, my guardian angel. How I have fancied
for the words in which I would embody my deep gratitude, my deathless fealty—and
now that the long-wished moment has arrived, my tongue clings faltering to my jaws—
my spirit finds no voice to give its feelings utterance. Oh! go not, lady, I beseech
you; who is there that should miss you, as you say, saving your excellent father?”

“My cousin, sir, who is now with us as our guest—my cousin, Henry Chaloner.”

“What!” exclaimed Wyvil, hastily—“what! Chaloner—the rebel Major General—
whose leading of the horse at Marston contributed so fatally to the success of Cromwell
—who fought by Fairfax's side at Pasely, and was the first to cross the Team at Worcester?
Can it be such an one who shares the hospitality of Woolverton?”

“Even so, Captain Wyvil,” answered Alice, not altogether pleased by his manner—
“even so: Henry Chaloner, my fahter's honored cousin, and the defender of his daughter's
honor!”

“Oh, now I have offended you,” cried Marmaduke—“offended you I fear, past hope
of pleasing any more. And yet I spoke but thoughtlessly, and from a passing moment's
irritation—the pardonable irritation of a defeated soldier against his more successful
rival—but had I known, dear lady, had I at all suspected how high this rebel soldier
stands in your fair esteem, then rather had I died than breathed a thought against him.”

“Nay! now you misinterpret me,” she answered quietly, but blushing deeply as she
spoke; “since Henry Chaloner was nought to me before this day, except my father's
friend and my good kinsman; and if I did esteem his nobleness of mind, his singleness
of purpose, his perfect truth and dauntless courage, yet more did I regret the strange
hallucination, which had induced him to link qualities so fair and good unto a cause so
black, so impious, and unholy! But Henry Chaloner has this day bound my soul with
obligations which must endure for ever;” and simply, but with deep feeling, she told
him the events of the forenoon, her peril from the ruffian cavaliers, and her bold rescue
by the Puritan leader.

High colored Wyvil's cheek, keen flashed his eye, as she proceeded; and when she
told how they had torn the earrings from her lacerated ears, and placed the muzzle of
the pistol to her brow, he started to his feet, and half unsheathed his rapier, muttering
through his close set teeth, “villains, accursed villains!” but when she spoke of Henry's
daring onset, of his encounter, single-handed, against the two marauders—of his wound,
and her fainting fit, and of John Sherlock's late arrival on the field; he bit his lip till
the color faded from it quite, and while his face grew pale as death—

“Happy man! happy!” he exclaimed, “and, indeed, thrice happy! Oh that it had
been mine, so to do in your cause; and doing so to have died there and then. For
then, although the jewel—the all inestimable jewel of your love had been surrendered
to this Chaloner, regret had still been mine, and the sweet meed of kind and sorrowful
remembrance. But wo is me! Fortune was never yet the friend of Wyvil.”

Again the deep red flush shot over the fair brow of Alice, and she frowned slightly,
and her voice was very cold, and almost stern, as she replied—“Nay! Captain Wyvil,
now you are overbold, to speak to me of love! Toys such as these, sir, suit not so brief
acquaintance as that which rests between us; nor should I like them better, even if
we were better known. When next you need a visitant, my father shall wait on you.”

“No! no!” cried Marmaduke, impetuously springing forward, and throwing himself
at her feet, so as to grasp the hem of her garment. “No! no! you must not quit
me so. Oh! not in anger, thus—not in contempt, sweet lady! Pardon me—pardon, I
beseech you; for I am quick of speech, and have ever been but too prone to speak the
promptings of a heart, too warm perhaps and ardent, but neither obstinate, believe me,
nor wilful in offending—pardon me, and revoke that cruel sentence; and say that you
will visit me again, and cheer the hapless prisoner's solitude with some brief gleams
of bliss!”

“Rise, sir; rise, I beseech you. I do believe you think me indeed a country girl,
and a most silly one, too, that you rave thus and mouth it. Rise,” she continued,
smiling, she scarce knew why, at the evident sincerity of his emotion—“and we will
part good friends.”

Then without further words he rose, and led her to the door, and bowed respectfully
upon her hand, and raising it a little, just touched it with his lips as she departed, uttering
in a half-choked voice that passionate, sad sound, “Farewell!” Alice raised not
her eyes to his face—for her life she could not have done so! but trembled violently in
every limb of her fair body, as, in accordance with the fashion of the day, he kissed her

unresisting hand. She knew not why it was she trembled; she knew not why it was,
she could not meet the glance of his clear brilliant eye—she was unconscious of all
cause for shame, for fear, for any strong emotion—yet was she moved, and mightily!
But when, just as she closed the door, she cast a furtive glance between her half-closed
lids toward the cavalier, she saw him standing in an attitude of deep dejection, with his
arms hanging idly by his side, and his fine head with its long silky love-locks drooping
despondently upon his breast. She marked, and marvelled at this singular display of
feeling; and with a fluttering heart, full of a hundred wild and whirling fantasies, she
hastened back, locking the door behind her; and reached the quiet library all agitated
and quite breathless, and resumed her seat on the sofa, ere any one had discovered, or
even suspected her absence.

It was not, however, destined that she should pass even the few remaining hours of
that eventful day without some further agitation; for she had not been many minutes in
the library before her cousin entered, having his left arm in a silken sling, and looking
somewhat pale from loss of blood, although he walked quite firmly, with his fine form
erect and graceful as its wont—a servant came in with him bearing a lighted lamp with
several burners, which having placed upon the table, he at once withdrew; but while
he was yet in the room, Alice had sprung up from the sofa, and darting forward, seized
Henry by the unwounded right hand, exclaiming, as she did so—

“Oh! I am so rejoiced—so more than glad and happy to see you thus again, dear,
gallant Henry! for I had feared that you were very badly hurt; and had anything befallen
you, I never could have pardoned myself at all, for it was owing altogether to my silly
weakness, in fainting the very moment when I ought to have been most collected. It
was indeed most weak and childish, but in truth I was sadly frightened; and are you
not so much hurt, Henry?”

“Oh no!” he answered, gazing with an enthusiastic eye upon her beautiful pale
face—“oh no! not hurt at all. It is a mere scratch, which would not have disabled
me in the least, had it not bled so copiously that it made me too something faint, which
is far weaker in a soldier you know, Alice, and more shameful, than in a pretty lady;
who is entitled, if she please, to faint at least three times a day in mere caprice and
wantonness. But you are not, I know, one of these gew-gaw puppets of the court,
who die away at a warmer ray than common of our mild English sun, and shiver at the
least breath of the fresh breezy air—you are not one of these, but my own sweet and
gentle cousin, whom I hope one day”—dropping his voice to a lower and more tender
tone—“to call by a yet dearer title. May I hope, Alice?”

For a single moment, so suddenly did the surprise come on her, every drop of blood
in her veins appeared to rush at once into her face; but in an instant it was gone, and she
was pale as death, even to her lips; and so icy-cold and shivering, that her teeth almost
chattered.

“Alas!” cried Chaloner, quite alarmed at the effect of his words—“alas! I have
been all too rash and hasty. I should have recollected, dearest one, how your nerves
have been shaken by this morning's terror—forget it, Alice, forget it altogether, or think
of it no more until a fitting season”—and as he spoke, he supported her to the sofa
whence she had risen on his entrance, and knelt beside her, holding her hands in his,
and striving to soothe her by every soft and delicate attention, entreating her to rest,
and make no answer for the present to his ill-timed address; but after she had lain a
moment or two on the soft cushions, she sat upright, and collecting herself with an
effort, spoke very firmly—“No! no!” she said, “I must speak now—I must answer fully—
for, Henry, your words have pained me very deeply.” “You cannot—no, you cannot be
offended”—Chaloner interrupted her; but before he could finish his sentence, she in her
turn broke in—“Oh, not offended—but pained—grieved—saddened—yes! made me sick
at heart—sick at heart for you, Henry, and sorry—ay! almost doubtful of myself. But,
Henry, Henry,” she continued, increasing in vehemence as she proceeded—“as God is
now my witness, and shall hereafter be my judge, I never dreamed of this, oh! never,
never! and now that it has broken on me all at once—oh! it is very sad and terrible—

for I will not attempt those frail and commonplace, and, as I think, insulting modes of
consolation, which worldly girls may offer to court-lovers—and though I never dreamed
you loved me, other than as your cousin, your good little Alice, to whom you have at all
times been so kind and gentle—now that I do know it, I also know what disappointed
love must be, to such a heart as yours—a heart, which if it love at all, must love
devotedly, and with its all of energy and fire. I feel what it must be, to tell you that
you must not even hope—and feeling so, judge, Henry, judge how I must suffer, when
I must by my words blight, for a time at least, the promised happiness of one who—
besides that I love him most dearly as a true friend, a valued, proved, kind kinsman—
has this day saved my life, and more! my honor, at fearful peril of his own! What
must I suffer, Henry, knowing that I must give him evil for his good—and kill his
hopes, who has given life to me?”

“Oh, Alice—Alice,” answered Chaloner, “think not of that one moment! do not—
do not, I pray you, fancy for one moment that your poor kinsman is so mean, so truly
poor of spirit, as to build any claim on what the humblest varlet in your household
would have done gladly without guerdon, and thought it, when done, but as his own
good fortune. The little service I did you this forenoon had nothing in the world to
do with what I said to you but now; save that it set me thinking—made me consider
how wretched I should have been, had I not been in time to save you—and by filling
my whole heart full of warm thoughts, all unchained and run-riot, led me to speak in
words what I have long since felt in silence. For the rest, I am in your hand—do
with me as you think the best—the happiest for both.”

“That I must do, although it rend our hearts within us for the moment, and leave
them sore, it may be, and tender to the touch of passion, for many a day hereafter.
But I must not, dear Henry, I must not do myself—do thee so foul wrong, as to let any
doubt of what I feel, or any hope remain, beyond this moment. The truth is, Henry,
I cannot be your wife—it is impossible—I cannot! Giving you all regard, all friendship,
all esteem, I cannot give you love. Honoring your high qualities of soul—your
perfect truth, your noble upright candor, the whiteness of your spirit, your fearlessness,
your honor, your renown—admiring your bright intellect, your deep unworldly wisdom—loving
your gentleness, your kindness, your soft pitiful good heart—yet, Henry,
yet I cannot love you—love you, as you should—must be loved by her who calls you
husband—as I must love the man to whom I give, not my hand only, but my whole
heart and mind and soul here and for ever. I am a wayward girl, dear cousin; the
spoiled wild orphan of my dear widowed father; and, it may be from him—my tutor,
and almost my nurse—that I have caught strange fantasies—become a muser from my
childhood, and a day shunner—a lover of wild haunts and wilder legends, a creature
of romance and poesy and fancy. Gifted, I fear me, with a dower which tends not to
the growth of real and substantial bliss, I cannot love, unless my fancy have been won,
and my heart through that fancy. I grieve for you, dear cousin, I grieve for you with
my whole strength—and likewise for myself—for, why I know not, there is a something
here within that whispers me with solemn augury, the pain which I now give another
shall be mine own hereafter—the bitter, hard, cold anguish of unrequited love. I shall
know nothing more of happiness until I see you happy.”

“At least, dear Alice,” Chaloner answered—“at least you shall see me calm. You
have dealt by me nobly; and never—never will I forget your goodness. To say I am
not grieved and sorrowful at your decision, were to say what is false—but, Heaven be
praised! I have a hope; a comforter on high—a hope that will not let me be cast down
by any mortal anguish—a comforter, whose consolations are most nigh when they are
needed most, and never are breathed vainly on the heart. And now, before we part—
for this has been an agitating day for both of us, and with the morrow perchance will
come new troubles—let me say to you, that you shall never lack a friend, a counsellor,
a guard, and a defender, while life is warm in this poor bosom. Never fear, Alice,
never fear to call on me for aid, advice, or friendship. Fear not that by so doing you
will awaken vain hopes, or call forth old presumptions; for now I understand your sentiments,

I would not for the wealth of Eldorado disturb their even tenor, or move you
any more to so sad thoughts as these. Promise me this—will you not, cousin Alice?”

“Indeed I will—indeed I will, dear Henry,” she replied, her beautiful blue eyes
swimming with tearful tenderness. “There is no one upon earth, on whom I would
call half so willingly—with half so true a trust. And now,” she added, stretching out
her fair hand to him, “good night, and blessings be about your head, and peace for ever.”

He caught the proffered hand, and held it for a moment, wistfully gazing in her face;
then, as if by a sudden and irresistible impulse snatched her to his bosom, and strained
her there the while he pressed a long cold kiss upon her snowy forehead. “Pardon,”
he said, as he released her. “Pardon: it is the last—the last—oh! Heaven!” and in
a burst of feelings most unaccustomed to that self-restrained and philosophic spirit,
he rushed from the apartment, and was seen no more that evening by any inmate
of the Hall.