University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.

A WEEK had passed since Alice dispatched her letter, to which she had received no
answer, save in the report that shortly reached her ears, and the positive announcement
that soon followed the report, of the approaching marriage of Major Wyvil and the fair
Isabella Oswald. Soon after this announcement had become public, and the busy
world had ceased to marvel at the less than nine-days wonder, she had received a visit
from the grateful girl herself; who, full as she was of her own hopes, and fears, and
happiness and gratitude, could not but notice and deplore the ravages which the few
days, since they had met, had made upon her lovely benefactress. The cough was
now almost incessant, and visibly painful to the sufferer; the hectic glow was fixed
and constant; the ghastly glitter of the eyes, once so soft and tender, was now unnatural
and terrible; and the emaciation of her whole frame frightful to look upon, the light
seeming almost to shine through the delicate and slender hands. Yet was she kind, as
she had ever been, and thoughtful, and more attentive to the feelings of any one than
to her own. She received Isabella with an evident and unfeigned joy; congratulated
her upon the prospect of her future bliss; wept over her, and kissed her, fondly as a
sister; and ere they parted, she called her maiden, and sent for a little case of morocco,
containing a small set of beautiful and costly diamonds, which she put into her hands,
saying, “They were my dear mother's, Isabella; and though the setting is old-fashioned,
the stones are of a good water, and the devices have been much admired. I
shall never wear them, and I have none dear to me to whom to leave them; do me the
kindness then, to take them and wear them at your bridal—when you look on them,
they will serve, at least, to remind you of one who will be far from this world, long
before you have wakened from your first dream of married bliss.”

“As if, by any means, or ever, I could forget you—forget one to whom I owe everything.”

And with the words they embraced each other, and wept burning tears each on the
other's bosom, until Madame de Gondi entered, and insisted that Alice should not be so
agitated any longer; and with one last embrace, those strangely-made friends parted.

A week had passed, and the morning had arrived on which they two were to be
made one. It was a clear and lovely sunrise as ever shone out of the heavens; there
had been a slight touch of frost on the preceding night, and the atmosphere was clear
and limpid, and the sky blue, as though it had been the month of June instead of
November, and yet the air was from the westward, soft and balmy—for the warmth of
the sunbeams had already touched the earth, and dispelled the hoary rime; and a few
birds, the last of Autumn's songsters, were chirping merrily, forgetful that the genial
days had indeed flown, and that this, which wore their semblance, was but a loiterer
in the lap of winter. Everything wore a bright and cheery aspect; the very sparrows
in the gutters and on the housetops, little smoke-dried and dingy effigies of birds, were
twittering their hymns of rejoicing, at the pleasant time, and appeared more than half
inclined to anticipate the season, and commence their loves and courtships.

There were few hearts, perhaps, in that great city, even of the neediest and most unhappy,

but derived some gratification from the uncommon beauty of the weather; but
there was one to which neither that cause, nor many others, which would have been the
sources of much joy to most men, brought anything that could be properly called pleasure,
much less content or happiness. That one was Wyvil. Young, handsome, ardent,
brillian; of intellect; endowed with that nervous temperament whence springs the keenest
appetite for excitement; well esteemed by his comrades, rapidly rising in his profession,
the envied bridegroom of the richest and the fairest girl in Paris—Marmaduke
Wyvil was not happy; and that, too, on his bridal morning. Alone he sat in his large
chamber—alone and in that chamber, as he surely thought, for the last time. His morning
meal lay on the board scarcely touched, although it had consisted of the choicest
delicacies of the French kitchen; but a large flask of Burgundy stood nearly emptied
at his elbow, with a tall drinking-glass drained to the very dregs—while, in an easy
chair beside the hearth, a rich furred dressing-robe cast carelessly about him, and his
unstockinged feet thrust into his embroidered slippers, with a sad, listless, wandering expression
in his eye, and his whole air uncommonly depressed and altered, sat the young
cavalier. Several times during the morning, his favorite servant had come in with various
articles of splendid clothing, which, after somewhat ostentatiously displaying, as if
in the hope to catch his master's eye, he had arranged upon the chairs and sofa. But,
if such were his motive, he had failed utterly—although, in good sooth, the articles
which he from time to time arranged and disarranged, only, as it would appear, for the
pleasure of arranging them again, were of a beauty and richness that might have fixed
the gaze of a colder and a wiser man than the young soldier, who so listlessly surveyed
them. There was the shirt of the finest cambric, with frills and ruffles of Mechlin lace,
such as a duchess now would envy; there was the long cravat, with its deep edge of
point d' Espagne; the snow-white silken hose, with their embroidered clocks of silver;
the hauts de chausse and jerkin of white watered taffeta, laid down upon the seams with
silver cords; the short cloak of blue velvet, lined with white satin and dusted with seed
pearls; the court sword, with its hilt, and sheath, and baldric, all white to match the
dress, and studded, like the cloak, with pearls. The very hat, and plume, and shoes,
with their huge satin roses, were in accordance with the rest of the habit, and composed
as magnificent an apparel as could be worn by the most splendid cavalier in those days
of profuse expenditure and gorgeous decoration. Yet, though by no means indisposed
to splendor, or inaccessible to the vanity of personal appearance; much to the wonder
of his assiduous valet, Wyvil took no note of the glittering raiment, nor seemed to be
aware that the hours were passing rapidly. Three different times Clement addressed
him with entreaties that he would suffer him to arrange his hair, and that he would begin
to dress; but each time he was repulsed sharply; until, at last, getting quite out of
patience—

“Well, Master Marmaduke,” said the man, “I have been praying you to array yourself
these two hours and better; and there, the clock of St. Germain l'Auxerrois is
chiming ten of the morning—and here comes Monsieur de Bellechassaigne. Now, if
you mean to be married to-day, after all, you must needs get up and dress you—and
little time enough left you to do it.”

And while he was yet speaking, a hasty, firm footstep came up the staircase, and
the clash of a rapier jingling against the steps, mixed with the burthen of a light French
love-song, chanted in a rich manly voice. As if ashamed of his delay, and not wishing
to be caught in so disconsolate a mood, Marmaduke now resigned his head to the care
of his experienced valet, enduing at the same time his comely limbs with the almost
transparent hose which he had so neglected till this moment. Now, however, he made
some passing comment on the fineness of their texture; but it was all too late to appease
the offended dignity of his servant, who maintained a stately silence—when the door
flew open and in rushed Bellechassaigne, full dressed, as became the friend and supporter
of the bridegroom.

“Bon dieu!” exclaimed the partisan, as his eye fell on Wyvil; “only beginning
now to dress! Ten thousand thunders! we shall be all too late. And, my life on it! if

you are half a minute behind-hand, the marriage is at an end for ever—and for that
matter, I should not wonder if that old Amadis, Sir Henry, were to insist on running
us both through the body!”

“Nor I, upon my honor,” answered Wyvil gloomily, “even if we are in good time.
I cannot tell wherefore it is—but there is a strange shadow over me this morning, and I
am certain some ill will befall me before nightfall!”

“Tush! man, cheer up your love-sick wits! You, Marmaduke Wyvil—you desponding!
You, at whose luck all Paris is wild with astonishment, and green with envy!”

“I wish to God! all Paris had my luck then,” answered Wyvil: “they are quite
welcome to it, I am sure.”

“What, in the devil's name, does your master mean, sirrah?” exclaimed Bellechassaigne,
turning short round upon Clement.

“Master has been this way, sir, all the morning; but for my soul, I cannot divine
wherefore;” answered the man, shrugging his shoulders.

“You cannot—ay! a pretty fellow you are to call yourself a gentleman's gentleman;
God-'a'-mercy!” cried the gay young man, with a laugh. “So, as I shall cut both
your ears off in five minutes, if he is not better, I advise you to bring out instantly two
flasks of his very best champagne, and two of his biggest goblets—do you hear? for we
must try to cure him.”

“Yes, sir, I hear;” replied the man, without desisting from his sedulous attention to
Wyvil's flowing curls. “Are you without there, Peter? bring two flasks of the dry
sillery and the large beakers!”

The order was obeyed immediately, and, twisting the wire off the neck, Bellechassaigne
uncorked one bottle, and at once decanted the whole of its creaming contents
into the two large beakers, and forcing one upon Wyvil, drained his own at a draught.

“Very passable wine that, on my honor;” said he, laughing. “Ah! you feel better,
I perceive, already; there is a twinkle beginning to steal into the corner of your eye—
by the time you have quaffed the other, you will be all right. Oh, none of your
remonstrances! here, down with it—it is not altogether so very difficult to swallow.
Now tell me honestly—do not you think yourself the most ungrateful dog in Europe, to
be railing thus at your bad fortune, when you have won the heart of the finest and most
difficult girl in all France; and gained, by witchcraft people say—and by the Lord I
half believe it! her father's leave to wed her? I wish—wish, did I say? I would give
ten years of my life, if I could prosper in my wooing—and yet my sweet little Annette,
God bless her! loves me as truly as I do her; and her good father, the excellent old
Marquis of St. Eloy, affects me well enough; and all would do very well, I fancy, if it
were not for that infernal old she-dragon—whom for his own sins, and mine too I suppose,
he took to wife when Annette's mother had been dead some six years. Poor
devil! he is sorry enough for it now—but little good that does me, or will do me, unless
she will make a stolen match of it; and that she never will, I am certain.”

By this time Marmaduke—between the effects of the wine he had drank and his
friend's lively raillery—had partially recovered his natural character and spirits, and
began to talk in a gay strain, though it might be seen that it was not without an effort;
while Bellechassaigne, whose buoyance of manner, springing from a free heart and a
mind unconscious of any serious wrong, nothing could check, continued ratting on in a
style that soon delivered Wyvil's mind from the gloomy notions which had possessed
it during all the morning.

“By heaven!” he said, as Marmaduke, who was now fully dressed, with the exception
of his hat and short cloak, was knotting on the baldric of his rapier—“by heaven!
that is an exquisite device—that pure white suit; and admirably will the rich mazarine
blue of the cloak relieve it. So, Clement, so! a little more this way, more over the
left shoulder; that is it. Now the hat and the gloves; ay! that is it. A very perfect
cavalier in faith! I do not think the fair Isabella hath any right to complain. Faugh!”
he added, looking contemptuously down upon his own gay and tasteful garb—“Faugh!
my knave tailor has decked me out like one of your English Mayday mummers, whom

you talk about—and yet, I thought it not so much amiss, before I saw yours. There is
something singular, original, and most appropriate about that plain white silk.”

“You do yourself and your tailor wrong, Bellechassaigne,” replied Wyvil, smiling;
“the peach-colored linings of your trunk-hose and doublet suit admirably well with
the deep violet; and the embroideries of your cloak and baldrick are, to my taste, of
an absolute fancy. Here Clement,” he continued, tossing a full purse to the man,
“divide that with your fellows, keeping the lion's share yours; and hark ye—when the
wedding's over, see all my mails, and armors, and the like, removed to Sir Henry
Oswald; and then I would advise you to come hither, and get as drunk as possible
with all that is left in the cellar, before the landlord pounces on it. The furniture I
give to you, for yourself. You go to church with me.”

“Surely, sir, surely,” replied the servant with a low how, I am all dressed except my
coat, and Gregory and Peter are in their new liveries with favors; we will be ready in
a moment—Sir Henry's coach has not come yet.”

They had not long to wait, however; for, before many minutes had clapsed, the state
coach of the wealthy baronet, all crimson velvet, and rich gilding, and plate glass,
drove up at the door; and Marmaduke with his friend instantly entered, and proceeded
to their destination—with twenty or more of their body servants, gallantly arrayed and
mounted, following close behind. They were not long in reaching, although they
drove but slowly, the house of the English baronet; before the door of which thirty
or forty carriages, and at least three hundred mounted servants, with led horses for
their masters, were assembled. A great crowd had collected, even before the arrival of
the bridegroom, and a still larger had come up with the carriage that conveyed him; all
the innumerable loiterers and idlers of the streets having fallen into a sort of rude procession,
partly from curiosity, and partly in the hopes of coming in for a share of the
largesse, which was still in some cases distributed; although, like other usages of the
fuedal times, this custom was fast falling into desuetude. The persons of both these
young officers were familiar to the people—and the high character which they bore,
as daring partisans, continuedly courting peril, had rendered them especial favorites;
so that as they descended from the vehicle, a loud shout arose from the multitude, and
was repeated several times, even after they had passed out of sight into the vestibule
of the mansion; until a strong body of mounted police came up at a trot, and dispersed
the people—the government being, at that period, extremely jealous of any gathering
concourse, as well they might, from their experience of Parisian mobs at the barricades,
and other tumults of the Fronde.

The whole suite of apartments was thrown open, and many guests of dignity and
rank were assembled of both sexes, to witness the signing of the contract, and partake,
as was the custom of the day, a splendid banquet or collation previous to the performance
of the sacred rite, which was to render that contract indissoluble; and which,
in this case, was to take place in the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris.
Many there were in that gay crowd, of splendid form and stately presence; nor did
these forms lack setting off by all that can be fancied of sumptuous and rich in garb
and garniture: but so near were the two young men, who now entered as principals in
that which was about to happen—the bridegroom, namely, and his friend—to the persection
of high manly beauty, that there was a brief pause in the conversation, followed
by a low hum of admiration. They had scarce entered the saloon, however, and interchanged
a few words with some personal acquaintances, when Sir Henry advanced
from an inner room to meet them, and shaking his intended son-in-law cordially by the
hand, conducted him with his friend to the withdrawing-room, where the fair bride
awaited them.

Having no mother, on whose care and tenderness to rely at this trying moment, Isabella
Oswald was supported only by a bevy of young and lovely girls; but among these
were numbered several, whose names stood highest among the high-born daughters of
her adopted land; yet young and lovely as they were, they only seemed to act as foils to
the superior beauty of the bride. Whether in form or face, it would be scarcely possible

to fancy anything that could have surpassed the splendor of her whole appearance on
that eventful morning. All that at other times had seemed objectionable in her peculiar
style, was so subdued and softened down, that no one, how severely critical soever,
could have demurred to her air, her carriage, or her aspect. The full black eyes, that
could at times so boldly and so brightly lighten on beholders, were now suffused with a
soft languor, and half seen through their long dark lashes, expressed no sentiments but
those of maiden modesty, not all unmixed with tenderness, and awe at her new situation.
The haughty curve of her imperial mouth, was melted down to a slight dimple
—the proud elevation of her queenly neck was meekly lowered. All seemed to betoken
the sweet conscious love, and gentle bashfulness of a young happy maiden. Her black
luxuriant ringlets fell down in a rich maze on either side of her face, until their longest
curls rested in beauteous contrast on her snowy bosom; but at the back of her head
the hair was collected into a thick classical knot, encireled by a wreath of orange
flowers, from which the bridal veil, of Brussels point, flowed down in ample draperies
to her feet. Above her fair and regal brow, she wore a small tiara of splendid diamonds
in a rare antique setting, the gift of Alice Selby; and all the body of her dress, from
the downward curve of her sweet bosom to the girdle which encompassed her slender
waist, gleamed like a cuirass of the same inestimable gems—for so thickly were they
strown upon it, that not half an inch of the material could be discovered; although that
material, of which the robe was formed likewise, was a superb brocade of silver and
white damask, with a long train above it of snow-white velvet, bordered with cloth of
silver, and looped with knots of pearl. The falling sleeves exposed the whole of her
exquisitely moulded arms and fairy hands, ungloved, and glittering with the choicest
gems. She was, indeed, for beauty, one in ten thousand.

What wonder, then, that Wyvil—fickle and most impulsive ever—should once again
forget the less commanding charms of Alice, and yield himself a willing slave, and
dream of endless bliss in the possession of so rare a being; when even Bellcchassaigne,
the bold, light hearted, reckless, and unimaginative soldier of the day, was so deeply
struck, not by her gorgeous beauty only—for that he had seen many a day unmoved
before—but by the whole tone and style of her subdued and chastened loveliness, that
he bowed his knee to her as he approached, and hesitated, and was embarrassed like
an awkward, inexperienced youth, on his first presentation to some mighty monarch;
and scarcely could find words to express his sincere congratulations and kind wishes.

Much time, however, was not given to him for consideration; for the ceremony of
reading, signing, and witnessing the marriage contract in due form, was instantly commenced;
and, as this duty for the most part lay with him, until it became necessary for
the parties to affix their siguatures, he was withdrawn from their vicinity, and Marmaduke
eagerly seized the occasion offered him of whispering some words of passion, and
of tender encouragement into the ears of her, whom, for the moment, he did really believe
he loved beyond all others of her sex. The time arrived, and each in turn took
up the pen, and applied it to that powerful and binding document. But here it was observed
by Bellechassaigne, that while the signature of Isabella was affixed in a clear,
beautiful Italian hand, perfectly steady and unbroken, the name of Wyvil was scarcely
legible; but feeble, blotted, uncertain, and betraying singularly, as he thought afterwards,
a mind embarrassed and uneasy; although his ordinary signature was in a bold and
dashing style.

This ceremony finished, the bride was led out to the banqueting-room by her father,
Wyvil giving his hand to the first, and Bellechassaigne taking charge of the second of
her bride-maidens. The rest followed as they might—and all were marshalled to the
splendid board, and the feast was spread, and the rare wines were filled out into brimming
bumpers, and toasts were quaffed, and all was mirth and joy. But when that
mirth began to wax uproarious, and the attention of the guests was diverted somewhat
from the bride, her father gently withdrew her from the table—her bridemaids and a
few of the more immediate friends of the family rising and following, with Marmaduke
and Bellechassaigne, and handed her to the carriage in waiting to convey them to the
church.

The lamps were burning at the high altar in the superb cathedral of Notre Dame, and
near it, in his grand sacerdotal robes, with his inferior clergy round him, stood the Archbishop
of Paris himself, to perform the sacred rite, and administer the sacrament—one
of the holiest in the Roman ritual. A few spectators had assembled in the body of the
building; and, as is ever the custom in Roman Catholic churches, several groups were
kneeling here and there, at the various shrines, quietly and devoutly praying in their
own hearts, and observing nothing of the gay party that came up the chancel, with rustling
robes, and waving plumes, and all the pomp of this world's blithest pageantry.
Among the spectators was a tall young man, with a fine brow and very intellectual face,
to whom, she knew not why, the eyes of Isabella were attracted as by a species of fascination.
He was dressed very plainly, in a suit of dark brown velvet, slashed in a few
places with black satin, and embroidered with black lace—a taffeta scarf, of the same
color with his pourpoint, supported his long horseman's sword, and he had boots and
spurs upon his feet, as if he had just dismounted from his horse. It was nothing, therefore,
in his garb that riveted Isabella's notice, for that was nothing but the habit of an
ordinary gentleman; nor, to say truly, was it his personal appearance cither; for, though
a very handsome man, he was not to compare with Wyvil in beauty of face or feature;
while his figure, although perfectly well-made and symmetrical, was more athletic, and
certainly less graceful. There was, however, something in his countenance which both
attracted and disturbed her—an air of calm and majestic dignity, with a character of
benevolence and goodness palpably breathing out from every feature; but as her eye
met his, she fancied, at the moment, that there was in it likewise an expressien of interest
and pity for herself, which she could not at all comprehend or fathom. All this
passed in an instant, for Isabella withdrew her glance as soon as she saw that the stranger
noticed it; and still more to her astonishment, on looking round to Wyvil, she perceived
that he also seemed to recognzie that calm and grave spectator, and to be discomposed
and embarrassed by his presence. Meantime the services commenced; and as
they did so, a carriage stopped at the great door, attended by one or two servants in
liveries of green and gold. Two female figures, one a lady evidently, and the other as
it seemed, a soubrette or uttendant, issued from it; and the former, leaning on the other's
arm, came up a side-aisle quickly but silently, to a spot whence they could command
a view of the proceedings—near to the stranger who stood there, but separated
from him by the base of a great clustered column, which hindered either party from
discovering the presence of the other. Meantime, the ceremony went on; and still,
strange as it may appear, the eyes of Isabella, guided by some anaccountable and irresistible
impulse, were drawn furtively toward that grave spectator; and still she saw that
his clear, passionless glance was fixed upon her, full of a soft compassion; and above
all, she perceived that he who was soon to be her lord and husband, was overawed and
crestfallen, and actually trembled under the observant gaze of that mysterious person—
and well he might, for it was Henry Chaloner!

So heavily did this strange sense grow on her mind, with a dim presentiment of evil,
that she too was very greatly troubled; and half repented the irrevocable step which she
was taking, and half began to wish that something might occur to hinder it—a thousand
things which she had barely noticed when they happened, now coming vividly upon
her memory, and filling her with strong doubts and suspicions as to the faith of Wyvil.
Still she mechanically knelt, and rose, and knelt again, and made the due responses,
until she was yet more distracted by the sound of suppressed sobs and stifled weeping,
which was now heard by all the party, and that so sensibly, that every eye was turned
to the quarter whence it came. The service had now reached the point after which
there can be no change—no retraction more, for ever, unless death shall divide whom
God hath joined together; and the tremendous adjuration was even now upon the lips
of the archbishop, when the veiled lady sank with a deep sob forward on the pavement,
the black gauze falling off which had concealed her features, and disclosing the pale
inanimate face of sweet Alice Selby! and at the same time, the girl who had accompanied
her uttered a piercing shriek, and cried aloud—

“Help! oh, help my dear young lady—she is dying!”

All in a moment was confusion. At such a sight Wyvil's first, truest—only true
passion returned with all its ancient force; and leaving his fair bride, forgetful of all
else but that dear fainting girl, he darted forward to assist her whom he had so shamefully
deserted, exclaiming—

“Look up! look up once again, MY Alice!”

But as he stooped to raise her, his shoulder was seized by a stout heavy grip, and the
deep rich voice of Chaloner rang in his ear—

“Back, villain! it is thou that hast done this thing! Back, I say! tempt me no farther!”

At this moment the archbishop closed his missal, seeing at once the cause of what
had happened. But Wyvil, as he felt himself thrust firmly backward, remembered himself
a little, and shaking off the grasp of Henry, said fiercely—

“You shall answer me for this, General Chaloner.”

“Begone!” said the other, with an expression the most bitterly contemptuous; and
turning round, he beheld Alice Selby supported in the arms of the noble Isabella, her
face literally watered with the burning tears that fell from the eyes of her late rival, and
covered with eager kisses from that fair mouth, no longer haughty or imperious, but
tender and affectionate as that of a young mother.

“Thanks! gentle lady,” exclaimed Chaloner—“thanks for myself, and my poor
cousin: a thousand thanks for your kindness. But suffer me to bear her to the carriage.
I knew not that she would come hither, but fearing that she might, I ventured to intrude
upon your ceremonial, which we have interrupted so inopportunely!”

“So opportunely rather, you should say, sir;” answered Isabella, as she rose to her
full height, resigning the unhappy girl to her protector. “I thank God for it! most
opportunely, in order to preserve me from a fate too dreadful.”

At this moment, Marmaduke, who heard not the words which were passing between
Chaloner and Isabella, advanced and offered her his hand, as if to lead her back again
toward the altar.

“No!” she said, bright indignation flashing from her eyes, and her beautiful lips
curling with utter scorn—“No! sir—I am no longer blinded—I can see all now! Ay,
all! everything! Well may you quail and cower! Begone! out of my sight! begone!
How dared you imagine that Isabella Oswald would brook baseness? How dared you
hope even, that Isabella Oswald would build up her happiness upon a sister's sorrow?
What fooled you to the fancy, that Isabella Oswald could entertain a feeling save of
disgust, and scorn, and loathing for a knave! a liar! and a traitor!”

“Brave hear!” said Henry Chaloner, looking admiringly on her fine form, dilated
as it was with generous ire, and her face glorious with the best heroisms of her sex—
“Brave heart and noble! how could I so misapprehend thee?” and with these words,
he bore away the still unconscious girl in his strong arms to her carriage—but Isabella
heard him not, nor paused, but turning from the baffled bridegroom, continued—

“Your pardon, Lord Archbishop! God, of his gracious mercy, has this day interposed
to save me from a doom, to which the most abhorred death were a luxury! Unto Him,
therefore, endless praise is due; and when I shall have schooled my heart by solitude
and prayer, most gratefully and humbly shall that praise be rendered. Meantime, my
lord, your pardon! Nay! father, nay!” she continued, seeing that angry feelings were
aroused, and angry words were bandied to and fro among the martial audience—“nay,
father, I insist—Monsieur de Bellechassaigne, I do intreat—de Rochefort, I command
you! This is my own deed, my own ground—and none but I shall answer it. Father,
you will not do your daughter—nor you, your cousin, de Rochefort—so foul and shameful
wrong, as to make her the theme of the vile world's scurril comments, the cause of
broil or duel! Besides, you must not do him so much honor! The swords of brave men
are for the brave and honorable; nor must they be degraded by the punishing of so low
knavery and treason! The world's scorn is the only whip for such men, and to that”—
she added, casting a look upon him, which, if looks could scathe, would have consumed
him where he stood—“to that, and his own guilty soul, I leave him!”

“By St. George! Isabella is in the right of it,” exclaimed Sir Henry, “and I will
have it so; and if I choose to overlook this insult in very scorn of the insulter, I think
no one will deem it wise to take up my quarrel, or hint that I know not what best to
consult for mine own honor!”

Not a word more was spoken, for Bellechassaigne and de Rochefort bowed in
silence; and with a haughty toss of her head, shaking off every thought of tenderness
or weakness, she swept on, unblighted by the brief gust of passion which had passed
over her, and vanished into air—heart-whole, and fancy-free. While, with the agonies
of hell itself alive at his heart's core—finding himself shunned equally by all, forsaken
even by his stanch friend, Bellechassaigne, and loathed by the very servants who
attended him; Marmaduke Wyvil threw a dark mantle over his wedding bravery, and
hurried back on foot, sullen and dogged, to his cheerless home.