University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

Several days elapsed after the funeral of her father, and Alice gradually, as it
appeared to those about her, regained not only her cheerfulness, but health. Her step
was firmer, her eye less wildly brilliant, and her complexion more natural in its hues,
and showing less of the hectic flush, which tells of latent fever. So much, indeed, did
she seem to amend, that a delusive hope had already begun to grow up in the bosom of
Madame de Gondi, and even, though to a less extent, of Henry Chaloner; yet, when
they hinted this to her, and spoke to her of pleasant projects for the winter, and of her
return to Woolverton with the early spring, she would only shake her head and smile—
but since the death of her father, it was remarkable that the smile had lost its grave,
if not melancholy character; and that although she was never joyous, or even gay, nothing
could be more remote from hopeless grief, or permanent yet uncomplaining sorrow,
than was the air of that lovely girl. She appeared, indeed, though she avoided
speaking on the subject, to be looking forward to her approaching dissolution with a
quiet confidence, and to regard it not as a thing to be deplored, but rather as a joyous
consummation. To the visits of the worthy surgeon she acceded readily, and to all
his medical measures she assented willingly; but, one day, when Chaloner, deceived
by one of those singular turns to which this terrible malady is subject, which was consuming
her, expressed his conviction that she was recovering—

“Do not,” she said, “deceive yourself, truest and best of friends; I never shall recover—nor,
indeed, do I wish it. I take all proper remedies—I submit to the precautions
of the leech, because I know it is my duty to await, not hasten, His appointed
time. But these matters do not deceive me; let them not mislead you, Henry. Moreover,
as I tell you, it is my earnest prayer evening and morning to Him, that when His
time is come, he will permit me to depart in peace, and join those that await me. Pray,
therefore, Henry, if you pray for me at all, that He will not give me life, but death—
which, for them that die in the Lord, is a boon far more blessed.”

After this conversation, no allusions more were made to the subject. Chaloner, now
admitted as an habitue of the family, passed much of his time at the Hotel de Gondi,
and things were falling gradually into the old routine, except, that as yet, no strangers
were admitted to the house of mourning; when late one evening, when Henry was
reading aloud to the ladies a tragedy of Corneille, a servant entered with a small note,
upon a silver salver, addressed in a feminine hand to Mistress Alice Selby. She opened
it without emotion, observing, as she did so—

“I knew not that I had a correspondent in this great city.” But, as she said it, she
was a little agitated, and blushed deeply; and then, asking for the pens and standish,
she wrote a few lines in reply, sealed it, and carefully handed it to the man, with instructions
to give it to the messenger who had brought the letter. This done, she rose
from her seat, and twisting up the note she had received, lighted it at the candle, and
then threw it among the hot wood ashes on the hearth. “It was a note,” she said, as
if imagining some explanation might be necessary, “from Isabella Oswald, asking permission
to come and see me soon.”

“And what did you say in reply?” asked Henriette.

“I told her to come as early as she could to-morrow. What little I saw of her the
other day pleased me very much, I confess, and that against my preconceived opinion—for,
though she is beyond doubt extremely handsome, there is something not altogether
pleasing in the style of her beauty, and her manners are at first extremely rough
and masculine. But she has clearly a fine heart and a noble spirit, and is as true and
upright as the heart of truth!”

“I have heard also,” said Chaloner, in reply, “and that, too, from one who knows
her very well—the excellent old Marquis de St. Eloy—that she is a most noble girl, the
very soul of honor. His expression touching her was, that she would not say a word
that was not true, or do a thing that she did not feel to be right, to win a world to her
feet; but what she considered true, and judged right, that she would say, and would
do, in despite of the whole world!”

“It is a fine character, truly,” said Madame de Gondi; “though not a woman's
character—at least, what I think a woman's character should be.”

“Not, perhaps, altogether,” replied Henry; “yet it is the distinction barely, the
shadow of a shade. The first part of his sentence is, of course, pure praise—no man
or woman either ought to say or do anything which they believe false, or evil, to win
an universe; and every woman ought to do, no less than every man, that which she
knows right, against a world's opinion. As to the saying all that she knows true, that
is a different thing—for many things may be true, and yet exceeding untimely—and
most untimely things, even untimely truths, do evil more than good. Still, perhaps,
Mistress Oswald's fault is more in the manner, than the matter; and, as Madame de
Gondi says, it is a very fine and noble character. I have heard some exceedingly great
traits and actions of her doing.”

“Pray tell me; I should like much to hear them,” exelaimed Alice

And without any hesitation, Chaloner proceeded to relate the adventure of Isabella
near Villeneuve St. George, and her spirited conduct in interposing between Marmaduke
and the punishment he had incurred in her behalf; and several other anecdotes,
displaying the same fearless generosity, and disregard of consequences, in the prosecution
of whatever she believed it right to carry out. Thus the night passed, until they
retired; and, the next morning, when Henriette descended to the breakfast-room, she
was informed that Mademoiselle Oswald had been engaged in private with Mistress
Alice for nearly two hours space, and had not yet departed. Almost at the same instant
the two girls entered; and, at once, Madame de Gondi perceived a peculiar air
of flashing joy and triumph on the dark fiery eye and proud features of Isabella, contrasted
by a calmer glow of happy satisfaction, that seemed to warm up the tranquil
face of Alice into more animation than it was generally seen to wear. Isabella tarried,
at her request, to partake the first, and perhaps most thoroughly social meal of the day;
and everything passed very pleasantly till Henry entered; soon after which, with an
excuse for having made so long a stay, the fair visitor withdrew.

“Now, cousin Henry,” said Alice, before the other could have reached the hall door,
“I want to have some talk with you on matters of grave business—about estates, and
rent-rolls, and life-tenures, and I know not what; and so, as these things are not very
entertaining to most people, we will leave our dear Henriette awhile, and go to settle
these matters in the library.”

The library was a large and somewhat gloomy room, the last of the suite of great
apartments, and opened by a side-door into the little chamber, which had been occupied
by her father; and it so happened, that except the servants, who had been especially
directed since the arrival of Mark Selby to alter the arrangement of nothing in
the library, no person had entered it since his death. As they went in, therefore, the
first thing that met their eyes was a pair of library-steps standing against one of the tall
book-cases, with a large folio volume lying open on the topmost ledge, where it had
been unquestionably left by the old scholar; and, as if to render this fact even more
certain, one of his gloves had dropt upon the floor, and still remained where it fallen,
probably on the very morning of his decease.

“Alas! alas! my father,” exclaimed Alice, as she saw it; and darting forward she
caught it up, and pressed it to her lips, and bathed it with her tears, and remained for
some time in great and speechless agitation. By degrees she recovered, however, her
self-composure, and sitting down by the great velvet-covered table—“This is no time,”
she said, “for weakness; and I have much to say to you and to do, cousin Henry, and
I require your assistance and advice. Therefore, without apology, I shall go to the

point at once. I am now, if I understand it rightly, since the event that we so much
deplore”—and her voice faltered, as she spoke—“sole and last heiress of Woolverton
Manor, Low Barnsley, and Thorpe Regis—Oakdale and Thorney Burn falling to you,
as next male heir—pray interrupt me, if I am wrong.”

“No,” he said, “you are perfectly right, Alice; all these are yours, in your own
right, and at your own sole disposal—you being last heir entail of the three manors first
mentioned.”

“And can I, by will, give the reversion of these three to any one Lchoose, Henry?”

“Surely you can, and could even, if you had children.”

“And if I were to die without any will?”

“Then Alice—but may God long avert the day—would they revert to me, as next
of kin and heir at law.”

“I thought so—I thought so,” she replied; “then, so far there is no will needed.
Now tell me, what are each of these three manors worth in annual rent? you used to
assist my poor father—tell me the value of the three.”

“Woolverton is the most valuable, yielding clear eighteen hundred pounds; Low
Barnsley is called twelve hundred, and Thorpe Regis nine—together, they are worth at
least three thousand.”

“Now tell me, Henry—can I, without assigning away the ownership of the soil, the
right of the land, the fee simple I believe they call it, order a sum to be paid annually
to any one I will, from the rents for a term of years, or for ever?”

“Surely, you can a rent charge for a term of years, or in perpetuity—that is quite
easy—but why not bequeath the estates at once, if you are resolved to do this now?”

“Because I do not wish it—I will not remove the ownership of one foot of land, or
the right of protecting one of the poor tenantry from him to whom it rightfully belongs.
Now listen to me, Henry—take up a pen and make notes of what I tell you. Find
me a good and honest lawyer, an English one he should be—can you do this?”

“Easily, my dear Alice—there are, I regret to say, too many English of all ranks
and professions here in Paris, banished from home by these sad civil wars, to make it
difficult to find soldier, or priest, or counsellor. I know a man who will do your bidding
truly, and I myself was long enough a templar, to see that he do so. Now then,
proceed.”

“Let him then draw up, with the least possible delay, my last will and testament.
It will be but a snort and easy one. I wish to bequeath all the lands, all the books, and
furniture, and plate—in short, everything to yourself; thinking you would rather receive
them as the affectionate bequest of a woman you love, than as the award of the law.
All the old servants of the family and pensioners, I likewise bequeath to your charity;
charging you never to permit them to want homes, or food, or raiment. To my dear
cousin Madame de Gondi, five hundred pounds to buy a diamond solitaire in memory
of her poor Alice! And now—now, dear Henry, comes the point of all! I fear that
you may not approve it—but still it must be so—and, if I grieve you by it, you will forgive
me, for that it is the first grief that poor Alice Selby ever caused you knowingly—
the second she ever caused you! Is it not so, dear Henry?”

“In the first place,” answered Chaloner, “I have no right either to approve or disapprove,
dearest Alice; and in the second, I do not see why you should suppose me
likely to disapprove—but, at all events, be quite sure, that as far as in me lies, I will do
your wishes.”

“This it is, then,” she went on quietly; “I wish to settle one thousand pounds per
annum upon Major Marmaduke Wyvil”—and again her voice failed her, so much that
she could hardly utter the words—“provided he marry Mistress Isabella Oswald within
one year from the date of the bequest—that thousand pounds to be chargeable on the
rents of Low Barnsley and Thorpe Regis—but if that sum cannot be raised, without
trenching on the revenues of Woolverton, then so much as the rents of the said manors
will produce; during the time and to the end of his natural life—or to his widow if she
should survive him, until the end of her life—that widow being the said Mistress Oswald—the

whole, after the death of both of them, to revert to yourself, Henry. I will
not ask you whether you think well or ill of this application of my property—for I know
that you cannot think well of it—and I will not put you to pain by compelling you to
say so. But I have thought much and deeply about it; and I have so many reasons for
devising it, and reasons which I cannot explain to you, but which are altogether satisfactory
to myself—which are based on a good motive—which will, I think, produce a
good end—and which, whatever be the consequences, will at least make me happy in
the contemplation of what I have done, while I remain here.”

“For me, Alice,” answered Chaloner, “the last reason is sufficient; beyond this I
will say nothing, except that I will go forthwith, and have your wish placed in train of
execution. Is there aught more that I can do?”

“Yes!” replied she, “there is! I wish a rent charge, or whatever you call it, of the
same amount, and on the same conditions, and chargeable upon the same estates to be
made, so as to be binding during my life-time, from this very date; for my object is to
give him that sum now, and secure it to him during his life, so as to bring about
his alliance with Isabella, whose father has refused his consent until Wyvil can show
that he has an income of the amount named. This deed I wish to give him, and it must
be so worded, as to leave it doubtful by what means it was obtained, or upon what
consideration.”

“Do you feel sure that you are doing well, Alice, in bringing these two persons
together, after all that has passed?”

“I think I do,” she answered—“I feel sure that I do; and I trust that I am not mistaken.
At all events, my intents are pure—the end of them is with Him who only
knows and governs all things. Will you assist me, and that presently?”

“Be sure I will!” said he, “I will go look to it directly.”

“And how soon can it be effected?”

“I think this very evening; but to-morrow at the latest.”

“Pray, then, let it be done at once; and when it is done, let your lawyer bring both
documents up hither forthwith to be signed. You and Madame de Gondi will, I doubt
not, be my witnesses. I thank you, Henry, for this is very kind.”

“Not kind at all,” said he, “it is a simple duty;” and with these words he left the
room, taking the notes, which he had made, along with him; but she continued some
little time in deep and solemn meditation.

“How very noble ever, and generous, and good and gentle!” she exclaimed at
length: “It is wonderful that I could not—that I cannot love him—wonderful, truly!
Oh, Wyvil!” and with a deep sigh she too arose, and leaving the deserted library, went
to join her cousin Henriette.