40. CHAPTER XL.
It was already morning, but not daylight, for a thick heavy mist had come up from
the Seine, and blotted the stars long before they set, and mustered in the narrow streets
so densely, that even at noonday the sun would have had scarce power to make a dim
and cloudy twilight through its dense fog-wreaths. So dark was it when Chaloner set
forth from his lodging in the Rue Royale, that he was forced to desire Norman, whom
he had chosen to accompany him, to take a lantern in his hand, in order to thread the
murky lanes through which his course lay, unobstructed. The clocks were already
striking five; and yet so dark and dismal was the morning, that not so much as a
chance passenger was moving in the streets—the latest revellers were abed—the earliest
artizan had not stirred forth. Not a chimney, as yet, sent up its smoke; not a
window-shutter was unbarred, or a shop opened. Only at rare and distant intervals
the light, just flickering ere it died, in the lantern of some port cochère, gave token
that the hand of man had not long since been moving. Such was the morning, and
such the aspect of the town, when Henry Chaloner arrived at the little court which
separated the house wherein dwelt his destined victim, from the open street. He was
dressed in his ordinary garb, except that he was wrapped closely in a thick mantle, to
guard against the inclemency of the weather, and carried his sheathed rapier in his
hand; Frank Norman moving a pace or two in advance of him with his lantern.
Chaloner had not spoken a word since he left his lodging, so heavily was his mind
burthened by the tremendous thoughts engendered of his present purpose; but, as he
entered the little gateway in the iron palisades—
“Lower your light,” he said—“lower your light, Frank. There is a strange shadow
on the pavement, there before you—if it be a shadow.”
The man did as he was directed; and, as he did so, let fall the lantern, and started
back with an exclamation of horror; for the first gleam had fallen full on the ghastly
face and mutilated form of the dead man!
“What ails thee now?” cried Chaloner, entirely undaunted by the alarm of his servant;
although he knew him to be as brave and true as steel against any mortal peril.
“The light will be put out;” and, as he spoke, he sprang forward and caught up the
lantern, just in time to preserve the flickering candle it contained from extinction.
“And now,” he said, “what is it that so terrified thee? Ha!” he continued, as the
reviving beam showed him the fearful object, all crushed, and maimed, and gory, that
lay at his very feet; “there hath been murder here! who can it be?”
And stooping down over the grim and ghastly corpse, which lay upon its back, with
the head toward him and the arms extended—for it had turned quite over in the fall—
he recognized the features of the man whom, he had left his home on that cheerless
morning, to send to his account unhouseled and unshriven! One glance was enough
for him—his work was anticipated—his crime prevented! for the cloud instantly was
swept away from his mind, and in its true light he saw the deed which, to that very
moment, he had been bent on doing. He understood the arrogance—the bold presumptuous
impiety of daring so much as to judge, much less to meddle with, the execution
of the Lord's vengeance! He rose from his knee an abashed and altered man.
“This is the deed of the Most High,” he said, “who hath preserved me from blood
guiltiness! I bow my knee, oh Lord, humbly and thankfully—even the knee of my
heart—in gratitude for thy great mercy; for thou hast saved me, thou only, from deadly
and presumptuous sin. For what am I, oh Lord, that I should judge—weak sinner that
I am—of thine eternal judgment? or what am I, that I should think to execute thy
vengeance on my brother? Alas! alas! that I have so much gone astray—so far forgotten
that which, in the foolishness and vainglory of my heart, I thought I knew so
well—even thy holy scripture! For what have I, or any man, to do, but to await thy
time, as thou hast spoken—
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!”
It was long ere the horror and the awe which these events—these terrible events!
treading so quickly as they did each on the heel of other, spread even through the volatile
and gay society of Paris—passed away; but it was longer yet, before the shadow
and the gloom were banished from the mind of Chaloner. From that day forth he was
a wiser, and, good as he had ever been, a better man; for never—from the hour when
he shrank back in dread at finding his wish done by Him who needs no earthly minister
to execute His judgments—did he again suffer his imagination to crush his better judgment;
and in the place of confidence, he took humility and hope, to be the guides of
his feet in the journey through this vale of shadows.
Years passed, before his mind could bear to contemplate a second love. But in after
years, he did love again, and if not as ardently, certainly not less fondly nor less truly.
And when, in after days, he asked a favor at the hands of Isabella Oswald, she understood
the meaning of the last words of Alice Selby; and partly for her sake, and partly
at her own heart's bidding, she did not say him nay—and she became the mistress of
Alice Selby's Woolverton, and never did she any wrong to the dying maiden's preference;
for her high, noble, and brave impulses, and Chaloner's grand, calm composure,
did temper one another well—and they lived honorable, honored, and happy; and
when then time was come, Chaloner did bequeath his tenantry and poor, as a solemn
trust and sacred, to a noble and brave son.
There are but few more of the personages to be accounted for, who mingled in the
thread of events which made the life of Alice Selby worthy this passing record.
John Shenock, the stout yeoman, when he found after many a month of courtship, that
Marian Rainsford would indeed never again marry, took to himself a buxom wife, and rode
his hunter with the earl's hounds as boldly as the blithest knight of the shire, till his hair
was as white as December's snow; while his frame was as stout, still, and as hardy as
the oak of his native country. A mossy grave-stone in the church-yard at Woolverton,
tells the men of this generation, that “John Sherlock, farmer, died Anno Domini,
1711, having for 90 years loved God, honored the king, and injured no man.”
Frank Norman, soon after Chaloner's return to England, wedded fair Cicely, the maid
of the inn; and for full many a year maintained the credit of the Stag's Hend, the
representative of Marian Rainsford, its tranquil and respected hostess.
Madame de Gondi, though she continued all her life an arbitress of the great world
of Paris, never entirely recovered the gayety which had been her chief characteristic
before the eventful visit of the Selby's; and from that time she associated more with the
good Bishop of Lisieux, and Madame de Maignelai, and less with the Count Hamiltons
and the Preux Grammonts of the day.
Sir Henry Oswald lived long enough to see Charles the Second reseated on his
father's throne; but lived not long enough to see him sink that throne lower than ever
it had ever sunk before, or—so the Almighty still extend to it his favor and protection—
shall sink again for ever! and never, till he died in the arms of his dear children, did
he cease to rejoice at the escape of Isabella from the wretched and guilty Wyvil, or to
bless the day when she made Henry Chaloner his son.
Saving alone the kings, and cardinals, and generals, who have scarce figured for a
moment in our passing pageant, whose fates and follies may be read in solid history—
one person only now remains, of any note—the Sieur de Bellechassaigne; and he, as
constancy and valor ever should find their reward at last, overcame the opposition of his
fair Annette's kindred, and won a fair and gentle bride, to partake the fortunes of as
brilliant and as brave a partisan, as ever drew sword for his lady or his king.
THE END.
