CHAPTER IV.

"much aghast,Rode back toPiershillfiery fast."

He could only tell that the Captain and Sir Richard Musgrave had had a duel: one was shot dead, but he could not say which.

When Frank came with the full particulars, he slipped away and had a long argument with a stolid Scotchman, about who fired the first shot.

"Come, De Vere, who was the slain?" said Major Cathcart;—"I will bet five to one it was not John De Vere!"

"You're right;—Musgrave was done for—shot clean through his forehead."

Frank then detailed the whole to a throng of officers and sergeants in the mess room, and did not omit the joke about his riding there for fear of the dead man.

"You should have brought him here," said the Major; "we are not afraid of dead bodies!"

A yell of laughter followed this savage jest; and they then all sat down to a wining party, and drank the dead man's health in silence ere they retired!

Captain Wilson departed next day for the Continent. Sir Richard Musgrave's remains were interred in the vaults at the Towers; and the Earl had some trouble to clear himself of the scrape. The marriage was deferred till the 18th of December, the Earl choosing the same day he had met Ellen a year before at the Duke's ball. A letter from the Captain arrived shortly before that day, saying he was at Hamburgh; had met a delightful young Polish officer, Count Czinsky, who was also there for a similar lawless deed, and they were to proceed to St. Petersburgh almost immediately.

"From that chamber, clothed in white,The bride came forth on her wedding-night;There, in that silent room below,The dead lay inhershroud of snow."—Longfellow.

There is something peculiarly sad in the reflection that even the works of man are longer lived than himself. The gray castle, the ancestral residence of proud races, outlives its lords; the trees man plants shall wave green long after he has mouldered in the tomb; the very picture exists long after the original has ceased to be known in his place. But it is this very fact that lends so much romance to the old castle—the ancient tree, on whose trunk is carved many a long-forgotten name—the dusky portrait, which retains the likeness of old ancestors, and snatches them from the oblivion of the dead! There is little interest in the new mansion; we could well afford to dispense with all modern luxuries, could we gain some old traditionary story of the house we dwell in.

The Towers was the most ancient castle in all the neighbourhood; it had been brought into the De Vere family through a Scotch heiress—her name had long been joined with De Vere, but the custom had grown into desuetude. The Towers had stood unchanged for many a century; its lords had mouldered away, not so its battlements; its chieftains had died the death, not so its buttresses; not so its four lofty towers, on one of which floated the banner of the family, and in one of which slumbered the mortal remains of many of its stout possessors and fair mistresses. It had seen every vicissitude of its owners, but owned little change itself. The bride and the bridegroom, the dead had been borne over, and the mourners had trodden its halls. If its walls could have spoken they could have divulged many a dark secret, related many a dark deed. It seemed as if in silent night it mourned the departed, as if in sunny day it rejoiced with the living. These thoughts have been suggested by the lines that head the chapter, and the sequence will show they are not wholly without their meaning.

The old castle was shortly to see some more of the vicissitudes of life—marriage and death, which, like light and darkness, are perhaps the most dissimilar events of life, yet often go hand in hand, indeed so often that in Scotland it is a common saying, "A marriage and a death." It is useless to inquire into the origin of any superstition, it is enough to say without good cause it could hardly have attained the universal belief it does. The author can testify that in his short experience the truth of this proverb has too often been exemplified.

The winter which had set in with a rigour unusual at the early season of November, had betaken itself to more northern latitudes, and a sort of Indian summer had lasted during the two first weeks of December; so mild indeed was the temperature that several trees were putting out an early leaf to be blighted by coming frosts. The 18th of December, the day fixed for the Earl's wedding, opened mild and fine; a good deal of cloud was drifting across a sky of remarkable transparency, which is often the case when the atmosphere is saturated with moisture. The sun was warm, the grass shining in his beams as he lit up the raindrops of the preceding night; a few swallows, which had not yet taken their departure, darted at the gnats and other insects the unseasonable weather had tempted out. Altogether there was nothing unusual in the day, and whatever man might intend it seemed pretty certain nature would roll her course unaltered, and heed little whether her rain or sunshine fell on the festal day.

At an early hour Ellen Ravensworth awoke; it was hardly light when she rose, and after repeating her morning orisons to God, began to realize this was actually the last day she would rise as Ellen Ravensworth, and really the day of her marriage. A crowd of differing thoughts hurried through her brain. Her life had been like a dream since that morning last year; long as the days had seemed passing, now it was like a watch of the night. It seemed but yesterday she had risen in her own room at Seaview, and not even known him who would that night be her husband. It was but a year ago she had risen with her head full of the ball, and had been marvelling whether she would be introduced to the Earl. Her castle building had for once turned out true, her visions had been realized, and here, on the selfsame day, one year after, she rose in the castle which would be her own that evening. She was about to be united with him she had so singularly met, and so long and dearly loved. It was but a twelvemonth ago, but since that day how strange had been her life! Into that short year how much had been crowded—her introduction to the Earl; the accident of his cloak to protect her going home; the drive in the sleigh; the evening at the Towers; and the memorable ring which still gemmed her finger. Then had come the departure of her noble friends; the fatal but lying news; the fever that had prostrated her on a bed of suffering, and well-nigh extinguished the lamp of life; the journey in foreign lands; the meeting with her best friend, Edith Arranmore; then the Earl's first visit, and L'Estrange's last heartbroken appeal. And here her thoughts partook of gloom, for she could not exculpate herself of blame; she had certainly cast him off, andherchange of sentiments had wrought his ruin; he had told her they would, and they had done so. Her delightful visit to the Towers; the picnic; the false Italian; her wooing in the cool grot; and then the disappearance of L'Estrange; her awful abduction; the week of captivity; the miraculous intervention of Providence in sending Juana; the dreadful combat and capture of her old lover; his bold and unaccountable escape from prison; then the fearful tragedy of Sir Richard Musgrave's death; the flight of the Captain; his last words, and her secret knowledge of his guilt; her uncertainty of the future; these and many other such thoughts were ample food for contemplation while she dressed. Her joy was darkened with fears. Where could he be? He would not be inactive; still she had the word of the Captain she should be married, and she believed the dark mysterious man. Her joining her fates with such a remarkable family was another cause of anxiety. How soon might he whom she loved so well be cut off? how soon her sisters be withered in their bloom? She could not doubt the Weird! it was like a voice of death in the song of her nuptials. Then too linking herself with such a man as the brother of the Captain, there was horror in the very thought! There was sunshine still on the very clouds of fear, one thought silvered the edge of that darkest cloud. She felt that she might be the favoured instrument of doing much good to the family. Already she saw a change for the better in her dear friend Edith; she had often spoken to her on religious subjects, and at the least she was an anxious inquirer after the truth. She had the greatest hopes of Lady Florence too; and, best of all, what might her influence do for the Earl? He was young, generous, hospitable, kind; his very faults were virtues run wild. She determined, with the blessing of God, her silent walk and secret influence should guide him,—the Christian wife might do much for the unbelieving husband. Frank too was tractable, and very young; and then there was the Captain, alas! it seemed the despair of very hope to think of reforming him; but nothing was too hard for One, nothing impossible, and she hoped!

From these meditations, and the glorious thoughts of leading a whole family in the right way, she was disturbed by the entrance of Lady Arranmore, who clasped her in her arms and wished her all joy on the auspicious morning. The two friends then descended to the Earl's study, where Lady Florence and Mr. Ravensworth were both present. They were soon afterwards joined by the Marquis, Frank, Maude, and Johnny, making a family party of love and unity. One only was absent,—the Captain.

This happy family circle soon joined the company assembled in the parlour, where a merry breakfast party congratulated the bride elect on the dawning of her wedding-day. The marriage was to take place in the evening, according to olden custom, and a marriage supper instead of the more modern dejeuner. Of course during the day all was bustle and preparation for the coming event; Ellen, however, found time for a walk in the garden with her bosom friend the Marchioness. Their friendship was no common one, and it was the prospect of parting from Edith Arranmore, though only for a short time, that cast the only shadow on Ellen's sunshine of joy. Their conversation was melancholy—much on the unhappy Edward L'Estrange, and from him they ran on to Sir Richard's death, and then to the Weird and Lady Augusta.

"I am sure, dear Edith, it is unlucky to talk thus on my wedding-day; let us talk of all the happiness of life, and leave its miseries for another time."

"Ah! Ellen love, it is on these seasons of festivity that sometimes I feel most low; before every ray there is a shadow, and it is often that the most happy seasons engender the most unhappy thoughts."

"And why should you think so? this should be the happiest day to both of us; do you remember at Geneva you told me I looked on the dark side, and you looked on the sunny; methinks we are changed, and I now gaze on the light, and you on the darkness."

"Ellen, I cannot deceive you, but I have a dread feeling there hangs something sad over all this; in our family, presentiments are not disregarded; you link your fortunes with ours, and must not smile at my follies."

"Edith, darling, you alarm me; you know nothing, do you? surely you have nothing to apprehend; tell me, love, hide nothing from your sister."

"I know nothing, but Ellen I dreamed last night my departed sister stood by me; in her hand she held a miniature. I looked at it and saw an infant's counterpart,—it was our lost Arthur's picture,—she beckoned with her hand, and when I rose to follow she smiled, then gazing on the miniature she looked so unhappy, and said: 'Lost—he is not there—he is lost!' I woke—I am telling you no fancy—I saw some one glide from the room. I am not easily frightened, Ellen, and I rose—I followed to the door, and there distinctly saw a form like Augusta's glide down the long corridor. I could not sleep again all night, and when I now think on it I feel sure some evil lurks near; why she showed that baby form I know not; God grant it may not affect my own Arthur; if my child died, I should follow, Ellen,—Augusta need not beckon!"

"Edith, love, we should trust God before even presentiments; if we fear Him all will work together for our good, and even from evil good will spring forth."

"Ah! Ellen, if I had the trust you have; but I cannot overcome my fears; God grant they may all be shadows! But here is Wentworth, he must not see clouded faces, let us try and forget this."

The large ball-room at the Towers had been fitted up as a chapel for the occasion, to the scandal of the prelate who was to perform the ceremony; he considered it almost equal to fitting up the temple of Baal as the house of God! About seven in the evening the chapel was full to the very doors with guests in the most brilliant attire. The Bishop of Edinburgh with his full lawn sleeves, attended by two clergymen, entered the apartment from a side door, and walked up to the altar. Almost immediately after from the right hand side Mr. Ravensworth, with the bride leaning on his arm, appeared, and behind him two by two fourteen bridesmaids, including nearly all the beauty of the neighbourhood. The fairest perhaps of all was the bridegroom's sister, Lady Florence. At the same moment the Earl entered from the opposite side with Lord Dalkeith, who acted in the capacity of best man, or as our southern cousins call it, bridegroom's man, and several other gentlemen, including Frank and the Marquis. The two parties met before the altar, when the solemn service of the Church of England was beautifully performed. Every one allowed that they were the handsomest couple that almost ever stood before the hymeneal altar. And when all was done, the ring given, and the Earl took his young and lovely partner, all who beheld his tall and stately figure, whilst on his arm leaned his blushing bride, veiled in lace that enhanced the charms it could not hide—unable to contain their joy shouted, "God save the noble pair."

The Earl and Ellen, now Countess of Wentworth, then led the way to the drawing-room, where all her friends crowded round the young peeress, and wished her every joy. In the fashion of the good old days the happy pair graced the supper with their presence, and after the toasts were all given, speeches made and returned, the Countess rose and left with Lady Arranmore to attire herself in her travelling dress. In a short time she again appeared, and the Earl offering his arm to his bride, hastened down stairs to the hall door, before which stood a splendid carriage with four greys, all adorned with ribbons. The Countess gave a last long embrace to Edith, kissed Florence, her father, brother, and sister, and then waving her hand to the other guests took her lord's arm, and hurried into the carriage amid a storm of satin shoes, bouquets, and blessings. The Earl's valet, and the Countess's lady's-maid leaped up behind, crack went the postilions' whips, round went the wheels, and the happy pair set off for Edinburgh, where they were to pass the first night, and soon after to start for the Villa Reale, at Naples, where they intended spending the honeymoon. When the Earl and his bride were off the entertainment at the Towers was kept up with the utmost spirit. The Earl had resigned his castle to the Marquis and Edith, and the former was determined to end the day well, which he did with a vengeance, and it is whispered the noble lord was helped up to his room by old Andrew, who patted him on his back and told him he was the real gentleman, and three other footmen. The Marquis kept up the feast during the whole week following, when the Towers were, as on all such occasions, open hall, "and while he feasted all the great," we must do his lordship the justice to say, "he ne'er forgot the small." Still this was a cheap charity, for all came out of the Earl's pocket, and whilehewould have felt hurt had it not been so, the Marquis had the extreme delight of winning laurels on another's hospitality. He was determined to end matters by a grand flare up, so he invited almost the whole of the gentry of the surrounding country to the great ball, given in honour of the Earl's marriage. All the rank, beauty, and fashion, not only of Edinburgh but the north as well as the south borders of the Tweed were to be there, and no expense spared to make it worthy of the occasion. On the evening of the ball the Marquis was in high feather; everything had gone on well so far, every one had accepted, the ball-room was splendidly festooned with holly and mistletoe, through whose dark leaves glittered a thousand tapers, giving almost the light of day; the boards were chalked with elegant devices, the tables below groaned with a magnificent supper, the castle was illuminated within and without, and joy was on every face, and laughter on every tongue.

"Ha! Lennox, isn't this grand?" said the Marquis, as he and Mr. Lennox entered the ball-room, in full evening costume. "The room is silent enough now, how different it will look in a few hours, when hundreds are tripping it on the light fantastic toe."

"Indeed, my lord, nothing befitting the auspicious event is wanting now, except the guests; all is prepared, and all does justice to your lordship's taste."

"By Jove, Arranmore, you have lights enough here; it reminds me of the valley of a thousand fires," said Frank, entering in full uniform. "The fun will soon begin now; why bless me, there went the bell,—some very unfashionable arrival."

"Bedad," cried the Marquis, who sometimes used a true Irish expression, "guests arriving and the Marchioness not here to receive them, I must go and hurry her. Come, Lennox. Frank, stay here and do the polite." The Marquis and Mr. Lennox proceeded along the corridor till they were near the Marchioness's room when they heard a long, loud, harrowing scream, and "Help—fire—fire! Oh, help."

"God of heavens!" shouted the Marquis, "what's the matter?"

This question was answered by the sudden bursting open of the door, and the wild figure of the Marchioness, enveloped in flames, rushing madly to seek aid. When she saw her husband, uttering another piercing scream, she flung herself into his arms. All flaming as she was he sprang with his fiery burden to her room, and tearing down the crimson curtains from her bed wrapped his unhappy lady in their dense folds, while Mr. Lennox tore a blanket off, with which he succeeded in extinguishing the flames. Frank, and several others, startled by the scream, entered the room, and every device to alleviate the unhappy lady's sufferings was resorted to. Fortunately there was more than one door man in the house at the time the accident happened, and all that medical skill could do was done promptly and well. The flames had apparently but breathed upon her tender form, but the shock was too much for the nervous system, and when the fearful sufferings gave way to remedies, the harrowing screams grew fainter, and at length ceased, giving the Marquis, who was wild with grief, some hopes: the unfortunate young lady, however, gradually sunk, and about midnight the dying lamp of life expired. Perhaps the most melancholy part was the detailing of the fatal news to the carriages full which arrived every minute with their inmates ready for the dance, and sadly shocked at the awful catastrophe which had so unexpectedly turned rejoicing into misery.

How sad was the chamber of death! Stretched lifeless, but beautiful in death, the hope of age, the joy of her husband, the kind, the generous—lay unheeding, but not unheeded. Kneeling at the couch's side, the Marquis hid his agony on his lifeless partner's bosom, and wept in uncontrolled grief. The fair Lady Florence, arrayed in her ball dress, wrung her hands and wept in wild despair, with her golden tresses all dishevelled, flowing over her lost sister. There were many other mourners, and no sound but the suppressed sobs of man, or the unconfined weeping of woman broke the gloom of the chamber of death.

How wouldtheyhear the news? was often asked. Who shall tell the bridal pair? How had laughter languished into groans! how had they proved that in the midst of life we are in death! A week after this event a very different ceremony was performed by the same prelate. The same room, not adorned for the wedding but hung in funeral black, saw a very different sight. In the centre of the chamber, on a table covered with black, stood a gorgeous coffin of crimson velvet and gold, around it in the garb of woe stood the eight pall-bearers. Behind it the chief mourners—the Marquis and Frank de Vere.

The first part of the impressive and beautiful burial service was read by the Bishop—then the coffin containing all that remained of youth and beauty, was slowly and solemnly borne through the long passages hung in crape, through the great hall to the doorway, where a hearse drawn by six horses, with black drapings and nodding plumes, received its lifeless burden; and the horses, tossing their plumed heads, paced across the drawbridge, whilst the mourners walked in sad procession behind. The white feathers on the hearse told that one young in this world had early run her race.

They had not far to go—the west tower of the castle was soon reached, and again the coffin was borne into the arched room over the family vault, and was placed on the drop. For the last time the mourners gathered round the narrow bed of the loved and departed one. The chamber, or rather cloister, in which they stood, was well adapted for the mournful spectacle. The windows were narrow, the roof low, and supported by ribbed pillars; on either side were low benches, all robed in funeral black; the floor was also covered with black cloth, the walls draped with the same, and the pillars encircled with wreaths of cypress and yew branches; along the walls, through the black squares cut in the cloth, glimmered, ghostlike, the marble tablets recording the names and ages of all the former departed members of the De Veres, whose bones mouldered beneath. Everything was black and funeral-like. The only exception was the coffin, whose crimson velvet lining, gold plates and ornaments seemed almost strange in contrast.

The Bishop continued the service, and at the right place the bolt was withdrawn, and the drop with the coffin began to sink silently to its long last resting place. At this moment a young girl in deepest black advanced, and placed a wreath of white roses on the coffin. Lady Florence, for she it was, then turned away, buried her face in her handkerchief, and gave utterance to her feelings in a paroxysm of tears; her brother Frank supported her from the scene of woe, and seemed himself hardly to be able to control his grief. Gradually the coffin sank, till at last only the white circle of roses was visible; then it, too, disappeared; a crimson reflection from the coffin flushed the black drapings a moment as it sunk, and tinged with its hue the mourners' faces as they bent over the narrow chasm to catch the last glimpse. Then all darkly disappeared, and then first it seemed as if the last link was broken. The Marquis and many others quite gave way, and sobbed aloud. Then all departed save those whose duty it was to descend, and place the coffin in its proper position.[A]

The vault was long and narrow; on either side were three rows of black marble slabs, on which were placed many coffins, containing the ashes of former generations. Between Lady Augusta's coffin, which was of white velvet, with silver lace-work, on which, too, a wreath of the flower l'immortelle was still as fresh as on the day when it had been placed there, and the gorgeous coffin of the late Earl, they placed the newly arrived burden. Immediately above the slab on which the Marchioness's remains were placed was a singular spectacle—an empty coffin of an infant! The lid was resting against the wall behind, inside was a soft pillow and satin coverings, but on the pillow rested no infant head—it was empty! This was the house of the dead, ready for Arthur Viscount de Vere, whose remains were never found to fill it. By the narrow bed of all that was dear to him stood the Marquis with folded arms; he then clasped his hands together, leant over the head of the coffin, and for some moments seemed as though he could never leave it. Then, summoning all his resolution, he cried, "Farewell, Edith, farewell! my feet may wander far from thee, but my heart lies buried here." He then rushed away from the maddening scene, followed by the others who had descended with him, and they left the departed alone amongst the ashes of the former dead, till the last trump shall sound, and the mortal rise immortal!

When the Marquis reached the castle, he gave himself up to unrestrained grief, and refused to be comforted for many days. He then left for his seat in Ireland, taking with him his infant son, the only pledge of undying love! Frank and his sister left for their town residence, and the castle was shut up, old Andrew and some of the servants only remaining. The escutcheon was edged with black, and the old Towers looked as if they shared their owner's grief, and mourned for the dead. Young Wilton had started immediately for Naples, bearer of the dreadful tidings to the Earl and Countess, who would long be in happy ignorance of the sad event.

Thus was another instance of the early death of the family added to the long and mournful category!

"Oh, do not look so bright and blest,For still there comes a fear,When brow like thine looks happiestThat grief is then most near.There lurks a dread in all delight,A shadow near each ray,That warns us then to fear their flight,When most we wish their stay."—Moore.

We leave the darkened home of the De Veres, and shift the scene to the Villa Reale at Naples, where the Earl and his bride are enjoying the soft airs of Ausonia,—happy in their own company, and asking for no friend to intermeddle with their joy. More than a fortnight had passed away on their journey, which was performed by easy stages; another week had flown since their arrival at the villa; still they were ignorant of their bereavement. Ellen had penned more than one epistle to her friend, giving a glowing account of their happiness, the pleasures of the journey, the delightful weather, and the beauty of Naples. Alas! these letters would never be opened by the hand she loved, nor perused by the eyes she wrote them for!

It was near the close of a glorious day, when the orb of light was half-sunk in the embrace of the ocean, that the Countess half sat, half reclined on an ottoman in the balcony of Villa Reale,—breathing the soft airs of the Mediterranean, and gazing with delight on the lovely scene. Behind her stood the Earl; but it was not on the scene he gazed, so much as on his partner, in his eyes,—

"The fairest still where all was fair."

He thought he had never seen her look half so beautiful as on that evening; it was not only the passing loveliness of every feature, nor the grace of every movement, but the soul, the burning intellect that was shrined on her white, broad brow,—which proved how far she excelled in mind her own beauty, as her beauty excelled many another fair being. The Countess was dressed in a light Indian muslin; over her shoulders was thrown a black lace scarf, and her luxuriant hair was confined, as usual, in a frail net, which, with its glossy burden, fell half-way down her back. She rested her cheek on her symmetrically-formed hand; on her fingers shone the plain circle of gold, which told her rank as the wife of him who doated on her, and the ring which she often playfully told the Earl she regarded even with more tenderness than her wedding-ring! Her eye was intently fixed on the west,—there her mind seemed to be also; yet, without being able to explain the paradox, her heart was with him who stood beside her! The sunset was one which northern climes never own,—which northern nations may have dreamed of, but have never seen. It beggared the very powers of description! Those whose eyes have been blessed with such sights must feel how dimly words catch the hues no painter's pencil can fix on canvas. The last tip of the slowly-sinking sun seemed to pause for an instant over the waves, as if unwilling to leave his beloved land to darkness; a broad path of glory glittered along the dancing wavelets,—like a golden highway from earth to heaven; on either side the waters slept intensely blue, for it was only in the rays that the eye could discern any motion in the sea. A felucca craft was slowly rowed across this blaze of light; its white sails seemed like ebony,—every part was cut out black,—every rope well defined against the glowing background. Around and above the setting orb the scene was still more wonderful,—not a cloud sullied the serene of heaven, which yet,

"Of all colours seemed to beMelted to one vast iris of the West."

Each hue was so blended and intermingled from the golden sun—so bright—that the last segment dazzled the eye,—to the dark blue sky above, and the indigo of the east, where the moon rose round and full, that it was impossible to detect the exact point where the one ended and the next began, or to conceive how, and where the rosy warmth of sunset mingled, and melted away into the cold, clear light of the moon. One star, first of the daughters of night, shone like a spark of silver in the crimson depths of air over the west; and if the seaward view was thus glorious, not less so was the land. Behind rose olive groves, with their dark-grey foliage, which surrounded Villa Reale, standing on a slight eminence about midway between Naples and Portici. To the right slumbered the white palaces of Napoli la Bella, with their green Venetian blinds, and St. Elmo, rising like the guardian of the fair city below. Beyond the northern horn of the Bay of Naples, Ischia's isle stood out at sea, bathed in living green light; to the left, behind the villa, rose Vesuvius, from whose summit wreathed a lazy pillar of smoke, bent landwards by the faint sea breeze. Still further, the southern horn, with the white houses of Castellamare and Sorrento, like pearls scattered on green moss; and further still, Capri, surrounded by dark waters,—a favourite resort in summer for the listless Neapolitans.

On such a scene gazed the Countess; the rosy light of sunset shed a soft, glowing warmth of colour on her fair cheek, which heightened the beauty of her complexion. The balcony, on which the favoured pair enjoyed this rare evening, was raised some twelve feet above the orange and lemon groves below; through the trellised-work of the pillars that supported its roof, vines were gracefully twined, and hung in easy, inartificial festoons from above; the floor was formed of tesselated marble; in the centre was a table of pietra dura, on which were placed fruit—vases of flowers—amphoras containing wines of the country—a volume or two of poetry—the Leghorn straw hat and white feather, which the lady of the bower had found too warm, and laid aside.

"Ellen, darling, you look sad,—what melancholy thoughts can an evening like this induce?"

"I am not sad, Wentworth; but there is always a sort of 'sweet dejection' in evenings like this; and when I see the sun set I sometimes think, how different is nature from man! How many days of grief and joy have gone down that same western bourne! Bright days like this now declining, dark days of storm and tempest; no trace is left there,—it is still as blue—as bright! But how different with man; when his sun sets there is no morrow—when our joys and lights sink, they leave sad shades behind. Evening always reminds me of death, and this makes me look grave, perhaps,—though it is not my own death, but the death of those I love that I fear."

The Earl had meantime seated himself by his young wife; taking her free hand, he pressed it fondly to his lips, exclaiming, "Ellen, I never saw you look so lovely as to-night!"

"And how fleeting are earth's beauties! I might say the same of you, love,—for never did you look fonder, or seem more loveable. But see how fast the glory of that sunset is fading; even while I speak every hue glows ere it dies,—'The last still loveliest, till—'tis gone, and all is grey,'—as the poet says. And so we shall fade, Wentworth. All the light on the cheek of beauty is as unreal and fleeting; and unless we have that within us which will burn brighter, like yon evening star, when all earthly delights wax dimmer, what will all avail?"

"You speak like an angel, darling! Ah! look at that star. I love it more than any other, because I think it now looks on the western isles,—our home!"

"Yes, our home,—where all near and dear to us are now;—where Edith is. Oh! sometimes I wish I could follow that setting sun with you, and see their dear faces again. I do not know what makes me think so much of Edith. I sometimes think the spirits of our dearest friends can follow us, and it seems as if she was now beside us."

"You superstitious little thing!—don't you know, Nelly, the Scotch say, 'It's no canny to talk always of one person,' and, 'that ill comes of it.'"

"You have expressed exactly my thoughts; I wish I could think less of her, not that I would wish to love her less, or could do so; but when memory obtrudes her at all seasons, I seem to have a strange presentiment all is not well. Have you never observed, before we lose any of our friends, we seem to have a peculiar tenderness for them? It was so before George died,—on the very day I thought so much of him! I wish I could banish the thought, but I cannot. Dear Edith! how affectionately she bade me farewell! I see her yet on the doorstep, straining her eyes as if to take her last look! Oh, Wentworth, I have a dreadful misgiving! God grant it may be false!"

"Well, Nelly, I never thought you were so superstitious. To-night I expect the mails, and we shall hear, I am sure, that Edith is as well as you."

At this moment an Italian servant entered, and apologising for his intrusion, said there was an Inglese who wished to see my lord.

"An Englishman! who on earth can it be?" said the Earl starting up; "ten to one it is Frank on his way to Corfu. Stay here, darling, and I will be back in a minute."

The Earl hastened down stairs, expecting to see his brother; he was somewhat surprised to see young Wilton instead; there was something, too, in his look which did not altogether satisfy him.

"Wilton! why, what on earth has brought you here? Nothing wrong I hope?"

Without replying the young man handed a letter with a deep black border and black seal to the Earl.

"Now God help me, nothing bad I trust!" he exclaimed, but his looks belied his words, and his hand so shook he could hardly open the letter. When at last he broke the seal and read the fatal announcement he almost fell, but staggering backwards he seated himself on a chair, and pressed his hands to his brow. "Oh my God!" he cried, "this will kill Ellen! Oh Edith—poor Edith, and you are gone, and by such a death! Oh Edith! But I must bear up, I must break this as I best can to Ellen." Calling all his resolution to restrain his feelings, he said to Wilton, "Order a travelling carriage as quickly as possible, and tell Pierre to be packed in a couple of hours; I start to-night for England. Ah Wilton! you are bearer of sad tidings."

"I am indeed, my Lord, and grieved am I to my heart that it fell to me to carry them!"

"I believe you, my trusty servant; but you are fatigued and hungry doubtless, get something to eat. Shall you be able to start again in two hours?"

"Ay, my Lord, night and day to serve you."

The Earl then slowly resought his wife; he was many minutes ascending the few steps that led to the balcony, turning over in his mind how he should break the news. But bad news cannot be broken, the instant he re-appeared Ellen saw something was wrong. "Oh Wentworth, what is it? something has happened I am sure!" she exclaimed as she rushed to meet him.

"Edith has been ill, is not expect——"

"Tell me the worst, hide not anything from me—is she gone?"

"She is!"

"I knew it,—I knew it. Oh Edith my sister! and did you die, and I wasn't there to take a last embrace? Oh Edith!" and she sank on her lord's breast, and wept bitterly.

In two hours the Earl and Countess started for England; after the first burst of grief, Ellen had become wonderfully resigned, and resolved to bear up for her husband's sake. She was dreadfully shocked when she heard the full particulars of her cruel fate, but she sorrowed not without hope, believing Edith rested on the Rock of Ages. Her last walk with her had fully shown her high principles, and perhaps it was her seeming preparedness that first gave rise to the presentiment too sadly realized. After a long and tedious journey they at length reached the Towers, now saddened by associations of the past. Every walk, every room, every tree, seemed fraught with memories of the lost one, and Ellen found by sad experience there is no rank too high for pain, suffering, and death. How different was their setting out and their coming back! But they were united for weal and woe, for sickness and for health, and if sorrow had followed soon on joy—it was sent as a reminder that here they had no abiding city, and to wean them from the fleeting pleasures of earth to the fixed eternal joys above.

Before closing this chapter we must glance on the parting scene of one who has played a conspicuous part in this story. In a large well-furnished chamber of a house near the sea at Hamburgh, Juana Ferraras, or Antonia Stacy as we first knew her, lay on her death bed. The shades of evening were falling, the close of a cold frosty day, the fog lay thick on the waters, and the room was fast darkening like her who lay dying within it. Near her bed sat old Stacy; he was sobered and silenced by the approach of death to one, who if he loved mortal being, was object of that love. Rough as his features were, they looked softened that night; hard as his heart was, it seemed flesh again that night! A rustle was heard in the bed, he looked to see if his patient wanted anything. The dying girl sat up, death had nigh done its work, her face was haggard, pale, and wan; her eyes alone survived the wreck of loveliness, and seemed brighter and more gloriously dark than ever.

"Bring me my child, let me look my last on that pledge of lost love."

Old Bill slided away up the stairs, or as he called them the companion ladder, and hailed a German girl, who soon appeared with an infant child perhaps two months old; she was a fine, bright little girl, with eyes like her mother's, whilst her other features bore some resemblance to those of the De Veres. She presented a strange contrast to her dying parent, as she stretched forth her little arms to her mother. A sad smile lit for a moment Juana's face as she received her in her arms, and pressed her to her bosom—"Farewell, my baby, who will take care of thee when thy mother is laid low? Will thy father ever see his child? farewell, my babe, thou wilt never know a mother's care! She will soon be gone—her last thought was of him who gave thee thy existence! I am sinking—take her away, Stacy; be kind to my child for my sake."

"Cuss me if I won't, Tony. Never mind, old girl, you have had a short and rough cruise, you are nigh port now."

"I would I were near that haven of rest—may the blessed Virgin keep my soul—oh! my child, my child, it is hard to leave it. If you ever see my lord give him my child—tell him I died blessing him!"

"Why shiver my timbers, Tony, if my glimmers haint sprung a leak," said the old man, brushing away his tears with his rough pilot jacket sleeve; "I calculated I had done with tears, but the tanks ain't pumped dry yet."

"I am dying,—I feel the tooth of death at my heart. Oh! Santissima Maria! this pain—it tortures me, it gnaws my very vitals. Oh! that I could die."

"Cheer up, old gal, many a bark's ridden through a worser storm; ye'll come it yet may be."

"No, no—the room grows dark—oh, it is come at last, God bless my child—and Wentworth. God bless * *," with these words she sank back and expired.

"I'm blessed if she haint—ay, ay, she's gone sure enough now—weighed anchor and cleared off, and left old Bill alone. Split my wig if I b'aint sorry—she did peach once—but never heed, she loved him more than he deserved! She is gone now, rest her soul, and her faults. Gad, if old Don Ramond seed her now—it were hard lines for her. I guess she mout have sailed over broad lands t'other side o' the Atlantic, heir to many a league, but all's up now. Consarn me if I don't care for your bit child,—God rest you, Tony, you are in port now."

With these words the old smuggler and pirate walked off to see about her interment. "It is strange," he said to himself, "ever since she seed the Captain she has drooped; she was a fine creature, I'm blessed if she warn't! If I thought—but no, bad as he is he couldn't hardly! If he had though, he'd better see hisself well away—he'd better give a wide berth to old Bill Stacy—the world warn't sea room enough, but I'd overhaul the devil, wi' his black heart."

"He knew himself detested, but he knewThe hearts that loathed him, crouched and dreaded too.Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exemptFrom all affection and from all contempt:His name could sadden, and his acts surprise;But they that feared him dared not to despise."The Corsair.

From his earliest years the Captain had given evidence of those evil desires and bold licentious passions which his manlier years had fully developed. "The child is father to the man," is one of the truest proverbs, and in John de Vere's case its truth was wonderfully exemplified. The petulance of childhood had strengthened into ungovernable passion; the desire for self-gratification had swelled into unrestrained pleasure-seeking, combined with great selfishness, which cared not how it injured another, provided it gratified its own wishes. Every other childish failing had grown into enormities of vice, even as the letting out of water, small as the stream may at first seem, increases into the turbulent and maddened torrent that carries everything before its headlong current. From a child he had evinced that cruelty of disposition which, though at first it only exercised itself on the meaner creatures, whose tortures gave the young Domitian pleasure, now that childish days were gone, the same increased to a fearful extent on his fellow creatures. He who as a child shuddered not at the sufferings of a fly, a bird, or even a cat baited by dogs, now shuddered not at the death of a man by sword or bullet, or the sufferings of a woman carried off to gratify his friend, and perhaps got rid of with the same amount of feeling with which he would kick a dog from his door, or slaughter the hound that had ceased to earn his compassion. When as a boy John de Vere amused himself at his home, bird-nesting, cat-baiting, rat-hunting, even cock fights, were a great pleasure. Many of the tenants and retainers at the Towers remembered how John began by glueing walnut shells filled with pitch on the paws of the housekeeper's favourite Tomcat, and ended by tying him on a goose's back and setting them off together on the lake, enjoying the sight of the cat tearing the bird's back with his long claws, and the bird diving to drown her rapacious enemy. Every kind of cruelty, from spinning cockchafers on a pin, and turning birds plucked of their feathers alive into the woods, to the worse scenes of the cockpit and badger baiting, amused him till he became ten years old, or thereabout, when he was sent to Harrow. Naturally of a depraved character, it was his own bad heart that suggested these crimes, and not bad example, for his elder brother, the Earl, had none of these tastes but spent his time shooting or riding, and gained the character of a famous sportsman in all the neighbourhood. The old Earl, who lived till John was thirteen or fourteen, was often told of these early signs of depravity, but would only call him a "sad fellow," a "naughty, cruel boy," and "he would grow wiser when he got older." Augusta too used to speak often to him, but he was of that age when boys generally despise the other sex, and not only turned a deaf ear to her admonitions, but called her a silly, chicken-hearted girl, and said that men never thought of such things. If his father went fox-hunting, why should he not hunt cats? When John went to Harrow, he soon became the leader and chieftain of a set of boys as bad as himself. He was, however, obliged to fag, and his master happened to be the Marquis of Arranmore, then Earl of Claremont, who was an easy-going, good-natured sort of fellow, and though he once or twice gave him a hiding, was on the whole a very merciful lord. Young Musgrave was also a boy at Harrow; and these two, equally bad, Musgrave in the scheming and John in the acting part of their juvenile scrapes, were the chosen leaders in every row. If there was an orchard robbed, windows broken, farmers' fields trampled over—the head offender was John de Vere; the planner of the action, Musgrave. From Harrow, Musgrave and John de Vere went to a military college to prepare for the army, and here they set out on a bolder line. The theatre and saloon were their nightly rendezvous, and men of wicked character their companions in idle hours. Occasionally they took excursions to town, and flew with avidity to every kind of vicious pleasure. They then entered the 7th Hussars together, into which regiment L'Estrange exchanged; and the three young men soon became prime leaders in every folly and dissipation, then more common than now. Their colonel, Sir Harry Maynard, overlooked many a breach of military discipline in consideration of youth and inexperience; possibly the well-filled purse of the young officer De Vere, his excellent champagne suppers, &c., made a balance in favour of him and his friend with the regiment, or assuredly their names would have been erased. Owing to the 7th being quartered at Brighton some time, the Prince Regent became acquainted with young De Vere, and finding him suited to his mind in every way, he made strides in Royal favour, as well from the fact of his brother, the Earl, holding a high position at Court, as from his qualities corresponding with alas! the known character of the Prince. It was in a row at Brighton, in which both Musgrave and De Vere played a notable part, that the latter first became known to Bill Stacy, and this strange, dark character appeared to take peculiar pleasure in his new acquaintance, as well as to evince such a knowledge of the noble family of which he was a scion, as often to make the Captain open his eyes with astonishment, and wonder who upon earth old Bill could be, and where he had gleaned his information. The old desperado, however, showed himself fully capable of holding his own secrets, and after trying by threats and entreaties, and plying Bill drunk and sober to get at the bottom, he gave it up as a bad job, but continued the acquaintance, as Bill was a fit instrument for many of his designs. The foregoing chapters have fully proved the service Bill afforded to this bad young man, over whose early life we have glanced merely to show the reader that he was naturally demoralized, and had grown indisfavour with God and man from his youth up. It only now remains to resume the thread of the Captain's history at the point where we last lost sight of him, and bring it on to the next point, where his fortunes mingle with others connected with our tale.

When Captain De Vere and Scroop left the Towers, on the fatal evening of the duel, they proceeded straight to Leith, whence Archy was sent back with the horses, while our two friends proceeded to embark, having first routed out old Stacy, who had returned from Germany, after leaving L'Estrange at Hamburgh. Bill was right glad to see the Captain again, and he soon found a bark ready to convey them to Hamburgh also. In this ship high words passed between the Captain and Juana, who was also a passenger; however, ere they reached Germany, they appeared entirely to have made it up, though it was a matter not unobserved by several that from that day Juana gradually drooped, until she ended her life as we have seen in the last chapter. At Hamburgh the Captain soon discovered his old friend L'Estrange, and so close did their intimacy again become that Scroop, who was entirely ignorant of the true facts of the abduction, expressed his surprise at the Captain's having any doings with him. This was the first seed of dislike betwixt the two, and ended in an encounter between the late principal and second, in which the latter was so badly cut by his antagonist—for they fought with rapiers—that his life was despaired of.

The Captain and L'Estrange, who assumed the name of Count Czinsky, were fain to leave for St. Petersburgh, not however before the former wrung a promise from the wounded man he would never mention the fact of his meeting L'Estrange again, should he survive and return home. At St. Petersburgh our duo kept up the greatest style, and created quite a sensation amongst the fair Russian ladies.

One day L'Estrange opened an English newspaper, in which was a full account of the Earl's marriage.

"She is married," he cried, "she is married!" dropping the paper from his hands.

"Of course you didn't think the Earl was fool enough to wait till you played the part of young Lochinvar again, and ran off with his Ellen. Why, Ned, you are a greater fool than I took you for! Egad, it sits sore does it, Ned? Take my advice and snap your fingers at a girl who won't take you.—I'll read the account for you—give me the paper, old Spooniana! Why, pest, after all it is as bad for me as you. I lose my coronet—and you your lady love!" so saying he took the papers and read the article aloud, laughing—then tossed it to L'Estrange again. The latter began to read over the sad paragraph, with that earnestness with which we often read again and again what is the most painful to our feelings. At last he cried out, "Here's something for you—let's see how you bear ill news, who are so ready to read them to others."

"Read away, read away—it's not a little will make my face as long as yours is, Ned! Why, God a' mercy, you look as if you were going to be hung; fire away with your evil reports!"

"'After the departure of the noble Earl and his lovely partner,' (oh! that I should read it)," read L'Estrange—"'the Marquis of Arranmore kept open house at the Castle, and was to end the festivities of the week by a grand flare up, which festive event was suddenly prevented by a melancholy and fatal accident, by which the young and elegant Marchioness lost her life.'"

"Heavens!" muttered the Captain.

"'It may be remembered that only a year ago this lady, eldest sister of the Earl of Wentworth, was married to the noble Marquis—'"

"Read ahead!" cried the Captain.

"'A few moments before the ball commenced the attention of the Marquis and Mr. Lennox, then staying at the Towers, was drawn to the lady's room by screams of a most harrowing nature, and the unhappy young lady appeared enveloped in flames, which were, however, speedily extinguished, but not before the unfortunate Marchioness had sustained such injuries as proved fatal. A short time before midnight death ended her sufferings.'"

"Egad, that was aflare up! The Marquis never dreamed of that, I'll warrant!" said the heartless man.

"De Vere," said L'Estrange, horrified at this unfeeling jest, "your cold-blooded ferocity makes my blood curdle. What have you come to when you joke on your sister's lamentable death?"

"By Jove! you take me up sharply. On my soul I am sorry, d—d sorry—poor Edith! I am awfully cut up about her. As I live I meant not what I said. Come, Ned, don't look so savage! Come, and we'll have a bottle of wine, and drown this horrid remembrance. Egad! I am awfully sorry, I am sure I would it had been any one else! Come, Ned, I didn't mean anything, only it came so pat!"

And with these words he actually dismissed his sister's death, and to drown his sorrow plunged into every kind of dissipation for the next three months, until he made St. Petersburgh too hot for himself by shooting Count Strogonoff in an affair of honour, and probably saved ending his days in Siberian mines by a speedy escape in sleighs through Poland to Germany, where he and L'Estrange spent the summer at Baden-Baden, which was even then notorious as a gambling-place. Here the Captain had a run of luck at the roulette-tables, and pocketed an almost incredible amount. Many a hapless gambler was ruined by him, and on one occasion when he had won every farthing from a luckless Baron, the unfortunate loser blew his brains out over the table!

"Kelner, wipe up that mess," said the Captain, with a sneer. "I wish to G— people would blow out their brains in their own houses, and not choose the saloons for such purposes!"[B]

These two associates in evil soon made Baden too hot for them also, and travelled about till they again reached Hamburgh, where Bill met them with important news from England. After a long conversation with L'Estrange, whose conscience was getting more and more seared from his intercourse with such a reprobate, they both set sail for Scotland, taking Stacy with them. It was then about the middle of December, a time when Christmas festivities are in preparation—those at the Towers would be of the most private character—and the Captain spoke of showing his face again at home, thinking the duel would be pretty well blown over; however, the large debts he had incurred both in Scotland and England would not so easily be forgotten, and he determined he would not risk incarceration in Fleet Street Prison again, for he had once tasted its joys, until released by the Earl's paying off his liabilities. These, however, had now reached a pass which the Earl would probably be unable, even if willing to defray. The coming of these birds of ill omen so near the home of the Countess seems to bode no good, but we must leave the result to another chapter.

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