University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

It was already very late, when Alice entered the park gates, for the walk and her
interview with Bartram had occupied much more time than they had imagined, and
supper was already ended; but so well had the whole scheme been arranged, that her

unusual absence excited in this instance neither suspicion nor surprise. Desiring that
some light refreshments with wine and water should be carried up into the liberary, she
ran up thither instantly, thinking, it is true, very little about such matters, and eager
only to disbosom herself to her father, as soon as possible, of her important tidings.
This was soon done; and so much pleasure did the old man exhibit at the intelligence,
that, though she spoke not of it, his very evident joy seemed selfish and unkind to
Alice; who, though she knew not why, felt a sad sinking at the heart, a melancholy
and foreboding gloom upon her spirits, so often as she thought of Marmaduke's
departure. After brief conversation on the subject, for neither felt inclined to talk at
length, Alice, fatigued by the exertions and excitement of the day, retired without visiting
her captive guest, her father having seen him in his crypt during her absence.

Long she lay tossing, sleepless and restless, on her innocent couch; distracted with
strange fancies; doubts, and suspicions, and perplexities succeeding one the other, like
billows on an agitated sea. Now, for the first time it would seem, a dim, indefinite
perception of the state of her affections began to steal across her mind. At first, it assumed
the form of simple anxiety—a longing fond desire to know if he, whom she had
so long tended with so affectionate care, would feel the same despondency and sorrow
at quitting his poor place of refuge, which she endured already at the mere thought of
his departure—then, as she asked herself—Why should he? why should he grieve at
being rescued from a dull dreary prison-house, and let loose again to active life, to
liberty, and daylight? nay, rather, why should he not rejoice, with an extreme triumphant
exultation? It naturally began to suggest itself to her, that her own sorrow and
despondency was something more than ordinary; and, though she strove hard to convince
herself that it was a mere natural regard for one with whom she had passed
latterly many delightful hours, a common and unselfish interest in a fine noble-minded
man, who was no more to her than any other late acquaintance, all the heart's sophistry
availed her nothing; but she was forced to entertain the question—Did she then love?
Could it be possible, that all unasked, uncourted, she had surrendered her soul's deep
affection to this young gallant? whether it could be that a secret instinct, undreamed
of at the time, and unsuspected, of love for Wyvil, had led her to meet Chaloner's
addresses with so unqualified and final a rejection? No! she discarded the idea by a
strong impulse of alarmed and jealous modesty! It would have been, she thought, the
height of overbold unmaidenly effrontery to love, herself unloved—it was impossible!
it was not so! And then she closed her eyes, and breathed a short pure prayer, and
turning on her other side, bade such vain imaginations avaunt! and resolved positively,
as she thought, to entertain the like no more. But such thoughts are insidious and most
subtle guests; and once admitted into the sanctuary of the human mind, can scarcely
be yielded thence, but will creep forward—onward, and forward still—till they have
reached the very shrine and altar of that wondrous temple, disguised perhaps and hidden
under some specious mask, but still unchanged and vigorously active; and at the last
shake off their counterfeited semblance, and kindle the whole place with the full blaze
of confessed and overmastering passion. And so, on this occasion, was it with Alice
Selby; one question still suggesting others, so that she scarcely had resolved to think
no more of such things, before she was asking herself—“And was it then so certain
that she was unloved—was it so clear, that it was not a secret instinct, that Marmaduke
indeed did love her, which had called forth in her this mutual feeling?” Then she began
to think of the peculiar tones of his voice, as he had spoken to her—to recall to mind
the deep and concentrated glance of his expressive eye, which she had caught so often
dwelling on her features, when he believed it all unnoticed—to reflect how his whole
demeanor had been gradually changed toward her, from commonplace gay gallantry,
to calm, though by no means cold observance. She called to mind how often she had
seen him raise his head, and partly open his lips to speak after long intervals of thoughtful
silence, and again check himself by a sudden effort, and relapse into meditation. She
fancied, too, that he had become more deeply thoughtful than was common, or in accordance
with his native disposition—that there was a vein of melancholy in the poetical

half-rambling strains of thought into which, now and then, his conversation would degenerate;
and she was sure—the more sure, the more she thought upon it—that he had
oftentimes of late endeavored, as it were, to probe her thoughts, to penetrate her inmost
mind, and learn her real character; her style of principles, her temper, and such other
matters, more carefully than a mere passing guest would have been likely to do concerning
the acquaintance of a day. Thus her imagination still advanced, never one
moment idle or at fault, till it had overleaped all obstacles, and had persuaded her,
before she sank into a perturbed slumber, that she was loved by Wyvil; and almost
led her to confess that she loved him in turn.

The following morning, she awoke all pale and worn-out, as it seemed, with mental
excitation; but after breakfast, she passed an hour or two in “chewing the cud of sweet
and bitter fancy” in the delicious flower-garden, and returned thence refreshed, indeed,
by the pure autumn air, and the fresh scent of the rich upturned mould; but only confined,
the mere fully, in the almost intuitive conviction which had come over her in the
course of the past night. All that day long, however, she went not near the cell; excusing
herself on some trivial plea, and prevailing, not without some small difficulty,
on her father to relieve her of the charitable duty. It seemed, moreover, as if anxiety
and care were now to be the lot of all the family of Selby; for, on his return from
Wyvil's hiding-place, an eye considerably less acute than that of Alice, could have discovered
that something of far more than common moment had disturbed the serenity
of old Mark's calm and steady equanimity. He settled himself down, indeed, to his
books as usual; but it was very evident that his mind was no longer in the task, for he
would look up, and fix his eyes steadfastly on the vacant air, and gaze for many minutes,
and then shake his thin gray locks doubtfully, and heave a long-drawn sigh; and then
apply himself as it were reluctantly to the old commentaries once again, and read or
write earnestly and eagerly for a few minutes, till gradually his powers of abstraction
would prove unequal to the struggle against the powerful thoughts within, and he would
raise his eyes once more to rest them upon the lovely features of his fair pallid child,
and seem as if he were about to speak; but finding himself unequal to the task, would
clear his throat with a deep husky cough, and brush away a tear from his gray lashes.
Thus passed the day gloomily—cheerlessly—although the sky was bright and clear and
sunny; and the air balmy, although fresh and bracing. Thus passed the day, with nothing
worthy of note to mark its fleeting hours, except that the head-forester, who had
been sent out with all his men, charged to search all the brakes and dingles of the park,
but more especially the old sand-quarry, returned at nightfall, and reported that there
certainly were no strangers now within the precincts of the park; although, as certainly,
there had been poachers there a day or two before at farthest; for in the old stone-pit
he had found the white embers of a wood fire, the skin of a dead hare, the feathers of
several pheasants, and, last but not least, a bunch of admirably manufactured gins and
springes, proving beyond all question the quality and occupation of its late visitors.

Night came and passed away; and on the following morning, when Alice would
again have eschewed visiting the young man, her father so decidedly, and as she
thought, with so much meaning in his tone, refused to take her place—and prayed her
with an air so earnest—reminding her, that she would have this duty, which seemed
so irksome, to perform but one day longer—to go at once, without more foolish and
unkind delay—that she could not decline it; but found herself obliged, though most
reluctantly, to visit Marmaduke with her accustomed burthen. It would have been,
perhaps, difficult for Alice to have explained why she felt that reluctance; for she of
late had certainly looked forward to the hour for those stolen interviews, with interest
and not unpleasurable agitation; and most assuredly, had Wyvil been at that moment a
visitor at large in her father's hospitable mansion, she would not have shunned meeting
him, or even wished to eschew his company. Most probably it was a secret, and not
unnatural, sense of modesty—now that she had become apprised of her own feelings—
which hindered her from seeking, as it might appear, an interview with one she loved,
but whose attachment toward herself—if that he was indeed attached—was unavowed,

and buried in the depths of his own heart. She felt, too, it is more than likely, that
most unreal, but at the same time most natural dread, that he, concerning whom her
thoughts had been so much engaged during the last two days, must have arrived during
the same period at the same conclusions with herself—must have penetrated her secret
sympathies, and become the lord, as it were, and judge of all her hidden sentiments.
So that, she fancied, it would appear to him as if she had come thither—had sought
him out in short—only to seek a solution of her own doubts and fears; to give him an
opportunity of telling his passion, and of learning that it was returned by equal, perhaps
earlier, passion of her own! The very thought made her cheeks burn with painful
blushes; made her limbs tremble, and her tongue falter; so that it would, in truth,
have been impossible for any man of common penetration not to perceive that Alice,
as she entered on that morning the hiding-place of Wyvil, was under the immediate
influence of some strong mental agitation. So certain is it that in women of the better
order, the existence of deep passion is far more frequently discovered to those from
whom they wish the most to hide it, through the very means they have adopted to conceal
it, than by direct and open revelation. Besides this, it is very rare that a man,
himself loving or inclined to love a woman, can long remain in real ignorance of her
sentiments toward himself, unless in those flagitious cases, where direct means are taken
by the designing and coquettish to keep him in suspense and darkness. When, therefore,
Alice entered the small chamber, though she had done so fifty times at least before
without exhibiting the smallest signs of confusion, it was with such an air of conscious
bashfulness, that Marmaduke at once perceived the alteration in her manner.

It would be now of no avail to trace the progress of his sentiments, to note how first
the seeds of future passion were sown within his bosom; for to no one, who with a
fancy disengaged and a heart free has been thrown accidentally into the constant and
familiar society of a young and very lovely woman, can it be a matter of wonder, that
Wyvil, shut up as he was in absolute seclusion from all the world except one sweet and
beautiful girl, preeminently gifted with all the charms that most adorn her sex and captivate
the other, should have become enamored; especially when to the strong attractions
of beauty, wit, and gentleness, are superadded the strong plea of gratitude. From
the first moment of their meeting, marked as it was on her part by so much of high
though gentle spirit—by so much generosity, and readiness of mind, and courage, a deep
sense of admiration had possessed him; and daily, more and more, that admiration,
blended with warmer gratitude and fostered by the constant observation of her sweet
womanly character, her gentleness and easy grace and artlesss frankness, had grown
up into strong and burning love. Some hint of this Wyvil had casually and indistinctly,
perhaps half-unintentionally, dropped to her father; and instantly perceiving the change
which followed his words in the expression of the aged man, and coupling with that
grave and shadow the absence of Alice from his cell during two whole days, he had
been torturing himself with every kind of vague and jealous fancy, till he had worked
himself into such a fever of hope, and rivalry, and anxious passion, that he felt almost
ready to sacrifice and surrender everything, so he could only be resolved what was the
nature of her feelings. And now when she came in with a faltering step, a cheek
suffused with momentary crimson, and in a moment after pallid as monumental marble;
a downcast eye that suffered not one radiant glance to flash through the long lashes,
and a perceptible air of timidity and agitation in her whole bearing and demeanor, he
started hurriedly from his seat, and rushed to meet her, with his whole spirit beaming
from his every feature.

“Oh!” cried he, in a passionate and broken voice—“why—oh why—have you deserted
me? You do not—oh, no! you cannot think how wretched I have been, how
miserably sad and anxious—have I offended you in anything? oh surely—surely not;
for rather would I die a thousand deaths, than that one thought of mine should wound
you? or can it be that you are wearied—wearied, as well you may be, of wasting
your bright hours with a poor prisoner in his cheerless cell? yet, dear—dearest lady,
could you but know how exquisite the pleasure is, which you confer even by your briefest

visit, so it be lighted by your kind smile, one gentle glance of those compassionate
eyes, you would not grudge a little weariness—you who are so soft-hearted, so charitable
to the feelings of all others, so careless of your own the while! and that, too, when
so short a time remains, before your task will have an end for ever. Yet, perchance,
even this—this end which I cannot so much as contemplate without a thrill of horror,
is unto you a source of pleasure—of congratulation! You do not speak—you do not
answer me!” he went on, without even giving her the time to answer if she would,
impetuously and carried away by the torrent of his passions—“You will not answer
me! I doubt not that you are glad I leave you.” As he spoke thus, Alice, who had
stood paralyzed, and almost frightened at the rapidity and vehemence with which he
poured forth this quick flood of words, raised her long lashes slowly, and looked full in
his face, with her large soft blue eyes dilated with surprise, not all unmixed with
apprehension.

“I do not understand you,” she said simply, after a little pause—“I do not at
all understand you, Captain Wyvil; of course, I am glad that you are about to be
set free from prison, which you find naturally so very dull and dismal—of course, I am
glad that you have a certain prospect of escape from your blood-thirsty enemies. I
have continually been in terror since you have lain here hidden, lest they should find
you out—of course I am glad, Captain Wyvil.”

“I thought so! yes! by heaven! I thought so,” exclaimed he, “glad to be rid of the
poor, helpless, ruined, runaway cavalier, who has been, for so long a time, a burthen on
your hospitality—a clog upon your gayer pleasures. By God! I do believe it is a joy
to you, to think that you shall never look upon me any more, that you stand there so
calm, and quiet, and unmoved. Why, you had shown more of emotion at the departure
from your house of a mere servant—ay! I do well believe, even of a dog!”

“For a dog,” answered poor Allice, quite dismayed at his strange vehemence,
“would not turn and rend the hand that had been kind to him!” and with the words,
she burst into a flood of weeping so passionate and so convulsive, that, if she had before
appeared unmoved and self-possessed, such charge could now the least of all attach to her.

“You weep,” he cried—“you weep, oh, heavens! can it be that you feel any care,
any regard—”

“Unkind,” she answered—“oh, ungenerous, and unkind! have I not risked my life,
and what is dearer fifty fold—my beloved father's! to conceal, and shelter, and protect
you? Have I not gone forth in the night, provoking misconstruction at the least, if not
insult and actual outrage, to plan your safe escape? Have I not come to visit you
and cheer your solitude, at all hours of the day, and almost all of night—that some
might call me forward and unmaidenly? that now you should affront me with such
questions—out on it! is this generous or noble?”

“But all this,” he replied, “you would have done as much for any other. It was an
impulse, a kind and noble and heroic impulse! but still an impulse only, that induced
you at the first to offer me an asylum from my enemies. You would have offered it to
Astley, or Prince Rupert—nay, to the profligate Wilmot, as you did offer it to me.”

“Ay! Alice answered him indignantly—“ay! or to any nameless fugitive who had
fought for his king, and whose life was in instant peril—ay! by my word, to any Puritan
even, whom I had seen with the avenger panting at his heels, and the sword thirsty for
his life-blood. To any man, however poor or mean or humble. I would have given
shelter, in the like case, until the peril were overpast. But if you think I would have
risked my good report to aid one whom I did not believe worthy—if you imagine I
would have given my poor company to one so far above me as Prince Rupert—much
more to one so base as fame speaks my lord Wilmot; you neither honor the character
of a true woman, nor comprehend the heart of Alice Selby!”

“You would not?” he exclaimed, a strong and joyful light illuminating all his face,
and his voice sinking to its tenderest and lowest tones—“you would not, Alice, and
you have not avoided me from any feeling of distaste; and you will not forget me, so
soon as I have left your doors; and you will suffer me to write, and tell you of my
future fortunes?”

“It would be strange, indeed,” she answered, “if I could forget one very speedily,
whom I have known so familiarly and well—if I were capable of doing so, my regard
or remembrance were little worth the having.”

“But shall I have them, Alice—but shall I have them?” he cried eagerly—“for by
my soul! if I have not, I care not for my life a maravedi! I care not whether I escape
at all! I would to God, you never had stepped forth to save me! that I had never looked
upon your face, for it will haunt me to my grave, imprinted on my heart's inmost core
in living fire! Shall I, then, have them Alice—and will you let me write to you?”

“Most surely I shall not forget you—most surely I shall often think of you, shall be
glad to hear of your welfare. My father doubtless will rejoice that you should write
him of your whereabouts and your well-being—for me, it were not maidenly to receive
letters from a stranger.”

“A stranger!” he broke forth again, half angrily, half sadly—“a stranger! and is it
I—I who have for days, nay weeks, but lived to watch each glance of your soft eyes,
but fed upon your smiles—is it I whom you call a stranger? oh! cold, how cold and
haughty!”

“Oh, say not cold! oh, say not haughty, Captain Wyvil,” she answered eagerly,
while the blood rushed in torrents to her pale cheek; “for indeed—indeed—I am
neither—but tell me, what else but a stranger could the world term you?”

“The world!” he said, “the world!” with a contemptuous sneer curling his upper
lip, and a thick frown gathering on his brow; “the base, uncharitable, fickle, cold, hard
world! And is it—can it be Alice Selby, that bends to the brute clamor of the knaves
and fools, whom all trucklers and cowards, fawners upon the great and grinders of the
poor, have styled—as if in mockery—THE WORLD? Can it be, that she shapes her conduct
to meet the whimsies of the beggarly mob—or regards any way the censure of
that blast of frowzy and unsavory breaths that bruit the world's opinion?”

“It can be,” she replied, “it is! and I am sorry that you should think otherwise. I
think I have shown already, that in a good cause, where humanity or honor point our
way, while the world's opinion might be deemed likely to lead elsewhere—I think, I
have shown to which I yield obedience. But, where the general voice is confirmed by
the small still voice within—the voice that speaks the loudest in dead silence! or in all
cases, where to obey is to conflict with no superior mandate, to bar no higher duty—
be quite sure, Alice Selby does regard the censure, does shape her course to the opinion,
of what men style the world—to make up which, there go not all the knaves and the
fools only, but all the great and good, the virtuous, the high-minded and the noble, of
this and bygone generations! Be sure that Alice Selby does bend to this great voice—
and be sure, Captain Wyvil, oh! be sure, that she who does not, is neither a high-minded
lady, nor yet a pure true-hearted woman! But to pass this, what would you
have me style you—what would you style yourself, if not a stranger?”

“Your lover!” he replied impetuously, throwing himself at her feet, and clasping her
small trembling hand, which she strove feebly to withdraw and impotently—“your true,
devoted, honorable lover! You must have seen—you must have known, oh! Alice,
Alice! you cannot have been ignorant thus long how deeply, passionately, madly, I
adore you. You cannot but have seen, have known all this—and knowing it, you
cannot have permitted me to rush unchecked and hopeful into the agony, the anguish,
the despair of loving you, adoring you in vain!” and with the words, as she had let
her head fall almost on her bosom, while her hand rested passively in his, and he might
see the big tears stealing silently down her pale cheeks, he rose and stood respectfully
beside her; and after gazing for a moment earnestly on her emotion—“I hope,” he
added, “I trust, Alice, I have not now mistaken you; these are not tears of grief—or
of vexation, Alice?”

For a second's space, or more, she stood in breathless silence, then with an effort as
it were she raised her head a little, and strove to look him in the face; but she could
not effect it, and let fall her eyes again sobbing and panting as though her heart would
break.

“Oh, Alice! lovely Alice!” he whispered tenderly, “answer me, I beseech you; or
if you may not answer, press but my hand, give me some slight token”—and then he
paused, and no sign was given that she heard or would regard his fond entreaties. “It
is but right, and fitting your own dignity,” he said, something more coolly than before,
but still affectionately, for there was something in her manner that told him she was not
insensible to his affection, “that you should give me now an answer. For do not fancy
for a moment—I am certain that you do not fancy for a moment, Alice—that I am
one who would entrap a maiden into engagements unknown to her parents. Not for
worlds—not to win thee, even thee, Alice, would I do aught, require aught that could
provoke the sternest father's censure; that could call forth a blush, a sigh, a sorrow, a
regret, from her whom I would make my wife, when long years should have flown, and
the deceptive meteor of strong passion faded from the horizon of the mind. I am a
gentleman as Master Selby knows, of honorable birth, of station, once of fortune! not,
though I say it, all unknown to fame; and, though deprived of my estates by this disastrous
civil strife, not so impoverished or needy, but with a bold heart and my good
sword to boot, I can maintain my lady as a Wyvil's lady and a Selby's daughter should
be maintained—in honor. Now therefore, Alice, since I have laid my whole heart
open to you, since you cannot but say that I have dealt with you in frankness and sincerity,
surely you will be frank with me and open. If you can love me as I hope—oh
heaven! how fervently! as I sometimes have almost thought you could—let me speak
of it to your good father; if not, at least relieve me from the agony of this suspense,
and let me go my way a wretched and heart-broken being, to seek my death as the best
boon that God can grant me, at the pike's point or at the cannon's mouth. Will you
not—will you not say, then, that you love me?”

While he was still in the act of speaking, the little hand which he had held so long
imprisoned in his own, returned the pressure of his fingers, but that so slightly and with
so timid and so fluttering a touch, that it was scarce perceptible; still it was felt, it gave
him hope, that he continued to the end, observing that she listened to his every word
with deep attention; and that her tears, although they still flowed, gushed not now with
that convulsive violence which had almost alarmed him at the first, but trickled from
her long dark lashes, in a calm unpainful current. And now, as his voice ceased, she
raised her eyes to his, full of a sweet and deove-like tenderness that stilled his every apprehension
in a moment, and a bright radiant smile glanced through her falling tears,
like a first April sunbeam shimmering through the raindrops of a morning shower.
Words were perhaps scarce needed, for the calm light of that pure artless face, fraught
with a quiet happiness, spoke more than volumes; yet, feeling that it was her duty to
speak out—

“Oh! Captain Wyvil!” she said, in a voice which though low and musical was now
quite firm and trembled not at all—“Oh, Captain Wyvil, now you have made me very
happy!”

“Alice, my own, own Alice!” he exclaimed, clasping her by a sudden impulse in
his arms, while her fair head, with all its rich profusion of brown curls, dropped on his
shoulder like a lily overcharged with dew-drops—“will you, indeed—indeed—be
mine for ever?”

“For ever! Marmaduke,” she faltered forth in tones scarce audible—“for ever and
for ever!” Their eyes met as she spoke the words, full of true chaste affection; and as
he drew her fondly to his bosom, their lips met likewise in the first love kiss; while
from behind, a deep sonorous voice, firmer than often issues from the organs of the aged,
breathed forth “Amen! amen! my children—my blessing be upon you both—and may
God's blessing, without which mine is nothing, be with you both for ever!”

It was Mark Selby, who, alarmed somewhat by the protracted absence of his daughter,
had come to seek her, and actually had stood in the full sight of both—although
they were so much absorbed in the strong ecstacy of passion, that they had neither ears
nor eyes for aught besides themselves—during the last ten minutes. Marmaduke started
at the voice, and turned round with a hurried gesture; but the expression of his features
was tranquil, open, and quite fearless.

“I pray you, think not,” he began: but ere he could say any more, the old man interrupted
him—“I have no need to think, Captain Wyvil, for I have heard every word
you have spoken these ten minutes past. I did not mean to listen, you may be quite
sure—but I had heard so much before I could attract your notice, that I believed it best
to let this dear child answer you, before my presence could any way affect or influence
her choice. I thank you for your noble, manly candor; and I can give you no more
proof of my belief in your high qualities, than in surrendering to you this peerless jewel
—this my heart's latest idol.” And he embraced the lovely girl with a long agonizing
ecstacy of fondness, while the big tears rushed forth like summer rain from his old lids,
and mingled with the calmer drops that dewed the cheeks of Alice—“God grant that
you prove worthy of her—and bless you both, and keep you here and hereafter, with
his boundless mercy!”