University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.

The morning had already broken, when Alice Selby passed into another world; and
the cold gray light of the early dawn was mingled in the chamber of the dead with that
of the waning lamps, which had burned all night long unheeded; and pale and haggard
with the excitement and the agitation of those trying scenes, were the countenances of
the weary watchers, and their hearts faint with care and sorrow. But now, when all
was over, they withdrew—the women to seek some repose, for they were absolutely
wearied out; and Chaloner to brood over the things that had passed, and to devour his
own heart in silence. For, self-subdued though he was, by a habit which had grown
upon him until it was now almost a second nature, his character had been originally
fiery and vehement, and prone to bursts of sudden passion; and it had cost him no small
labor or exertion to bring his temper under subjection to his reason. It was not his
passions only against which he had at this time to contend, although there was very
much to excite these in what had taken place, in the villainous, and, as he believed,
cold-blooded treachery of Wyvil, by which the man he most esteemed in the world,
and the only woman he had ever loved, had been brought, almost before his very eyes,
the one to an unnatural, the other to a most cruel and untimely death; and many times
his spirit had been strangely tempted to inflict summary and instant punishment upon
the traitor. But this was not all; for although Henry Chaloner was by no means a
fanatic, nor, in embracing the political creed of the Puritans, had adopted their intoleerant
and bigoted religious tenets, it must be remembered that a species of wild superstition
was a strong characteristic of the age, the country, and especially of the faction
to which he was attached. His own mind was naturally of an imaginative turn; and
how excellent soever, as related to fine arts and poetry, imagination may be deemed,
it is assuredly, when applied to religious matters, the most deceitful and dangerous of
attributes. Thus, though by no means a fanatic, neither a bigot nor a canter—neither

deluded by the jargon of the day nor a deluder of others, he had imbibed some strange
sentiments, and pondered over them till they had almost become opinions. No character
of mortal man can be perfect, and this was the darkest blot on Chaloner's: a
fancy had possessed his mind, long before the occurrence of the events which seemed
to stir that fancy into action, that men, their passions, and their very crimes, were instruments
of the Almighty to punish the faults and avenge the sufferings of others;
and farther, that there was a species of dark inspiration, a divine destiny, inborn and
felt within, compelling him who was its subject to the performance of whatever it suggested.
In his more calm and reasonable moments, when no extraneous influence
was brought to bear upon this perilous creed, he was wont half to doubt the nature
of this inspiration, and altogether to dispute, if not deny, its operation as justifying the
deeds of the individual. But now, with his passions all excited to the utmost, and all
bearing with concentrated power upon this weak point in his judgment, he was fearfully
disturbed, and strongly goaded forward to the perpetration of a deed which, had
he been one whit less strong in his religious creed, he would have surely considered it
his bounden duty to perform—the avenging, namely, with the sword the deaths of his
friends and kindred. That was an age when the duel was resorted to on the most
slight and trivial grounds—when no honorable man of the world would have dreamed
for an instant of omitting to call out a rival, on the most venial provocation, to the arbitrament
of blood—when no man whatever, unless a cripple or infirm by years, would
have admitted the possibility of refusing such an invitation.

Not one of these, however, was Henry Chaloner—his notions of religious duty were
by far too severe, his mind too firmly balanced, and his whole character too strictly conscientious,
to be deterred from doing that which he considered right, or to be led into
doing that which he thought wrong, by all the sophistry of the world united. Wronging
or insulting none, there was no risk that he should ever be called to account himself;
and proved as he was to be the bravest of the brave—tried in some six pitched battles,
and skirmishes almost innumerable—bearing the scars of eight wounds on his body, he
well could afford to overlook the arrogance of hopping courtiers, or the presumption of
boy-braggarts—and many a time he had done so; and, for a wonder! the world's opinion
had sustained him: and though he had treated with scorn only, more than one
petty insult, suffering the authors to creep off unpunished—not a doubt, not the shadow
of a shade hung over Chaloner's unblemished courage. This was a different case,
however, and far different did it work on his strong mind—strong even in its weakness.
He had seen his dear friend, the man to whom he had ever looked up as his father,
slain almost by the hand, indisputably by the deed, of this base person; whose treachery
had blighted also the best and brightest hopes of his existence. He saw the murderer
of both—escaped, at large, beyond the reach of any earthly punishment! His morbid
fancy pictured him, perchance, laughing in his secret soul over the ruin he had wrought;
and making mockery, with his wild companions, of her whom he had slaughtered by
the sword of her own best affections. He set his teeth hard, as the thought occurred
to him; and walked, grasping his sword-hilt, to and fro the room in fearful perturbation.
For, although when conversing with Madame de Gondi, his clear mind had rejected
the idea as absurd, of judging mortal happiness by the scale of mortal success; although
he could then distinctly see that this same man, this very Wyvil, must of necessity be
wretched even here; he could no longer satisfy himself with the same reasoning—he
could no longer obtain the same end. Wyvil seemed to him now the proud, triumphant
and exulting villain—the wretch escaped from all the whips of justice, beyond all reach
of mortal punishment. His mind was clear no longer—the cloud of passion had dimmed
its perception; and through that cloud, loomed up gigantically the monstrous combinations
of fantasy and superstition.

All that day long he fasted—no food had passed his lips since breakfast, on the previous
morning, nor any drink save water; nor had he closed his eyes in sleep—but
without sitting, or even pausing, he walked up and down the floor, with uneven and
irregular steps, lashing himself—while he believed even that he was pondering gravely—

into a species of solemn fury. The shadows changed upon the dial, and noon succeeded
morning, and the evening twilight darkened upon the afternoon; and still he strode
backward and forward, the rafters cracking under his heavy foot, and the old servants,
who had never witnessed such a move before since they had served him, marvelling
what should next be. Watching, and fasting, and the terrible excitement, when added
to the agony of grief, had for the time completely overmastered him. His better mind
was utterly obscured and hidden. He had at first striven, and for a little while successfully,
with the dark fantasy that crept upon him, whispering that he was the chosen
instrument, appointed from above, to wreak the vengeance of the Lord upon the secret
criminal. Had there been any human voice to speak to him, to back the small still voice
within—which, though half drowned by the trumpet-tongued suggestions of pride, and
wrath, and superstition, and the overwhelming sense of wrong, still feebly warned him—
he had come off victorious! As it was, more and more as hour succeeded hour, and
darkness came at last to add its gloomy influence to the sad colors that already steeped
his soul, the heavy superstition grew upon him, till he convinced himself at last—sad
truth! that it should be so easy, even for a good man, to convince himself that wrong
is right, and passion principle—till he convinced himself at last that it was a solemn
and a holy duty, enjoined upon him by a supernatural will, which he had neither right
nor power to resist; to call this murderer forth to the field of arms, and there to slay
him as a great sin-offering and sacrifice.

It may seem strange, that a mind so well balanced as that which I have represented.
Chaloner to possess, should have been mastered by so vain and absurd a superstition.
But we must recollect, that the age wherein these things occurred was an age of anomalies
and wonders; that men and women—wise men and virtuous women! in those
days did things, undoubtingly, unblushingly, which now would stamp them fools and harlots;
that mortal passions had the widest scope, and common sense and reason the least
sway; that fifty things were admitted and believed as truths, which the wisest schoolboy
of the seventeenth century could prove to be fallacies; and, above all, that the minds of
men were greatly agitated and disturbed on matters both of politics and religion, as
generally is the case in the commencement of what may be termed an era of transition.
That Henry Chaloner was a wise man and a good man, according to the wisdom and
the virtue of the day in which he lived, is an unquestionable truth; but he was neither
better nor wiser than the best of the children of his generation. He was not that monster
of a poetic fancy, a being of unerring instincts, and unblemished virtue. Many
things combined to bring about this hallucination—for it was clearly an hallucination,
and one of a very dangerous character; and had it been indulged, or carried much
beyond the point which it had now attained, it speedily might have degenerated into
a religious frenzy—but that they did so combine is certain. At many moments of his
life, he would unquestionably have denounced the very part which he was about to play,
as the highest insanity, or laughed at as the height of folly. Nevertheless, he now yielded
to the impulses that were hot within him; and, fancying himself the instrument of a
great superior will, became the dupe and tool of his own little passions. He had prayed
several times in the course of the day; and to his fervid and imaginative temperament,
the very act of prayer, by stimulating the religious sentiment, had increased rather than
diminished the morbid action of his mind, and rendered him more confident in the right
—more resolute to the performance of his self-imposed solemn duty. And now, that his
determination was once taken, all the disturbance and anxiety of his manner vanished.
He washed and dressed himself with care, arranging his locks, which he wore long and
waving, though not exactly after the curled and flowing fashion of the cavaliers, with much
attention; clad himself in a full suit of the deepest mourning, black broadcloth faced with
silk, with neither velvet nor embroidery nor lace, but only a broad band of cambric round
his neck, and plain ruffles of the same at his wrists; and summoning Frank Norman, desired
him to be in attendance in an hour with three horses and another servant. Then
he caused supper to be served; and, although alone, he sat down to his meat with
a good appetite, and ate, and drank his wine—more than one kind of which was set

before him, with evident appreciation. He even spoke a few words cheerfully to the
old steward who attended him, saying that he had resigned his office, as envoy to the
Hague, and should return to England within a few days, more or less. With him, the
strife was to make up his mind—the anxiety, to decipher the right law of conduct; that
once done, all else was a mere thing of course. No weak irresolution ever marred his
action—no paltry fear of consequences, or doubt of results, so much as once occurred
to him. Resolved to do a thing, he ever went right on and did it! and that had been
the one great secret of his success in life—that, acting ever upon principles which he
knew, or conscientiously believed to be right and true, he always brought a clear head,
unencumbered by any doubt or hesitancy, to the execution; and while other men were
planning, he was doing. Thus, in the present instance, though it cost him much anxiety
and thought before he could resolve upon his principle of conduct, and though it must
be admitted that he had reasoned himself into a false conviction and an evil resolution;
yet once determined, he never cast another thought to the execution! It never once so
much as entered his mind, that Wyvil, whom he knew to be a brave man and a master
of his weapon, might chance to be the victor. It never appeared possible to him that
he could fail! He was the destined and appointed instrument, the unconcerned avenger
of his kindred, the weapon in the hands of the Almighty! He had no wrath, no angry
feelings against the wretch whom he was about to slay as a sacrifice, not to the vain
punctilio of a code, but to a jealous God! Nay: at that very moment he would have
unsheathed his sword to rescue him from peril at any other hand—he would have braved
the fiery conflagration, or rushed into the molten torrent, to save his life this minute,
that he himself might take in the next. Had he been one iota more a fanatic, or less
a gentleman and soldier, he would have stabbed him to the heart, and deemed assassination
virtue! As it was, such an idea came not near him, nor any other, except to
call him to the field with equal arms, and slay him there in solemn combat. And, with
that end in view, he took the measure of his sword with a strip of paper, and when his
horses were announced, buckled his riding-cloak about him, and went forth as tranquilly
to meet his mortal foe as if he had been preparing for a banquet.