University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A MAN, more thoroughly and utterly wretched than Marmaduke Wyvil, existed not
perhaps on the whole face of the world, peopled although it is with wretches. There
was not in his heart one spark of consolation, one gleam of hope; not even that last
stay and resource of the miserable—the consciousness of right, the sense of self-respect.
His schemes had failed, deep laid as they appeared, even in the moment of their consummation!
He was completely ruined! and, to his own soul he could not deny it,
ruined entirely by his own knavery and folly! He had destroyed the man who had
preserved his own life, at the risk of all most dear to him! for, though he knew not all
the circumstances of Mark Selby's death, and though he strove to palliate it to his own
accusing conscience, he was yet perfectly aware that he was the cause of his decease.
He had broken the heart of the woman he loved best, and to whom he owed the deepest
gratitude; who loved him with a love almost surpassing that of woman; who might
—who would have rendered him the happiest of men, but for his own inconstancy and
treasonable falsehood! He knew not, it is true, that she was dead; but, like all others
who beheld her fainting in the cathedral, he had seen that the seal of death was on her
brow already; and, had he not seen it, he felt but too surely, amid the dread condemnation
of his own inner heart, that Alice Selby was a plant of too frail growth, and of
too slight a tenure on this mortal soil, to endure such a shock, so rude and sudden as
that which he had given to her most vital sensibilities! And what had been the consequence
of all this crime and falsehood? what, but the very demolition of all his own
hopes and prospects? This present means all lost already; his chances of recovering
them in France, or of returning home with honor—either of which alternative was in

his reach three little days ago—cast to the winds! His very reputation questioned! his
name for chivalry and honor blighted! It might have been, had success crowned his
wickedness, had he gained by his treason the lovely bride and the vast wealth for which
he had played so foully—it might have been then, in the exultation of his retrieved fortunes,
the fruition of present pleasure, and the anticipation of a proud and ambitious
future; that he could have drowned the voice of conscience, have blotted from his memory
the thoughts of those who had so nobly succored him in his hour of need, and whom
he had so repaid.

But now, when everything was lost—when, pressed and persecuted by his creditors,
forsaken by all those who had consorted with him in his better days, looked upon coldly
by the king, scorned and despised by those who would, a week before, have courted
him—the memory of his past sins, enhanced by his present misery, was constantly before
him; conjuring up dread remorseful phantoms, that threw a fixed and moody gloom, not
far removed from settled melancholy, alike over his waking and his sleeping hours.
He had not left his apartment, and in truth he dared not leave it, since the moment
when he hurried homeward, baffled and despairing, from the very ceremonial to which
he had so long looked forward as to the consummation of his triumph. His servants,
all recent hirelings, except the valet Clement, and his groom, a Yorkshireman from the
north-riding—for both whom he had sent to England immediately after his arrival in
Paris—had deserted him so soon as they discovered that his fortunes were no more in
the ascendant; and these two remained stanch to their employer, from ancient habit,
and from a downright instinctive fidelity—more like that of the canine species than of
the human race—which rendered them reluctant to desert a falling man, rather than
from any real love or esteem for a master, whose faults were tainted with that mean and
truckling falsehood so odious to the English character. His doors had been besieged by
angry and impatient creditors; and he had passed the night following that fatal ceremonial,
and the day which succeeded it, in an alternation of despondent fits, and violent
bursts of nervous irritable restlessness, that bordered closely upon downright madness—
now sitting with his head propped upon his hands, gazing before him into vacancy, with
a dim, lack-lustre eye, as though the atmosphere were peopled with dread forms, for ever
present—now hurrying to and fro the spacious room, raving aloud, and uttering strange
imprecations; till, worn out and exhausted by his own violence, he would again sink
down into his chair and resume his moody meditations. His meals had been prepared
for him with sedulous care, by his faithful servant, who had ventured even to press him
to his meat, and to argue with him on the foolishness of such impotent and child-like
passion. But it was all in vain—the man's remonstrances were received either with an
apathy that left it doubtful whether he comprehended what was said to him, or with rejoinders
so impatient and ill-tempered, that they soon quieted all interference. He had,
it is true, tried to force his appetite—had compelled himself to swallow one or two morsels—but
the meat would not go down! and the man, who had often devoured with zest
and real appetite a hard crust of bread, washed down with wretched brandy, while
within point-blank range of hostile cannon-shot—which, although falling thick around
him, had not the power to spoil his stomach—now loathed the most delicious consommés
and ragouts, cowed and disheartened by the creatures of his own conscience.
But in proportion as he felt no hunger, so had a fiery and incessant thirst tormented
him; and though he had drunk vastly more of the strongest and most generous wines,
than at another time would have sufficed to lay him senseless, the liquor seemed to possess
no power at all upon his system, so thoroughly was its effects superseded by the
terrific and unnatural excitement of his brain and nerves.

It was a cold, raw, gusty evening, and a fire had been burning on the hearth all day;
but it had for some time become very low, and only a few half-dying embers cast a red
waning light over the deep jaws of the large arched chimney. The evening had set in
quite darkly, and it was growing very cold; yet so great was the heat and fire within
him, that when Clement brought lights, and would have replenished the fire, Wyvil insisted
that the room was stifling hot, and the sir thick and murky; and positively forbade
his heaping on the wood which he had fetched for that purpose. The man shrugged up

his shoulders, but said nothing; and continued fidgeting about the room for some time,
as if unwilling to leave Marmaduke alone in that fearful mood—lowering the heavy curtains
over the long windows, which reached quite down to the floor, opening with casements
upon the narrow ledge of projecting stone-work, unguarded by any balcony or
balustrade—setting the chairs in order, and arranging the various articles which lay
scattered on the tables, until a sharp and peremptory order forced him, although evidently
anxious and unwilling, to quit the apartment. As soon as he had shut the door, Wyvil
arose from his chair again, and began traversing the room with a fretful, hasty gait, not
unlike that of the caged hyena; muttering the while about the heat and closeness of the
air; gasping as if for breath, and pausing more than once to drain a goblet of the racy
Burgundy, which stood on the table. At last he stopped before the window farthest
from the hearth, and pushing back the curtain, threw the tall casement open, and then
stood for some minutes gazing out into the quiet night; for the weather was so unpromising
and cheerless that the streets were almost deserted, and so few sounds were abroad,
that from the ear alone it would have been difficult to imagine that he was in the heart
of a great city.

“Ay!” he said, “this is calm—this is refreshing—the cool, tranquil night air!
That closed room's atmosphere is like the vapor of a seven-times heated furnace.
Strange that the air should be so sultry in November! Yet it may be,” he added,
after a minute's thought—“it may be that this heat, like the quenchless thirst that consumes
me, has its seat in my own bosom! I am sick—sick of this world—and aweary!”
and leaving the window, he let the curtain once more fall across the opening; but forgot,
or perhaps intentionally omitted, to close the casement. “Sick of it,” he continued,
in a doubtful, meditating tone: “then why not leave it? It were but one little thrust—
one gasp—one moment's struggle! Nay; I have seen hundreds of men die without so
much as one struggle! There was that roundhead fellow I shot through the head at
Edgehill—one moment he was charging his pike at my horse's poitrel, and the next he
was as motionless upon his back, as if he had been dead a week! I do not think his
eyelids winked after the ball sunk into his forehead—I think I can see him now—he
felt nothing! Then why not? why not?” and, as he spoke, he took down one of the
horseman's pistols that hung above the mantel-piece; tried it with the ramrod, and finding
that it was loaded, opened the pan and shook the priming out, and freshened it from
a small powder flask; and then cocked the weapon. “It were the better way—one
pang!—perchance not one!—and then peace!” and, with the word, he raised the muzzle
slowly, till it was level with his temples, and held it there quite steadily for nearly
half a minute—but then he raised the left hand to his brow, and clasped it tightly with
his fingers as if to still the throbbing; while the right, holding the murderous implement,
sank gradually to his side.

“Peace? peace?” he murmured next, in a tone of indecision—“that is it—is it
peace? that which cometh after—or are this heat, and thirst, and agony, but foretastes
of the things that shall be! There is, methinks, a fearful scripture that tells of the
tongue of one so scathed and tormented, that he craved but a drop, such as should
trickle from the tip of a finger dipped in water! Strange that this should now cross
my mind, that has not heard or thought of it for years! I would I knew—I would I
knew if I should see these faces, that look at me always—that pale, mild, studious
countenance of the old man, with his gray locks all blood-sprinkled—and why should
they be bloody? There was not so much blood in all his veins, if I had smitten him.
But I shed not his blood—nay! but it was not shed at all! Tush! this is mere dreaming!
Shame on thee! courage, Marmaduke! courage! Ha! cowardice? Fear of the
present! fear of the future! cowardice—rank cowardice both ways! No! I—I dare
not do it!” and he let down the hammer of the pistol, and hung it up again beside its
fellow; and, still grasping his fevered brew with his left hand, resumed his oft-repeated
walk, but with a slower step, and an sir more contemplative and less nervous than before.

“I dare not!” he repeated; “yet when before did it ever fail me? and what now?
what else is left to me?”

Before, however, he had time to answer that question, even to his own mind, the

trampling of horses came loudly to his ear from the courtyard below, and he heard a
clear, sonorous voice inquiring for Major Wyvil. He went and looked out of the window,
but so dark was the night, and so dim the lantern over the door, that he could
only distinguish the outlines of three figures, all on horseback. An answer was given
by the old porter, whose mumbling tones reached not so high as to be audible; but that
it was affirmative, was evident by the leaping of the principal person to the ground as
soon as he had the reply—and, at the same time, the jingling of the spurs and the clash
of his steel scabbard on the pavement, assured Marmaduke that he was a gentleman,
and possibly a soldier, who sought for him.

“Ha!” he said, “this is well. Now would I wager my best horse against a mule
of Arragon, that that is the bearer of a cartel, either from that misproud old doting
baronet, or, better yet, from some one of those prating popinjays of France. Heaven
send it may!” and his eye flashed, as it had not done for many an hour. The spurred
step mounted the staircase, and paused at the door, and in a moment Clement came
into the room, announcing that a gentleman was without, asking to speak with Major
Wyvil.

“Who is it, Clement?” inquired Marmaduke, half doubtfully.

“I don't know, sir—he refused to give his name. Yet I have heard his voice before;
though when, I cannot just now recollect.”

“Are you sure, that it is a gentleman, at all; and not an archer, or a sergeant in
disguise?”

“Oh, no! it is a gentleman, and a soldier—I saw his hand, with a fine diamond
ring upon his finger, although he hid his face from me. But it was not the diamond:
no sergeant of police or archer ever had such a hand.”

“Admit him then at once,” said Wyvil; and the next minute a tall man entered,
wearing a slouched black hat with a falling feather, dressed in deep mourning, and
holding a lap of his cloak over the lower part of his face, until Clement had left the
room and closed the door after him—then he withdrew the mantle; and Wyvil, whose
eyes had been fixed on him with eager expectation, started back exclaiming—

“General Chaloner!”

“Even so, Major Wyvil!” replied Henry, uncovering himself as he spoke.

“And to what?” asked Marmaduke, recovering himself with a little effort, for he
had been surprised; and moreover, though he knew not why, he never felt entirely at
his case in the presence of that man—“to what circumstance do I owe the honor of
again seeing General Chaloner in my poor lodging? I trow, it is not as a visit of courtesy,
or a call of pleasure?” and he endeavored to veil his discomposure under a sneer.

“It is not, sir;” Chaloner answered coolly, “except so far as courtesy must ever have
a share in these matters. In truth, I have little pleasure in your company—”

“You might have spared yourself the trouble then, and me the annoyance of this
untimely interruption,” returned Wyvil, haughtily; “sending your wishes by a more
proper messenger.”

“You are wrong, sir; I could not do so, or I would,” said Henry, perfectly calm, and
unmoved by his insulting manner; “for my purpose being to hand you this, the measure
of my sword, and demand a meeting from you at the Près aux Clercs, or whatever
other place you may appoint, at the dawn of day to-morrow; and as I propose that we
should meet without seconds, save only a servant on each side to see fair play—for
where is the use of involving others, who have no share in our quarrel, in its consequences—I
could not send a gentleman to bear my cartel; and of course would not
send it by a menial.”

Scarcely ten minutes had passed, since Wyvil, in the pride and fierceness of his
heart, expressed a wish that his visitor might be the bearer of a cartel—and when he
so spoke, he really did wish it; and, perhaps, had it been any other man on earth than
he who it was that summoned him to fight, he would have felt something skin to rapture
at the opportunity of banishing, by so vital an excitement, the conscience-conjured
phantoms that made his solitude dreadfully populous. But as it was—he liked it not,
and he hesitated as he answered. It was not that he feared—no! all deficient, despicably

deficient as he was in moral courage—there was no braver animal on earth; no
one more full of that high, dashing, and impulsive gallantry, that makes it a far harder
thing to sit by a mere spectator, than to rush as a leading actor into the fiercest fray.
He had no dread of death at all, unless from his own hand. It was not long before
that, by his own hand actually, he had thought to die; and perhaps, but for the timely
interruption, might so have died, in his greater dread of life. Yet now—now—when
the very circumstance had come to pass, for which he had been wishing, he shrunk
from it.

“I knew not,” he replied, with a tongue that almost faltered, “that we had any
quarrel. I do not comprehend the meaning of your claim; and, though I am the last
man living who would refuse an invitation founded upon cause, I may say, without
boasting, that I have proved myself so often to fear nothing, that I can well afford to
decline a causeless challenge!”

“I thought,” replied Chaloner, “from all I have ever heard, that Major Wyvil was
less scrupulous! But since his conscience is so strict, I can assure him I have cause—
deep cause—for this proceeding. Nay, farther, that it is forced upon me by no will
of my own, and even, in some sort, against my principle. But so it is! meet me, you
must—by my hand must you fall to-morrow!”

“Are you, then, the disposer of events?” asked Wyvil, almost with a shudder, and
so tamely that he himself was astonished at his humbleness; “or how can you foretell
the fate of battles? My sword is as keen as yours! my hand—”

“Trembles!” said Henry Chaloner—“and how should it not tremble, steeped as it
is knuckle-deep in innocent and friendly gore! heaped as it is, with foul and festering
sin—weighed down by conscious treason—loaded with the pure life of one who loved
you, saved you, sacrified all for you! and, for her love, you—slew her!”

“There is no blood upon my hand save what was shed in battle, and for a righteous
cause—” Wyvil began, but Henry fiercely interrupted him—

“Was it then for a righteous cause—was it then from a battle-field that Mark Selby's
blood cried out to God for vengeance? And lo! he has appointed his avenger!”

“Mark Selby's blood! What mean you? I shed no blood of his—no blood of his
was shed—”

“If not with the strong hand—with the murderous heart, thou didst slay him! and
his blood was shed! Man! man! with these eyes—with these abhorrent eyes, I saw
the walls, the floor bedabbled with the thick gore where he fell! I saw the mild benevolent
face, the venerable hairs smeared with the witness of thy crime—and will thou
dare deny it? Fool! fool! the servant had a tongue who called thee to his chamber!
had ears, which heard the words that passed between ye—the shameful words that
slew him! had eyes, which saw the master he adored, steeped in the life-blood oozing
from his aged veins—ay! dying—dying by your deed! when he returned, and you
had gone forth from the house which you had plunged in sorrow. Now, then—now,
then—did you not slay him? Is not his blood upon your head—upon your soul?”

Wyvil made no reply, but cast himself into a chair, and covering his face with both
his hands, fell into a fit of convulsive sobbing—though not a tear flowed from his stony
eyes, while all his sinewy frame shook with the terrible intensity of his passionate
remorse—but not for that did the accuser cease from his dread appeal.

“Is not this murder? and if it were not so—how died sweet Alice Selby? How,
I say, died she, that her blood is not on your soul? Was it a natural decay that bore her
off, whom I saw not three months ago as lovely as the morning, as blithe as the summer
wind which wooed her tresses? Was it a casual stroke—a sudden fever—that cut
her off, before whose beauty, I have heard say, a king bowed scarce a week past? or
was it—was it, I say, the canker planted in the heart of the rose, by the vile worm
that crawled into that sanctuary, and marred the beauty that preserved it? Man! if
you be, indeed a man, that do such things and yet live—man! at the risk of her own,
and what she valued more, her father's life, did she preserve you from the Ironsides—
who never yet did so righteous deed, as they had then performed, if they had trod
your human clay beneath their horses' hoofs into the mire that had been so polluted!

Man! for your sake, she rejected one who would have died or made her happy. She
gave you her invaluable love—the whole and single adoration of that angelic heart!
and you betrayed—rejected—murdered her! Yet more! yet more! when she well
knew your villainy, your loathsome baseness, she gave you, from the highness of her
own heart, the means to win her rival—and you—most miserable beast! Nay, but I
will not shame the honest beasts of God's creation by so naming you! and you, base,
Judaslike betrayer, profited by her own bounty to destroy her! Have I yet said enough—
or must I more? Have I not cause? will you now fight? or are you coward also?”

“You have said enough,” replied Wyvil, withdrawing his hands, and showing his
face paler than monumental marble, “and you have cause; yet spare me—spare me
the misery, the guilt of further bloodshed.”

“Of further bloodshed?” said Chaloner, in an inquiring tone. “The wretch is distraught
with abject terror—what bloodshed?”

“Force me not—force me not, for the love of Heaven! to shed thine likewise.”

“Mine? my blood? thou shed my blood?” exclaimed Chaloner; “thou? Thou fool!
miserable fool! Know you not that I call you out to slay you—chosen—appointed—yea!
inspired, to do this judgment? and think you, that your sword can harm one hair of
me, thrice armed in innocence and virtue, and thrice-threefold, as the predestined
instrument of His great vengeance? I call thee not to fight—but to die! to give blood
for blood! to make atonement, with thy sinful life, for the lives that thou hast taken!
Think not to shield thyself, therefore, by that subterfuge. I shall not, cannot die by
your hand; and lo! I tell you, not of myself, but of the spirit that possesses me—even
the spirit of Him, who alone cannot lie—you die the death to-morrow! Will you fight
now? or must I brand you first, and proclaim you slave and coward, till every corner
in all Europe shall ring with your shame—till `dastardly as Wyvil' shall be a byword
and a proverb! and then batoon you in the public streets, wheresoever I may find you,
till you die like a slave and villain under the bastinado! Will you fight now?”

“You leave me no choice,” answered Wyvil, gloomily; “but I take Heaven to witness,
that this encounter is of your seeking—and the guilt of it yours! If you fall, on
your own head be it!”

“Amen!” said Chaloner. “But fear not on that account, for I shall not fall! At
five o'clock, on foot, and with one servant, will I call for you, here at this house!
There lies the measure of my blade—at five! Remember!”

He said no more, nor waited for an answer, but bowed his head, left the room, strode
down the creaking staircase, and mounting his horse, rode deliberately to his lodgings;
and within half an hour was buried in the tranquility of calm and dreamless sleep.