University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

The afternoon of that day passed away very quietly; no other visitors arrived, and
the evening meal was served to Madame de Gondi, Alice, and her old father, only;
who was far less abstracted than his wont, as indeed he had been ever since his arrival
in Paris, observing the occurrences that were going on about him, and appearing at
times even to take an interest in them. They had been conversing for some hours, as
gayly as it was possible for persons to do, all three of whom had something heavy at
the heart, and each one something to conceal or keep back from the others; when suddenly,
without the least apparent cause or excitement, Alice was seized with another
of those terrible fainting fits, which had so much alarmed her friends on their occurrence
twice before; and remained longer under its influence, and continued weakness, and
more indisposed after it had passed, than she had done in either of the preceding cases.
Her cousin, as usual, had her removed to her own chamber, and did all that personal
kindness and attention could effect, to hasten her recovery; but it was very much to
her astonishment that, on her return to the saloon, she found the old man walking up
and down the room with long and steady steps, holding a billet, which he had written,
in his hand, and seeming to expect the presence of a servant, who had probably been
summoned.

“My dear Madame de Gondi,” said the old scholar, as she entered, “we never can
thank you sufficiently for your great kindness—but you can add even to the vastness of
that debt by being quite frank with me. My sweet child—my own Alice! think you
not that she is fearfully—dangerously ill?”

“Indeed! indeed! I fear so—and I have thought it right to send over now for old
Monsieur Pallic, the best esteemed of all our leeches.”

“Ay!” replied Selby, gravely, with a half-doubtful shake of his thin locks—“ay!
if it be not all too late—if it have not its root deeper. Her mother faded even thus—
faded and fleeted out of sight; like a brief meteor, before one has even time to fear
that it is passing. Think you not that her heart—her affections, I should say—have
much to do with this? Has she not told you of her love for Captain Wyvil, and their
troth plighting?”

“She has indeed,” answered Henriette, not without many a tear—“she has indeed
—and my fears point too truly, even as yours do. You know, I presume, that she has
met this gentleman, that he has visited her even here, and that but yesterday she declined,
as she told me, positively and for ever the completion of that contract?”

“I did not—no, I did not;” said the old man. “Are you quite sure? declined? is
it possible that she declined? That is exceeding strange, for I am almost sure that she
still loves him.”

“Most certainly she does so,” answered Henriette, “but she will never marry him;
and I am afraid that it is the conflict between principle and passion, although the first has
prevailed grandly and will maintain its victory—her health, nay! her life itself, are
endangered;” and without any further hesitancy, she told him everything that had
occurred since their arrival in Paris—what had taken place in the garden of the Tuileries—what
at the ball in the palace—and what in the first interview between Alice
and Marmaduke, so far as she had informed her.

“Oh! villain! villain!” exclaimed the old man bitterly—“weak, vacillating knave
and villain! and fool yet more than either! Had she but had a brother, and this had
never happened, or had been bitterly avenged! But I—I—God be gracious to me! I
have not wisdom to deal with the veriest fool in worldly craft—nor strength to be
avenged upon a froward child!” and with the words he flung himself into a chair, and
burst into an agony of tears so terribly convulsive, sobbing and choking so with the
effects of anguish and rage blended, and that in their most appalling crisis, that Henriette
actually dreaded for the endurance of his reason, if not of his life; yet dared not
call a witness to break in upon the sacred and most solemn privacy of that paternal
passion. As suddenly, however, as it had broken out, the transport of his grief subsided.

“Pardon me,” he said, slowly and even calmly—“you will pardon me—she is my
own, my only one—the very image of her, who was the best of women, and now is an
everliving spirit of God's kingdom—my only hope's support and treasure! And he has
slain her—speak not of consolation! the young may be consoled, but not the old who
have grown old in sorrow! But it is not for us to judge, but to submit us to His judgments.
We will not trouble her; she has decided wisely now—although she loved
not wisely but too well! Had she forgiven, and accepted him to be her lord, it is too
likely that the vile earthly temper of his soul would have clogged and weighed down to
earth the spiritual essence of her pure and heaven-soaring mind. He who knows all
things hath so ordered this, that it must be the better—although to us blind worms it
seems the worst conclusion. We will name this no more, but wait, and watch, and
pray; with this one comfort, that whom He chasteneth, he loveth.”

He left the room as he ceased speaking, but he retired not to his own lonely chamber.
He entered the still and sad apartment, where, all unconscious of her cares and sorrows,
his lovely child lay sleeping, as calm, as motionless, and only not as cold, as though
she had already passed the portals of the tomb. He stood there long, and gazed in
silence—not a tear soothed the hot anguish of his burning eyeballs—not a sigh came
from his pale lips—he gazed till he was satisfied that there was no hope left to him,
turned on his heel, and passed with a step very slow, but firm, to his own bed-chamber
—there was no more abstraction, no more vacillation, no more weakness, in the old
scholar's eyes or manner. Before he laid him down to sleep, he called the faithful servant
who had followed him from Woolverton, the oldest and the most attached of
his attendants; gave him the letter he had written, telling him to carry it the first thing
to-morrow—that he whom it concerned should have it early—“He will come hither
shortly afterwards,” he added; “wait for him there, and bring him to me hither as

quietly as may be—I wish that as few as possible of this household know of it.” The
man read the superscription with much ease, bowed, and retired; and Selby, after
kneeling long in fervent and heartfelt communion with Him, from whom alone strength
cometh, stretched himself on his bed, and sad although he was and stricken, slept with
the undisturbed repose that springs from a sound conscience.

It had not long been daylight on the following morning, before a startling and stubbornly-sustained
knocking awoke the ancient porter of the house, wherein were Marmaduke's
apartments; and though the crusty and ill-tempered veteran declared that
Major Wyvil had scarcely been abed an hour, and would not be seen by any one before
noon, the messenger, a hale, broad-shouldered, rosy-cheeked Englishman of some forty
years, persisted, with so much of the dogged pertinacity of his Saxon race, that he made
his way per force to Wyvil's antechamber, where he made such a din that Marmaduke
was aroused thoroughly, and calling sharply to his valet, inquired, “What in the fiend's
name meant that racket?”

“It is a billet, sir—only a trifling billet,” answered the fellow; “which this rude
knave in a green jerkin insists upon it he must give into your own hands.”

“Let him do so then, Clement,” replied Wyvil, “if it be only to get rid of his insolent
din. Your master, fellow,” he went on, as the servant came in, and delivered the
note, “should know more of gentle courtesy, than to disturb people in the night thus.”

“My master,” answered the hardy yeoman, nothing abashed, “knew more of gentle
courtesy, forty years before thou wert in the cradle, than thou and all thy kindred—
and that wilt know, I warrant me, when thou hast read his letter.”

And it would seem, indeed, that there was in that brief epistle some spell of strange
puissance; for though he tore the paper open with an impatient gesture, and with a
heightened color, and a flashing eye, his whole air altered as he read the few words
which it contained; and he appeared crest-fallen and abashed, when he again spoke.
“Ha! it is well,” he said, though with a very visible effort to maintain his composure.
“Go! tell thy master, I will be with him presently—forthwith! Clement, my dressing
robe—so! hurry! hurry! death to thy soul, man! dos't not see I am in haste?”

And within far less time than the valet had ever seen his master devote to the arrangement
of his love-locks only, he was completely dressed, and went forth unattended,
leaving his household in strange wonder and excitement, to which the perusal of the
mysterious billet—for in his haste he left it on the coverlid—brought no alleviation; for
it contained but these words—

A short walk through the quiet streets, which lay outstretched all silent and deserted
in the gray morning twilight, with nothing moving over their noiseless pavements but
some poor houseless dog, searching the kennels for a thrice-gnawed bone, or rarer still,
some early artizan hastening to his daily toil, he reached the porte cochère of the Hotel
de Gondi; and, though anxiety, and something that was like a fiery hope, and much
that was like harrowing terror, were busy at his heart; it was still almost a relief to
him to feel that he was soon to be plunged into excitement, even of a painful nature—
so terribly reproachful had the calm coolness of the June morning air, and the unusual
solitude of the slumbering city seemed to his guilty and perturbed imagination. Of all
the numerous and gayly-dressed attendants, who were wont to fill the courtyard of that
lordly mansion, no one was moving, even in the porter's lodge, with the exception of
the English servant, who had summoned him; and he stood leaning carelessly against
the wicket, which alone was open, whistling the burthen of some old border-ballad with
a true air of listless independence. As Marmaduke drew near, however, he made way
for him with a sort of surly civility, touching his bonnet; but it was evident that he
looked with no good-will upon the courtly gallant, and very probably he had something

more than a vague suspicion that he was in some sort connected with the illness of his
beloved mistress. He led the young cavalier immediately into the house, though not
by the grand entrance, and up a dark and narrow staircase, and so by several intricate
corridors and passages into a little antechamber; and pausing there, the sound of a
regular and heavy footstep fell on the ear of Wyvil, and then the deep groan of a man,
apparently in acute pain, or deep affliction; the next instant, the servant knocked gently
at a door, and a voice but too well remembered, cried—“Is it he? Let him enter!”
and he walked with a faltering step and a fearful eye into the presence of Mark Selby.
The old man said—“It is well, Charles; now begone and wait for him at the head of the
staircase beyond earshot—let no one come to us, unless I ring my bell, or call to you
Be seated, Major Wyvil—it is some time since we have met.”

“It is indeed,” said Wyvil, exceedingly confused, and not in the least knowing how
to meet the old man.

“It is indeed,” he repeated, with a bitter sneer; his voice, though feeble, trembling
not in the least, and his gray eye piercing the shrinking wretch, as the falcon's overpowers
the craven gaze of all meaner fowls—“it is indeed some time, and I suppose it might
have been full longer. What does this mean, sir? what does this mean, I say? what
were you thinking of when you dared do this thing?”

“I know not what you mean, Master Selby,” replied Marmaduke, rallying all his
courage; “I know not anything that I have done.”

“Nor left undone?” the old man answered, in a tone so piercing, yet so stern, that he
dared not reply for a moment or two, till feeling that dread gaze still fixed upon him,
for his own eyes were downcast, and no more could brook the glance of the injured
father, than could the carrion vulture face the meridian sun, he forced himself to say—

“Nor left undone, sir—for I would fain have fulfilled my pledge and married your
fair daughter, whom I love beyond every woman upon earth, but she rejected me—
rejected me, as doubtless you well know—with bitter scorn and contumely; and that is
what may not be borne by any man of honor!”

“And have you—have you really the daring to call yourself a man of honor? Look
you, I know you—poor, vain, vacillating fool—I know you! Answer me not, I say—
answer me not—sit there till I rehearse to you your honorable exploits. Some thirteen
months ago, there lived in Worcestershire a very happy aged man—exceedingly happy
—for he was blessed with as beautiful, and innocent, and sweet, and good a child as ever
lived on earth, or died and went to heaven!” The old man was now thoroughly aroused,
and his cheek, thin as it was and withered, was kindled with a glow of noble indignation;
and his voice, though it quivered with excitement, seemed to his panick-stricken
auditor to thrill, trumpet-like, to his heart's core. “Thither were you sent—there, at your
utmost need, were you preserved by that girl's more than heroic constancy and courage;
by that old man's untimely pity, and fool confidence! Liar and traitor! you won her
innocent heart—plighted false vows—escaped, forgot, forsworn her!”

“Not so! not so! by heaven and Him that made it—not so! I would have claimed
her hand—would claim it now, out of ten thousand, as I would prize her heart.”

“Liar, again! Her heart which thou hast broken—her hand which thou didst set aside
as a thing lighter than thistle-down, and far less worthy! thou fool! thou fool! Oh!
trivial, wretched and most miserable fool! All this thou has done in the pride of thine
earthly wisdom. Her didst thou win in the mere idleness of a frivolous and fitful fancy
—didst win such an angel as had been too high a boon for the best man that ever trod
the soil of this bad world—was fool enough to forget—liar enough to forswear—and
then traitor, and knave, and fool enough, all three in one—to fancy you could win her
back to look upon a thing so vile and vicious!”

“Have you done yet?” exclaimed Wyvil, whose spirit, naturally high and fiery, was
at length kindled, and aroused beyond all its self-control by the reproaches which the
old man poured so vehemently, and so deservedly upon his head—“have you done
yet? For I will hear no further—”

“Done yet?” cried Selby, even more fiercely than before, “not well begun! Dog!

I will blazon out your villainy to the broad world! your crime shall not succeed—your
baseness shall not screen you! Two victims you have slain already; the third I will
rescue from your clutches. Listen—now listen: a short life shall you drag out here!
a short life and a wretched; scorned and despised of all men, abandoned by your God!
For when your soul shall turn toward Him, the spirit of my Alice—my Alice, whom you
have so foully murdered, shall stand between you, and screen the light of his forgiveness,
and shut you out from mercy, condemned—by your own conscience, the basest
and the blackest thing that crawls. And, when you die, the very fiends shall cast you
out from among them, too vile and villainous for their companionship. Now then,
begone! For the first time you have heard, this morning, what henceforth you shall hear
for ever—begone, I say, villain and slave! Make me rid of the contamination of your
presence!”

“It is well for you,” exclaimed Wyvil, as savagely as the sense of guilt detected,
and despair, and frenzy can drive a man to exclaim even against his conscience—“it
is well for you that you are an old man, and her father; else”—and he clenched his fist,
and shook it in the air, as he turned to leave the room.

“Ha, dog!” shouted the old man—“Ha, dog! dost thou dare threaten? Then,
old man as I am, I will put thee to shame. Ha! ha! the old man will strike thee!
Without there—Gregory, Charles, Martin—come all! come all! I say, and see me strike
him!” and he rushed fiercely forward as if to clutch him. But there was still enough
of grace and manhood left in Wyvil, that he awaited not the onslaught of the aged
mourner, but darted quickly through the door, closed it behind him, and rushing down
the passage, met the man Charles, who, faneying that he was called only to show him
forth, did so in scorn and silence. As soon, however, as he had seen Wyvil out of the
gates, and had satisfied himself that no one of the household had observed him, he hurried
back to his master's room; for he had heard his voice raised so far above its natural
pitch, and had caught words of passion so unusual, that he almost feared some catastrophe.
He reached the door, and as he was about to knock for admission, his worst
apprehensions were confirmed, by the appearance of a thin narrow stream of some
dark fluid, trickling slowly over the sill and dabbling the rich carpet. Without a
moment's pause he rushed in, half beside himself with terror—under his feet there was
a pool—a veritable pool of blood; and in a large armed-chair, half-seated and half
lying on the table—as if he had fallen, and with an effort struggled up again—was the
good, gentle scholar; his thin white hair, splashed with the gory witness, and his pale
lips crimsoned with the tide, which in that ecstacy of anger, had flowed from his vitals.

At first, the servant believed that he was already dead; but as he raised him gently to an
erect position, he perceived that the rush of blood had for the most part ceased, and
that, though very weak and faint, he was still alive and sensible; for as he met his eye,
a faint smile played over his wan face, and he seemed about to speak.

“Hush, hush! my master, my dear honored master! Hush thee till I call help, and
all shall yet be well.”

“No, Charles,” the dying man said very feebly, and at each word a little blood again
oozed from the corners of his mouth—“no, do not go; I shall be dead directly—and I
have much—much that I would say!”

“Curse on him—curse on him!” exclaimed the servant; “he hath done this, the
villain, and I not near to aid thee, my master!”

“No, you are wrong; no, Charles!” Selby gasped even more faintly than before
“not he, not he—my own rash wicked passion. Remember this—promise me that
you speak no word of his being here to any one but General Henry—and tell him what
I say. Promise, Charles—promise me—you did not use to disobey.”

“And will not now—I promise thee;” cried the man, as distinctly as he could, in the
intervals of his tears.

A gleam of satisfaction brightened across the face of his dying master.

“Let Alice never know it—remember! Oh, Lord receive my spirit!” His speech
now came in gasps, and the blood gushed out constantly, so as almost to choke him.

“Tell—tell—” he hiccoughed with a mighty effort—“tell her—that I died—blessing
her!” The two last words he enunciated clearly, as though he no longer felt either
pain or weakness; and, with them, he rose to his feet, stretched his arms upward,
and, as if answering some summons heard by his ears alone, “I come!” he cried, and
fell gently backward on the breast of his faithful follower. The good man had gone
to his account!