University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX

Many days passed, before Alice Selby sufficiently recovered to leave her chamber.
A fever had attacked her, produced by anxiety and undue excitement, and for a considerable
time she had been quite delirious; but she had partially recovered, and was enabled
now to rise and return to her ordinary avocations and amusements, although it
was still considered improper that she should leave the house. It could not fail, moreover,
to be seen by every person who was the least interested, that she had been indeed
fearfully shaken by the brief illness she had undergone, or perhaps by the causes which
had produced it. Her slight but rounded figure had lost much of its graceful contour,

her lovely eyes were sunken; but, at the same time, there was a clear and glassy glitter
in their orbs, a cold transparant lustre, that tells too surely the presence in the vitals of
that dread minister of death, fatal consumption! All healthy color had deserted her pale
face, and in its place glared the fell hectic spots, now permanently fixed, as though
they had been branded upon each cheek bone—she was extremely weak, moreover,
and a slight husky cough would at times shake her for a moment; and those profuse
night perspirations, most fatal signs of all that mark the progress of the insidious slayer,
reduced her, as it might be said, to a shadow of her former self. Every one noted the
sad change, even the meditative unobservant scholar; and, though he spoke not on the
subject, it might be seen by the wistful gaze which he would rivet for hours together
on her face, as she sat reading or employed in some feminine occupation near him, and
by the sad and hopeless air with which he would shake his thin gray locks, and mutter
half-heard words—“it was thus with her mother.” Madame de Gondi saw at once,
and appreciated fully, the whole extent of the evil; and she alone, it may be said, knew
really the secret cause—for, although Selby himself much suspected that Wyvil had betrayed
and deceived her, he did not know at all the circumstances which had occurred;
nor was he aware even, that she and Marmaduke had met since their arrival in the
French capital. Chaloner, who was yet more suspicious, and who had ascertained beyond
doubt from his friend, the old Marquis de St. Eloy—himself the father of a very
lovely child, who was sought in marriage by Wyvil's friend, Bellechassaigne—that
Marmaduke had been paying very undue attentions to Isabella Oswald, and who knew
that he had been with Alice immediately before her seizure, was yet unable to make
up his mind as to the exact truth; and till he could do so, was perfectly determined
neither to take any action, nor even to speak on the subject. Meantime, driven to desperation
by his detection, goaded by poverty and threatening creditors, and maddened by
the cool contempt of Alice; Wyvil had pressed his suit more eagerly with Isabella Oswald,
and had indeed succeeded in winning her consent, although her father, suspecting
somewhat the necessities and addiction to play of the young soldier, had as yet refused
his permission. The report, notwithstanding, had been spread abroad, and gained
strength every day, that they were actually betrothed, and that the wedding would
take place almost immediately.

Aroused at length by this hourly-growing rumor, Chaloner made his mind up fully
to a task, to which he naturally felt the strongest possible repugnance. But he was
satisfied that Alice, whom he still loved with more than a brother's love, was slowly
dying, and that the only hope of saving her lay in the compassing her union with the
man whose perfidy was slaying her, as surely as the mortal sword; and therefore he
resolved, if possible, to fathom the cause of their alienation; and, having fathomed, to
strive with all the powers of his mind for the removal of those causes. Nothing, perhaps,
could be conceived more morally heroical, than the self-sacrificing and disinterested
resolution of this pure-minded, upright man, to defeat for ever all his own chances
of domestic happiness, and to bestow the idol of his own affections, so to secure her
ultimate felicity, upon another. But few men have lived in any age, less selfish, or
more careful of the feelings of all his fellow-creatures, than Henry Chaloner; and it
would as easily have entered his mind to prefer the transitory bliss of mortal life to
the beatitude of immortality, as to hesitate between securing his own happiness or that
of the woman he so truly loved and honored.

In his first efforts he was foiled utterly; for with his customary frank straight-forwardness,
he went one morning to visit Wyvil in his lodgings, which he readily discovered;
taking with him the pardon he had procured for him, which Marmaduke had
never called to receive. Wyvil received him courteously, and displayed much gratitude
for the obligation under which Chaloner had placed him; and, during a brief conversation
on various subjects which ensued, continued to impress his rival with a far higher
estimate of his qualities, both of heart and head, than he had before entertained. But
when, at last, Chaloner asked him plainly whether he had been misinformed concerning
the fact, that there existed an engagement between him and Mistress Alice Selby, he

replied instantly, with a grave and somewhat altered air, but not without a show of frankness:
“Indeed, General Chaloner, that is a question which, to any person but yourself,
I should decline to answer; even if I did not look on it as a rudeness—but, taking it
into consideration that you have lately done me no small favor, and that you are a near
connection of a lady to whom it is owing altogether that I am alive at this moment to
acknowledge all her excellence, I shall not hesitate to reply to you frankly. You were
not misinformed, that such an engagement did once exist; but if you were told that it
does so at present, you were assuredly deceived; for it was annulled some time ago,
by the lady's own act. More than this, you cannot, I think, ask of me to declare.”

“Not under ordinary cases,” answered Chaloner, after a moment's thought, “could I
do so—nor, I admit, can I demand it of you now; but you must allow me to point out
two or three reasons, why I may ask some further information. In the first place, with
the exception of her father, I am her nearest blood relation—I may say her only one—
and he, as you know, from age and infirmities, and from his own peculiar habits, is
hardly capable of her guardianship. In the second place, I know that she did love you
very deeply; and I am well assured, that even now she has not lost that sentiment. I
cannot, therefore, but regret deeply this alienation; and I am very anxious to ascertain
the cause, in order that, if possible, I may remove all misunderstanding between two
persons, one of whom I love very dearly, and the other I am disposed to think well of,
and befriend so far as lies in my power. Therefore I am frank with you, and request
you to afford me any insight into this perplexed matter, which you can do with honor.”

“You push me hard,” replied Wyvil, rather warmly—“too hard, I think, General
Chaloner. Most men would hesitate to admit at all, that they had been rejected suitors
of any lady, how beautiful soever. But this, it seems, is not enough for you—and you
expect me to disclose to you circumstances of the most private nature; and to explain
things, which, for aught you know, may depend on mere womanish caprice—”

“Do you mean, sir,” Chaloner sternly interrupted him, “to cast the shadow of a
shade upon my cousin's reputation? Do you mean to accuse her of what you choose
to call mere womanish caprice, but the right name of which is base unwomanly dishonesty
and faithlessness? or did I misapprehend you?”

“Again! again!” Wyvil answered, very haughtily, and something with the air of one
not indisposed to seek a quarrel. “What if I did mean so? I am not to be questioned
as to my terms, particularly when such terms are given in answer to a question of your
own, which, give me leave to say, was neither warranted by courtesy, nor by the length
or intimacy of our acquaintance! I am not in the least accountable to you, sir; and
if I should refuse to reply altogether, I should but do rightly. But I do not refuse,” he
added—for a deep sense of the baseness of his conduct came across him, and he felt
that he could not add to his villainy the guilt of laying any imputation on the faith of
one whom he knew to be all purity and truth—“no! I do not refuse—for I esteem
the lady's character, and honor her too highly, to wish to cast the slightest blame on
ner. Besides, I could not do so truly; for she is not in any way to blame, unless it be
in undervaluing the love and devotion of a person who was once most sincerely attached
to her.”

“Once!” replied Chaloner—“then I am to understand that you are so no longer?”

“You are to understand, sir, precisely whatsoever it pleases you; for, by heaven! I
will be plagued no farther! or, I might say, insulted! Another question I shall look
upon as a direct affront! On other topics I shall ever be willing to converse with
General Chaloner; but, upon this, let it be understood we speak no more.”

Beyond this, of course, Henry could not urge him; and he almost immediately
departed, saying to himself, “Ay, ay! he has behaved ill to her in some way or
other, and would not now be sorry to undo the Gordian knot, like Alexander, with the
sword; but how can he so have injured her, as to have made her so determined in her
wrath against him?”

To apply to the aged father, who now appeared to be more broken down than ever,
both in spirits and in perception of external things, would have been worse than useless;

and therefore, as a last resort, he once more went to Alice, and with the greatest tenderness
and caution approached the delicate subject, and with an air so kind and so
considerate, that she felt no shock to her senses—torn as they had been, and wounded
by the discovery she had made of that man's complete worthlessness, on whom she
had set all her hopes.

“Henry,” she said deliberately, “I cannot tell you—I cannot tell any person all—but
this much I can say, in justice both to myself and Wyvil. He is not so to blame, as you
imagine! He made no pledge to me, which he was not ready—nay, eager to redeem
He would, I have no doubt or question, be more delighted than words can express,
if I would recall him to my feet to-morrow. But, although, I regret to say it, I love
him still, and shall love him to the last; I would not be his wife—no! not to compass
everything of happiness that gratified love could afford! I would not! If I would, I
could do so to-morrow. Him I neither blame nor acquit—if he have wronged me, in
his own heart and conscience lives my avenger! If I do him injustice in my thoughts,
I will do him none with my tongue; and, sure I am, I shall find pardon for all the evil
I have ever thought or done to him, both here and hereafter!”

“The evil you have done! the evil!” exclaimed Chaloner; “you, who have never
wronged a worm! you, whose life has been but one scene of kindnesses, and charities,
toward all men! you, who preserved his life at peril of your own—sheltered him, when
his own next of kin would have abandoned or betrayed him! you, whom his treachery
—for I cannot be hoodwinked or deceived—is hourly killing!”

“Peace! Henry, peace!” replied the sweet girl; “you, who are so calm ever, and
so gentle, must not be rash now, or excited! We must not talk of this again; and, I
beseech you, do not you speak of it, or lay aught to his charge, or seek to punish any
imagined faults. This I entreat of you, as, perhaps, the last prayer of one whom you
love, and who would, if she could, have given you love for love. But hearts are stubborn
things, dear Henry, and deceitful. I could not love, whom I esteem and honor
above all men—I could not honor whom I love the best, I say not of all men, but
of all beings, except my God and my Redeemer. I love him still, and I cannot but
love him, although I may have little cause—but Alice Selby names not whom she may
not esteem and honor—nor never, while she lives, will sacrifice one jot of principle, to
a whole world of passion! The struggle may—will—for I feel that I am already within
the shadows that float over the dark vale of death—will be too much for this weak
frame. The seeds of hereditary disease, latent till now, but still existing at the core,
are springing into weeds baneful to human life—a few more weeks, perchance a few
more days, and this corruptible will be with the worm, its sister! this incorruptible with
its Creator! Yet, Henry Chaloner, mourn not for me, when I shall have gone hence.
My life has been, it is true, but a brief one—but oh! how calm and happy! Except this
one short storm, it has been like one summer's day of breathless innocent delight. I
have lived very happily—I have no consciousness of any very flagrant wrong—I live
in all humility and knowledge of my own unworthiness, yet in all confidence in the
illimitable mercies of my Judge and Saviour. I shall die in tranquil hope, fearless and
calm, and go, I trust, unto my God rejoicing!”

“Most happy, and most holy!” answered Chaloner, amid his tears, for the sweet
resignation of the dear dying girl had called forth from their springs the hot tears of the
self-restrained and philosophic man. “God grant, that I too may so meet his summons
—and God forbid that I, by word or deed, or thought or sign, or motion, should recall
one embittering thought into a spirit, from which the bitterness of life and death would
seem already to have passed away. Trust me, dear Alice.”

“I do indeed,” she said; “most confidently I do trust you. But let us speak of this
a little further. I know and feel that I am dying; I know and feel, as surely as that
we are speaking here together, that I shall no more see my country—no more tread the
free soil of glorious England—no more revisit the dear scenes of my childhood—the
cradle of my happy infancy! The leaves that are now rustling on those sere boughs,
will not have fallen before I shall have departed to the long last home of mortals. When

I—and he, who will not long survive me—shall have gone hence, our race, our very
name, will be ended; and you, dear Henry, will succeed to our inheritance and dwelling-place.
I need not say to you, be kind to the old man; I need not say, cherish my
old pensioners—watch over those who will then have lost their only earthly friends and
supporters. These things I need not ask, knowing, right certainly, that unasked you
will do them. But there are two things that I would fain request; first, Henry—it is
in truth a vain and foolish wish, but yet it is heart-fixed, and daily it grows stronger as
my term draws more nigh—I would, when all is over, lie in my native land. There is
in the church yard at Woolverton, a large and lovely linden, covering many a yard with
the canopy of its umbrageous foliage, and under it a little grassy knoll, where many a
day I have sat when I was a merry careless child; and even then I used to think it
would be sweet to lie in that pleasant spot. Here, Henry, if it can be accomplished,
I would wish my bones to rest. My second prayer is, though perhaps more difficult,
less whimsical, and has a reason for its base. It is, that you will live some portion of
each year at Woolverton, that you may learn to know the tenantry and lowly neighbors,
who have been wont in our day to look up to their landlords as to trusted and familiar
friends. I do not ask you to make any promise; I do not wish to bind or fetter you at
all; but telling you what I desire, I am quite sure that you will do it, if it be right and
compatible with graver duties, and if it be not, then would I not have it done at all.
And now that we have finished this unpleasant topic, let it be finished altogether, and
for ever; let us no more think or speak of it, but talk of pleasanter and gayer matters.
I would not have my last days spent in sadness or repining; nor the last thoughts of
me connected, in the minds of those I love, with dark and gloomy images. So tell me,
now, when do you think of departing for the Hague?”

“Oh, not for some time, Alice,” he replied. “I have to wait instructions, and receive
answers to the dispatches which I have sent home.” And for some time the
conversation flowed on, Madame de Gondi having come in, turning on topics of general
and varied interest; till just as Chaloner was about to depart, and had actually taken
up his hat, the sound of a carriage was heard entering the porte cochère, and in a moment
the door was thrown open by a servant, who, to the surprise of all parties, announced
Mademoiselle Oswald. Though wondering not a little what had procured for
her the honor of this visit, Madame de Gondi advanced courteously to meet her, welcoming
her with a polished ease peculiar to herself.

“You must think me exceedingly odd, not to say impertinent,” she began, as if
aware that her coming needed some explanation; “but the truth is, that I heard you
had a countrywoman of my own living with you; and I consider it a sort of duty among
English ladies to seek out one another when abroad, and offer any little courtesies in
their power. And so, being the older resident in Paris, and almost an habituè, I took
the liberty to call, in the hope to gain Mistress Selby's friendship. There, the whole
secret's out now! I always do things in my own way—and do whatever I choose, too,”
she added, tossing back the luxuriant ringlets which had fallen forward over her face,
with a saucy air; “and in the present case I choose, Mistress Alice Selby, that we
should become great friends instantly and without ceremony.”

Abrupt and even rough as was Isabella Oswald's manner, there was yet a sort of
gay and open frankness, a directness of purpose, and an apparent singleness of heart,
that, coupled to her exceeding beauty, and to the peculiar richness of her silvery voice,
was anything rather than unattractive. It had, perhaps, scarcely so powerful an effect
on women as on the other sex, who were almost always singularly struck and fascinated
by her manner; but it was still far from lacking its due weight. Alice, particularly
feminine herself and gentle, was very much moved by an air so exactly the reverse of
her own; and although she by no means admired that dashing independence, which
she considered, and considered justly, to be no attribute of woman, she saw and felt at
once, that her great beauty, with its bold and striking style, and her wild, fearless manners,
were just the thing to seize on a mind like Wyvil's, which had, perhaps, less of
resolute firmness, than of any other quality needful to give it tone and power. She

thought, moreover, that her visitor was a person whose impulses, whether of good or
evil, were so perceptible and unconcealed, and whose fearlessness led to so great a
degree of candor and simplicity, that she could not be, on the whole, other than an
amiable and estimable woman. She replied, therefore, not only courteously, but even
warmly; expressed her sense of obligation at the civility, which had produced this
visit to a stranger, said that she had no doubt they should be very great friends, and
remarked with a smile upon their former meeting at the gates of Paris. This led to some
mention of Major Wyvil; and Alice, ever remarkable for the strength and coolness of
her resolution, spoke of her former lover with an air so entirely calm and unembarrassed,
as would have rendered it impossible for any stranger to suspect that a feeling
warmer than mere friendship ever had existed; if even that were not more than was
warranted by her manner. Meantime Chaloner took his leave—and laughing merrily,
and jesting in a wild light-hearted style about all sorts of things, now rattling on with
some strange, witty nonsense; now uttering deeper thoughts and sentiments more
powerful than than one would have expected her to entertain, Isabella still remained;
and Alice, half-amused, half-tired, but with a sad and burning heart, was compelled to
entertain her, wondering how long this strange interview would continue. At length,
Madame de Gondi was summoned out of the apartment on business of a pressing
nature; and then, starting up from her chair, Isabella crossed the room to the sofa on
which Alice sat, exclaiming:

“Oh! I am very glad that she has gone away, for now I can tell you what I want.
I was afraid she would not have gone at all. You think me, I see, a strange bold girl,
and are, I fancy, half afraid of me; and I don't wonder at it. I never had a mother, that
is within my recollection; and I have been a spoiled child all my life, and have been
rambling about always among camps and garrisons, and battle-fields, and doing just what
suited me, till I have grown up to be what I am. But, I assure you, I am not so bad
as you think me! My manner is the worst part of me, indeed; and you will find that
if I am wild, and free and fearless, I am true and honest. I would not tell a lie to be
the queen of all France! and the truth is, that I have come to see you because I want
to be resolved of something, of which nobody can resolve me but yourself. So I shall
go to the point at once—this Major Wyvil, whom you know so well, and whom you
saved, I understand, from death, by your presence of mind and courage—who could
have thought that so quiet and gentle a little thing as you could be so brave? This
Major Wyvil, I say, swears that he loves me very dearly; and as I love him very well
—that is to say, a great deal more than I ever loved anything; more than my beautiful
black horse Roland, and twenty times as much as my dear Persian grayhound, I think
it quite probable we shall be married some day. Now, I cannot exactly tell you why
it is, but I have taken it into my head that you and he were going to be married once,
and that he has used you ill—and me, too, if I am right; and I would sooner marry old
Monsieur de Grandprè, who is the ugliest man in all France, or what is still worse,
remain all my life an old maid, than take a man on whom another woman had a claim
of honor. So I came straight to you to ask you all about it.”

It cannot be denied, that this speech tried poor Alice deeply—tried her in many
ways. It probed her own deep love-wound to the very quick—it sorely shook the constancy
and endurance of her principles; but so deep was the root of that fixed principle,
that it resisted the assault, and yielded not a whit to the fierce passionate tempest that
was awakened for a moment in that calm breast. She blushed very deeply, and paused
a little while to frame her reply before she uttered it—for in truth, she found it no easy
matter to answer as she would. Her firm decision, never herself to countenance him as
a lover; her strong and still enduring love for him, and her desire to make him happy
in his own way, united to render her willing to promote his union with her rival—so
perfectly pure and disinterested was her passion for this unworthy object—while, at the
same time, her native truthfulness made it impossible for her to deceive even by implication.
She was, however, fully impressed with the idea, that such an union would be
well for both—that it would reclaim, or rather fix the vacillating character of Wyvil,

and satisfy the ardent love which, she could readily perceive, existed in the bosom of
this high-souled, though wild and erratic being—and she began to think that really a
girl of Isabella's marked and masculine decision was better suited than herself to insure
the happiness of a man, whose greatest fault appeared to be the want of a resolute
and energetic will. She paused, therefore, a moment or two before she answered,
and then said—

“I would not reply to your question too suddenly, for I must justify the frank and
open confidence which you have placed in me—and for the world I would not deceive
you. To be frank, then, we were once engaged; and that engagement might have
been binding still, but that I, of my own will, annulled it. I cannot, therefore, accuse
him of any breach of faith toward me—for he was not willing only, but actually anxious,
to make good his promise. I had, however, my own views on the subject, and rejected
him.”

“Rejected him!” exclaimed Isabella, staring out of her great black eyes in astonishment,
not all unmixed with indignation. “Rejected Marmaduke Wyvil!”

“I did, indeed,” Alice replied, with a sad smile; “does that seem so strange to you?”

“It does—it does!” answered Isabella, with a sad smile—“it does seem strange to
me, that any woman should reject him—so brave! so noble! and so handsome! Oh!
had you seen him, as I have, rushing into the deadly fray, as if he were hurrying to a
banquet—heard his clear voice pealing above the din of battle—you never, never could
have done so! Why, he is fit to be the husband of the stateliest queen that wears a
crown or wields a sceptre!”

“I doubt not that you think so,” answered Alice. “Perhaps I once thought so myself—perhaps
I think so, even now; but I do not think him fit to be the husband of
Alice Selby; or Alice Selby to be the wife of him.”

“You are playing at enigmas with me—you are making game of me,” said Isabella.
“I did not look for this from you!”

“Indeed, I am not—I would not mislead you unintentionally for half a hemisphere;
much less would I jest with you, on so grave a subject. I say to you simply the truth,
when I say that Major Wyvil has never broken any promise to me—for he has never
made me one which he would not have performed, had I been willing; and further, I
have no claim on him whatsoever, whether in law or honor; and further yet, I should
be more glad to learn, than I think I ever shall be, that you have become his wife!
Upon my word! and that is what I do not, I hope, say lightly—I think that you are
suited excellently well to one another, and that his character will take a tone from your
decision; and, once more, upon my honor! I know no cause why you should not wed
him—our views of these things, as are our characters, are very different.”

“He did not, then, break his word to you?” asked Isabella.

“He did not!” Alice answered, very firmly; “so far from that, the first time, after he
plighted me his word, he was exceeding urgent on the subject; and, as I told you, even
now the weight of this breach of contract rests upon my head only. Now are you
satisfied?”

“Not quite,” replied Isabella. “No! I am not quite satisfied. Why did you reject
him? and when was it? I must know all about it.”

“Not from me! I have informed you of all that I can reveal honorably. My reasons
for rejecting him are between myself, him, and my God! They might have
arisen—perhaps they may have—from false views or prejudices; and therefore I have
no right at all to influence you by telling them. I hold the confidence of love matters
between man and woman to be the holiest and most binding that exists on earth; and
I think that no true girl ever discloses the overture which she has been forced to reject,
even to mother, sister, husband, unless there be some cause, such as this present, which
makes it, not justifiable only, but right, for all parties to declare it. You must excuse
me, therefore, if I decline to say anything further. This only I can add more—he would
have kept his word to me, but I would hear him not.”

“But he told me,” answered Isabella, very quickly, “that he had never known or
even thought of you—that was not true!”

“No! it was not—but I presume he was afraid to tell you that he had ever loved
before, lest you should esteem that a reason for discarding him; for many girls are
so foolish, Isabella, as not to be satisfied with knowing that a man loves them truly—
but they must needs insist on being told that they are the first and only object he has
ever loved at all—which, if he be over eighteen years and not an idiot, or as cold as
snow, can hardly be true anywise. I am quite sure, that he loves you truly now: and
I have no doubt in my mind that he will prove a very true and loving lord. So trust
me, the best thing you can do is just to marry him directly—that is to say, if your
family consent.”

“Family indeed!” answered Isabella; “what have my family to do with it? My
great grandmother or my tenth cousin are not going to marry the man, but I. But I
suppose it is my father that you mean—and I am not at all sure that he will consent;
for he expects that my husband should be rich, I fancy—though what it signifies, when
we have such quantities of money, I cannot guess; and Marmaduke, poor fellow, has
not a franc beyond his pay.”

“Ah! is it so?” asked Alice; “well, if it be so, and you should really find any difficulty
on that score, I must insist that you let me know it. I may—nay, I can almost
say—I shall be able to avert that, if it be the sole objection!”

“You! you!” exclaimed Isabella, very much astonished—“you are able to avert it!
How can that be? and will you, if you can?”

“I cannot tell you how,” said Alice Selby, “but be sure that, if I can, I will—and
gladly! gladly! Does that satisfy you?”

“Indeed it does, dear lady,” replied the other, rising as she spoke, to go; “I should
be bitterly ungrateful else—and I cannot well tell you how sensible I am of all your
goodness, and how sincerely grateful I shall be to you for ever! I am not very ready
at professions—but, as I told you before, I am honest. No, no; dear Alice—may I
not call you Alice? you must let me kiss that pale cheek of yours—we must be friends
hereafter. Now I will say farewell! Excuse me to Madame de Gondi.”