University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.

Night had already fallen misty and dim over the great city, and all the evil things
that prowl the streets during the hours of darkness, were up and stirring. No lights
were seen in those days, even in the most public thoroughfares, except from the lamps
in the shop-windows, or the lanterns which hung over the gates of the better mansions,
save where some proud hotel or royal residence cast from its long range of illuminated
casements a lustre, as of day, into the gloom without. At ordinary times, one
of the brightest of these stately palaces was the Hotel de Gondi, but, on the night in
question, all its facade was steeped in darkness; even the lantern at the port cochere
had been left unlighted, in the great sorrow and disturbance which had fallen on the
household when Alice was brought home by Chaloner, and conveyed to the chamber
whence she was never more to issue living. It was, indeed, not a little singular, to
what a degree, during her short residence in Paris, the young English girl had won the
affections of all who came within the sphere of her attraction: there was not in the
Hotel de Gondi a menial, from the highest to the lowest, who did not mourn as if about
to lose a dear friend, when it was rumored in the household that she was surely stricken
beyond the power of man to save—beyond the hope of recovery. Yet so, in truth, it
was; for, as is oftentimes the case with the terrible disease that was destroying her, it
had worked secretly and silently, sapping and undermining the very throne of life,
scarcely suspected until the last moment. That morning when she set forth to the
church, though any eye could have discovered that she was dangerously, perhaps, incurably
ill; no one could have doubted that there were weeks, perhaps months, or even
years of life in that delicate attenuated frame; nor, although well aware that she was
dying, had she herself entertained the least suspicion that her hour was so near at hand.
But, when she had been brought home, and recovered from her death-like swoon, it
needed not the sentence of the leech to prepare the minds of the beholders; for the
seal of approaching dissolution was stamped on her brow visibly, and she herself
declared that she knew certainly, and felt that her days were numbered, and her hours
fast dwindling into minutes. Much has been written to no purpose, if it is necessary
now to say that, for her, death had no terrors; that he came on her, not in the guise of
the cold and terrible destroyer, but of the mild consoler—the healer of all mortal sorrows—the
guide destined to introduce her to a holier and happier land. Her worldly
business had been all arranged—she had no cases to vex her parting moments, no earthly
passions, no strong mortal ties to render her pure spirit reluctant to depart; she had
lived always as one who was assured that this night her soul might be required of her,
and now that the hour had arrived for her, whose coming no man knoweth, she was
filled not with dread, anxiety, or doubt, but with an humble joy—a confidence of hope
that rested on the Rock of Ages. As soon as she had recovered the full mastery of
her senses, after the shock which scattered them so rudely, she asked for the venerable

clorgyman who had officiated at her dear father's funeral; and when he came, stretching
out her hand, with a tranquil smile, she said—

“I have to trouble you again, good Doctor Markham, a little sooner than I had
dared to hope. I have sent for you to pray with me, and if you find me in a fitting
state, to administer the holy sacrament before I go hence.”

And, while he stayed with her, so fully satisfied was he with her condition, that he
was wont, so long as he lived, to refer to that Christian death-bed, as, out of many terrible
and awful scenes which he had witnessed, the one which, by its bright and tranquil
lustre, sufficed almost to efface from his memory the combined horrors of the rest.
After about two hours, during which she remained alone with the good man, she
requested to see her friends—Madame de Gondi and Henry Chaloner especially; and on
their coming, she told them in a few brief and touching words, that knowing her own
hour near at hand, she wished that they should know it likewise; and not sorrow, but
rejoice as she did.

“And now,” she said, when with a voice unfaltering, and a clear eye, she had made this
announcement; “let us talk pleasantly and calmly, as it befits friends to do, who have
many things to say to each other before parting—one, to set forth on a long and distant
journey; the others to await, yet awhile, the day and hour set for their departure.
My own mind is made up fully to the change; and, though it may be hard to part
from some we love, exceeding great is the reward. I am sure, therefore, that you will
restrain your griefs, that you may not disturb that serenity which, I thank Him who
gives it, now reigns in all my spirit.”

Madame de Gondi strove to speak, but she could only press her hand in silence.
Yet her tears, though they could not be restrained, flowed silently; and she maintained,
at least, an outward semblance of composure, aided by the extraordinary self-command
of Alice, and by the almost stoical philosophy of Chaloner—who begged her to speak on,
and tell him all her wishes, which, to the very least, she might rest sure should be
obeyed, even to the letter.

“First then,” she said, “tell me what passed in the church, after I fainte!—that one
thing disturbs me—for I fear I did wrongly to go thither; and that I have frustrated all
my schemes. Is it so, Henry?”

“Remember, Alice,” answered Chaloner, “before I tell you anything—remember
that we can but propose schemes here, and that it is He who disposes them, as it may
seem good to His wisdom, which is omniscience. Remember also, that from the first
I disapproved of your plans, although I yielded to your wishes.”

“I do remember—I do,” replied Alice. “Now tell me—in any event I shall not
now repine—as far as concerns myself, I have done with the earth and its idols.”

“I will tell you. When you fainted, that man, whose name I will not trust myself to
mention, left his place by the side of Isabella, and rushed toward you, with words on
his lips, that proved to all who heard them, that he had been in the very act of deliberate
perjury! When your fall, and the discovery of your face, saved him from that dread consummation
of his crimes, the archbishop refused to proceed with the ceremonial; and
Isabella Oswald so cast him off from her, when he fain would have led her back to the
altar, as shows that her heart is whole, and that no weak regrets will make her duty
painful.”

Alice listened attentively to every word he spoke; and, as he ceased, she drew a
deep breath, and then paused for some time, her lips moving slightly as if she syllabled
a prayer.

“Amen!” she said at last; “His will be done! yet I had hoped it might be otherwise.
What were the words he spoke?”

“Words, Alice,” Chaloner replied, “which clearly showed that, while he was standing
at God's altar to wed one woman, his heart was with another. He called you his!
his Alice!”

A faint brief flush came over the pale face of the dying girl; but like the summer
lightning, ere you could say—look! look! how beautiful! 'twas fled.

“Is it indeed so?” she said thoughtfully, “then is it for the best; for she is not the
woman to brook divided love. Frail creatures! how frail are we all, and easily misled
even in our best interests, and purest motives! There, in the wish of doing good, was I
near making one noble creature wretched, and one most guilty! Alas! alas! and perhaps
even then, when I thought myself most passionless, it was the most of earthly
passion that dimmed my mental vision, and clouded my more sober reason.”

“If it had not been so, dear Alice,” Chaloner soothingly replied, “you had been
more than mortal.”

She was again silent, and remained so for very many minutes, with her eyes closed,
and her hands folded on her bosom; and when she spoke again, her voice was considerably
weaker than before.

“It is gone,” she said, “it is past, and over—it was the last! Now, let us speak
of other things. That deed is worthless now—and the will, likewise. Is it not so?”

“Unless you wish to renew them without the conditions,” answered Chaloner,
“which if you desire it, can be done.”

“No:” she said, “I will not. Have you the will here, Henry?”

“I thought you might wish for it, therefore, I have.”

“That is well—let me see you burn it—my eyes are clear now, and, I believe, I see
the path of duty straight before me.”

She was obeyed immediately; and after she had looked at the document, it was
consigned to the flames and destroyed. Then she requested Henrictte to bring pens and
paper, and dictated a few words, brief and explicit, bequeathing everything to Chaloner,
with the exception of the one legacy. Having herself read them, she signed the paper
with a firm hand, and having seen it witnessed by Madame de Gondi and the good
clergyman, she handed it to Chaloner, with these words—

“May you enjoy it, as you will use it, well—and take care of my poor, for they will
miss me. I have, you know, left everything to your discretion; but there are many
things that I will pray you to do, as if I had named them in my will. You will keep up
the old house, Henry; and retain all the old servants, for my sake—when they became
too old, we even gave them little pensions, and if they wished it, a small farm or cottage—you
will do likewise. Poor Jeremy is growing old, likewise; you will look to
him. I have heard say, that good John Sherlock would wed our little Marian Rainsford:
if it be so, you will give her a dowry—at all events, the Stag's Head rent free, so
long as she will dwell there. I think she will not marry. There are more things—but
there comes a faintness over me at times, and I begin to grow forgetful—but your own
feelings will tell you what I would wish done.”

“I think so, dearest Alice,” he replied; “I know all your old clients, and you may
be quite sure that, so long as I live, they shall want nothing, but shall ever find a friend
and protector in their landlord; and, when I die, I will provide for their welfare.”

“Oh! you must leave them, as a sacred trust, as I do;” answered she, rallying again
a little—“as a sacred trust, to your son, Henry! For, when this grief is over-passed,
you must marry.”

But he shook his head sadly, and a grave shadow, as if of displeasure, settled down
on his features, and he turned his face to the wall, and answered nothing.

“Give me to drink,” said the sufferer—“give me to drink, Henriette, I am athirst and
faint. I would fain stay a few minutes longer here, if so it may be—I expect to see
one here, anon!”

“Give her some wine and water, lady,” said the clergyman; “it cannot hurt her
now, and may yield her some support:” and in a lower voice he added, “whom does
she think to see?”

“No one!” said Henriette, with great difficulty choking her tears; “her mind
wanders.”

“I think not,” replied the good man; “I never saw one clearer, or more conscious
to the last—God grant us all such death-beds!”

She drank, and seemed refreshed and strengthened; and, after lying tranquilly for
a few minutes, she raised herself a little up, and said—

“Now, it will be a painful scene for me to bear, and you to witness; but I should not
like to go hence without speaking to my poor English servants, and bidding them farewell.
They might well think unkindly of it, if I were to leave them in a foreign
land, without a word at parting. Henry, will you call my poor girl Margaret, and the
two men, Charles and Anthony—tell them to be as calm as possible, for noisy lamentation
would afflict me.”

He rose at once, and left the chamber, and in a minute or two he returned again,
leading himself the girl Margaret, who was pale as death, and seemingly upon the point
of fainting; yet kept her sobs down, and controlled her tears wonderfully through the
great love she bore her mistress; while the two men—stout, hardy and athletic yeomen,
either of whom could have felled an ox with but slight effort—followed, their knees
knocking together, and the big tears rolling down their cheeks, and moistening their
close curled beards.

“I have sent for you, my good friends,” she said, in a tolerably firm voice; “to take
you by the hand, and thank you for the good service you have done me—and done better
far than I—and to bid you farewell before I leave you! for I must leave you, and that
very shortly—I pray you, Charles, control yourself, or your grief will unsettle me. I
am sorry my friends, to leave you; but I leave you in kind and familiar hands—for
General Chaloner will be the master of all my estates; and, of his love for me, will
provide well for all of you who deserve well of him; and I doubt not that will be all of
you. God bless you, my good friends, and keep you! may you be good and happy.
And now, before I say farewell, I would pray you, if ever I have been fretful, or over-urgent,
or unkind to you, as I have doubtless been many times, that you will forgive!”

“Oh, no! oh, never! never!” exclaimed all three at once, as well as they could
speak for the tears and sobs, which now burst out all uncontrollable. “God bless you—
God preserve you, Mistress Alice! You fretful! unkind! you over-urgent! you, whom
no one of us, for all we have been greedy, lazy, and unthankful knaves, had ever heard
say one harsh word!” cried Charles.

“No! not unthankful, Charles,” said Anthony: “all else is true, but we are not
unthankful!”

“Indeed you are not,” answered Alice, now moved herself to tears; “nor lazy, nor
aught else but true and honest—but shake hands with me, and then say, farewell! for
this is almost too much for me. God bless you, and farewell! Good General Henry
will be soon your master.”

And the men grasped the two small feverish hands, and bedewed them with their
tears, and left the room in an agony of grief. Then she said—

“Kiss me, Margaret: you are a very good girl, and have been so to me, ever. I love
you very much, and I thank you very truly for all your goodness; especially in these
late days, since grief and trouble have lain heavy on me. Kiss me—farewell! whatever
Henry Chaloner can do to make you happy, I promise you, he will do. Now, if
you wish to stay to the last with me, sit down there—I can trust you to control yourself,
cannot I, Margaret?”

“Yes, Mistress Alice,” the girl answered, with a great effort; “I will be very quiet,
if you will let me stay with you:” and she walked with a tottering step to the farther
corner of the room, and sitting down, covered her face with her apron; and, though
her whole frame shook with the violence of her emotions, she uttered no sound that
was heard by Alice, or by any one of the watchers. After this agitating scene, Alice
again took a little wine and water, and soon afterwards sank into a calm and gentle
sleep, breathing as regularly as an infant, with a sweet smile on her lips, and an expression,
almost angelical, pervading all her features. More than once, each of those who
watched beside her, stole with a noiseless step up to the pillow, half-doubting, so quiet
was that slumber, whether she had not already passed away—but it was not so; and
after she had been asleep above an hour, and it was now drawing near to morning, a
light footstep was heard at the door, and a gentle hand touched the latch, but seemed
afraid to raise it. Madame de Gondi rose, and stole to the door, and opened it very

quietly—and there, to the astonishment of every one, stood Isabella Oswald, in all her
superb bridal attire, but with the trace of many tears upon her beautiful cheeks.

“I have been without,” she whispered, “these five hours and more, and can no
longer bear it! Let me stay here—I will not disturb you!”

Henriette led her in without a moment's hesitation, answering—

“I am glad you have come hither—I think she wished to see you, and had a sort of
prescient hope that you would come!”

“And is she indeed dying?” asked the agitated girl: “Oh! but this is too fearful:
Never! never shall I forgive myself!”

“Forgive yourself for what?” asked Chaloner, in the same low tone.

“For having ever seen him—for having ever listened to him. Had I not, she had
now been well and happy.”

“God knows,” said Chaloner, “and He only. But I think no one could have been
happy with that man; and I am quite sure no one could be happier than she. At all
events, it can be no blame to you, who never heard or dreamed of her existence. But
hush! hush! she is waking;” and as he said the words, she opened her eyes and
looked around her, but without seeming to notice any one.

“Oh!” she said, “I have slept so sweetly, and heard such heavenly strains, and seen
such glorious forms—all gold and azure;” and she seemed to ponder for a moment, and
then said, “It was a dream, but most delightful. All these things too, ere long, will be
as a dream likewise. Dear Henriette—dear Chaloner, I am very shortly going. I had
hoped to see Isabella; but—”

“I am here, Alice;” whispered the lovely girl, rising from her seat, which was
screened by the draperies of the bed. “I have been here all the time!” and kneeling
down beside the pillow, she buried her face in the clothes, and clasping her friend's
hand, wept bitterly.

“You do not weep for me, Isabella,” said Alice; “or if you do, truly you waste your
tears. I would not have it otherwise than it now is—no! not for anything that human
hopes can compass. I am happy! perfectly happy! and if aught was wanting, now
that you are here with me, that want is removed; for I wished, dearest Isabella, before
I did, to ask your pardon for the pain I have given you unwillingly. I meant, indeed,
to do well, and to sacrifice myself only; and lo! I have sacrificed you.”

“Sacrificed me!” cried Isabella, excited beyond all control. “Say, rescued me!
say, saved me from perdition! If you had not done as you have, I should have either
pined for his love, and so been wretched; or wedded him, and perished! Pardon me,
pardon me, Alice; my feelings are too strong for me. Oh God! oh God! what have
I done, that this burthen of your death should rest upon me? You! whom I saw so
fresh and lovely, not six weeks gone, entering the gates of Paris—you, whom I now
see dying!” and with the words she burst into a fit of violent and agonizing sorrow, so
loud and convulsive that the old clergyman arose, and signing to the others to sit still,
half led, half lifted her out of the chamber—but Alice looked at Chaloner, and said—

“Is she not noble—is she not noble?”

“Yes!” he replied; “very noble!”

“And so are you,” she answered very quickly, as if afraid that he would interrupt
her. “You two are the two noblest beings on the face of the earth. The noble should
mate with the noble—she in her great brave impulses; you in your grand composure!
Nay, do not interrupt me, Henry, nor shake your head so sadly. I do not say now, nor
to-morrow, but when this sorrow shall have passed away. It is my last wish—my last
earthly hope! I know she would make you happy—I know I would rather see her
mistress of my Woolverton than any woman living. There, do not answer me. Forgive
me if I have hurt you—think of it, and Heaven bless you!”

Chaloner did not answer her, but he sat and mused deeply; and though, at the time,
he thought of it as a wild fancy, and impossible, years brought to pass a change in his
feelings. Alice, whose strength had been failing rapidly, was quite exhausted by the
vehemence of her own late utterance; and, feeling that she was almost gone, cried—

“Henriette, Henriette—come to me quick—quick! quick!” and as she came, she
drew her down close to her bosom, and kissed her eyes and lips. “Thank you,” she
said—“may God deal with you as you have dealt with us! Bless you—farewell! Now,
Henry, kiss me—dear, dearest Henry! and Isabella—call her—where is Isabella?”

“Here,” she replied, as, having calmed herself, she again returned—“I am here,
Alice.”

“Where—where? I do not see you—my eyes are growing dim—your faces all are
leaving me! Where are you, Isabella?”

“Here, dearest,” she replied, taking her by the hand; “do you not feel me?”

“Yes; kiss me;” and as she stopped to do so, she tried to whisper, but spoke quite
loud, for her numbed ear had lost its sense: “If ever he ask aught of you, for my sake
grant it, Isabella.”

The beautiful girl had no clue whereby to guess her meaning, and fancied that her
mind was wandering, and that she thought of Wyvil; she made therefore no reply, but
pressed her hand in silence. Alice sank back at once upon the pillow; and though for
nearly half an hour she continued to breathe, she did not speak, or move, or unclose her
eyes any more—till suddenly she sat erect, and looking upward with a sublime and rapt
expression, cried out in a clear and musical voice: “Hush! listen! Do you not hear
the harp and the seraphic strains? Glory—glory be to God in the highest! Hush!
hush!” and with her arms extended, and her eyes radiant with a vision that, perhaps,
in that dread moment, pierced into realms beyond mortality, her pure soul passed away,
and the old clergyman saw that she was no more; and as she fell down on the bed, he
said in a high, sonorous tone, as if of triumph, “I heard a voice from heaven, saying
unto me, Write: from henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so
saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.”