Ghost.—"Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearingTo what I shall unfold."Hamlet.—"Speak, I am bound to hear."—Hamlet.
Ghost.—"Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearingTo what I shall unfold."Hamlet.—"Speak, I am bound to hear."—Hamlet.
"Your Lordship," continued the old sailor, "when tired of Juana pensioned her off, gave her apartments in London, and a handsome allowance, provided she would never more seek after or speak to you again. You then went to Scotland, and soon after your arrival there Miss Ravensworth returned and met you. I was sent by the Captain to hire the Peel of Cessford as a house in which Juana might reside, and Sir Richard Musgrave was enrolled as a conspirator also.
"The Captain, L'Estrange, and he, had an interview with Juana: the two former left for Scotland to visit your Lordship; Sir Richard and the girl followed. Our second plan was to let Miss Ravensworth believe you were married, and if she would not credit it show Juana. L'Estrange called on the young lady and hinted it, even showed your letters to Juana, but she would not read them; indeed, she destroyed them, and seemed rather to love you the better, as many girls do love unsteady men with the hope of reforming them. Whilst I and the girl Juana were at Cessford's Peel, a picnic, or some such mummery, was made to the ruins, and the Captain, though very angry at it at first, tried to turn the mischance to good account.
"Juana was dressed as an Italian minstrel and taught a part to play; it was thought likely you would, with your usual hospitality, give her a shelter at the Towers, and L'Estrange was then to show Miss Ravensworth how false you were to her, in harbouring the girl thus in disguise, whilst paying her attentions. This plan was overthrown in a curious way; Juana followed you and the lady up the wood to a cave, where she heard you propose, and Miss Ravensworth accept, on the condition you never afterwards spoke toher. I said she was deluded by a false hope of becoming a Countess: now she saw things in a new light, and absolutely refused to go to the Towers. That night, after much trouble, the Captain prevailed on L'Estrange to try the third scheme: he was to disappear mysteriously, and a rumour to be got abroad he had met with foul play. Suspicion was to be thrown on Miss Ravensworth, and, under disguise of officers of the King, we were to carry her to Cessford's Peel, and force her to marry L'Estrange. Sir Richard Musgrave acted his part well as officer, and, as you know, she was carried off: I and Farmer Forbes and his son played a part too as assistants. No clue would ever have been found, till we had terrified Miss Ravensworth into submission, had Juana not found out she was sister to her old lover, George Ravensworth. She went and betrayed us on the very night things were to be brought to an issue.
"The Captain and I accompanied L'Estrange to the girl's room, and then left him to settle it with his sweetheart: it appeared he had little fancy for it, and had made the preconcerted signal for assistance, when the Captain saw your Lordship and several others in sight! He and I fled by secret passages, and whilst I laycaché, he joined your party with the utmost coolness, and assisted in binding L'Estrange, whispering him he was true under false colours, as well as threatening Miss Ravensworth and Juana with his vengeance if they inculpated him. When L'Estrange was in prison, the night before his trial the Captain visited his cell at midnight, and gave him a file and rope to make his escape with, whilst I and young Forbes waited for him in the Hunter's Bog; it was a terrible night of thunder and lightning, but he made his escape, and that night he and I sailed for Germany. He was pretty hard up for money then, and not long after he married a Polish lady, the Countess Czinsky, whose name he assumed. But he never loved her, and cared only for her money, and when the Captain, after having shot Musgrave, joined him, they both left for St. Petersburgh.
"It was about this time Juana gave birth to a daughter, Leonora,—who brought you here; she died soon after, and I often thought she had met with foul play; this afternoon her murderer confessed he had poisoned her in revenge for her treachery—there he lies—he was a bad man! About the time of Christmas, a year afterwards, L'Estrange, still hankering after his old lady-love, hearing from Archy Forbes the Countess was living in retirement at the Towers, proposed reconnoitring, and if practicable carrying her off. The Captain did not much admire the plan, thinking it impossible, but we came across, and he rode up to see how matters stood. The news had been false, the Towers were full, so we weighed sail, and were off in our schooner in the very dirtiest night of snow and storm I ever recollect. We had intended to go straight to Naples, but cruised down Africa, and getting aboard some Algerines, tried our hand at the slave trade a year or two, and took many a black cargo across to the West Indies, but we grew sick o' that, and having a good ballast of shiners went to Italy. From that time the Captain and L'Estrange became brigands, and taking the name of Vardarelli, a name famous, inspiring fear in every bosom, carried on a successful trade. This morning they made an attack on an Englishman going to visit your Lordship at Foggia, and carrying rich jewels. I have already told you the rest."
The old man ceased his narrative, and again took a long draught of wine. For some moments the Earl moved not nor spoke. Tumultuous thoughts disturbed his mind, and he scarce knew what to say, or how to express his surprise at thus listening to the long records of conspiracy, plot, and crime he had been exposed to by his nearest relatives. He felt now inclined to disbelieve the whole story, now half doubting; and then his position,—the whole scene around seemed to verify the old man's tale.
"Whoever you may really be," said the Earl, "your story is one of the blackest villanies I ever heard; the actors seem to have been allied with the Evil One. And yet, what proof have I this is not an ingeniously devised tale? I must have proofs."
[H]"And you shall. Old Bill would but half have done his work had he no proofs,—there, my Lord (taking a bundle of papers), there lie the proofs. Those papers are signed by all the actors in my tale, and are no forgeries; you may examine them at your leisure."
The Earl took the parcel and secreted it beneath his cloak; then, rising once more, approached the mortal remains of John de Vere; once more he looked on the brother of his youth, and could scarce believe him capable of such atrocities. What a life had his been! The wild, cruel boy had grown up the careless, dare-devil, vicious, young man, the infamous desperado whose power and malice terrified the whole of Southern Italy! But death pays all debts, says the poet, and even here it hid a multitude of sins. There were softer memories connected with the departed: He had been the child who had shared his childish amusements; the youth with whom he had hunted, ridden, and shot; the young man with whom he shared many a scene of joy or danger. In these associations he forgot how, while he ate his bread, he had been intriguing against him; how he had plotted to procure his misery, and, by unparalleled dissimulation, seemed his friend whilst he was his worst foe,—despite all, he was his brother still. The fixed eye, the pale brow, the lifeless face asked his pity; the tears started in the good Earl's eyes as he bent over all that was once John Captain de Vere, and it was some time ere he could frame the question:—
"At least you will allow me to procure Christian burial for my poor brother?"
"It is impossible," said old Bill; "by the rules of this band he must be buried here, with all our rites. You must forget you had a brother; he will sleep as soundly here as in a marble tomb."
"By what right do you deny me my proper power? Surely it rests with me to inter my own brother."
"I know not by what right saving the right of might. You are not lord here, but I am."
"But, my fine fellow, I will soon assert my power; let me once get free from this accursed nest of robbers, and—"
"But you will not get free, my Lord, till you have solemnly sworn you will never divulge our hiding place, nor strive to find it out."
"Your terms are hard, yet I have no resource but to submit to numbers, though I dare try you all had I fair play one by one."
"You will not be put to the test, but, after you have taken the oath, will leave as you came, and need only think of all this as a wild dream. Your brothers need not trouble you; one is dead, and will be buried with due pomp; the other is an outcast even from outcasts, and will know better than to show his face in these quarters."
"You said my brother, as I must call Edward L'Estrange, married. Had he any family? For if he had, it would seriously affect my position. As it is, I must take the highest legal advice, and see if this is all reliable evidence."
"You need not fear about your title or possessions; no son of Edward L'Estrange's will ever trouble you."
"Then he had no family?" said the Earl.
"I never said so; but you're free to think what you will."
"But tell me, had he a son, or daughter?"
"I suppose I may tell what I please, and needn't tell what I don't."
"But for God's sake tell me the truth!"
"I never have told you aught but the truth."
"I gain, from your unwillingness to tell me, he had a child; was the marriage an acknowledged one?"
"The marriage was sure enough; there is the certificate with the papers I gave you; but as to whether they had children or not, you may even think what you will."
Lord Wentworth, seeing he should gain nothing on this subject by further inquiry, dropped it, inwardly wondering at the old man's contumacy.
"I have said my say," said Bill Stacy, "and now I have only to get your oath you will never by word or deed directly or indirectly betray our retreat or ourselves, and you may go."
"Old man," said the Earl, "I give my promise I will by no means directly or indirectly betray either you, your comrades, or your den; but I do not pledge myself to make no inquiries about Edward L'Estrange."
"You are quite free to do that, but I'll warrant you will scarce find him. He is a sly fox is Edward L'Estrange, and won't put his head into the snare if he knows it."
"Then I am free to go, and you will at least allow me to return with my child,—the unhappy child of her I so ill treated,—and let her be brought up away from scenes and men ill suited to her age and sex."
"You must promise more in that case. The girl shall pilot you back to the place she brought you from; but she must then and there leave you. You must swear that also."
"What! Am I not to have my way with my own child? You trespass on the rights of nature, and because I am now in the power of evil men, exert an undue and mean advantage over me."
"I am not here to argue whether it is right or not right. You are the prisoner here, and must abide by my terms if you wish your freedom. In Scotland they say, 'He is a proud beggar who names his alms,' and he is a proud prisoner who makes his own terms, I may add."
"On my soul this is enough to drive a man mad. Here I am, curbed and fettered on all sides—"
"My Lord, you have too long been accustomed to rule, and to see everybody obey you. It is good to be under the yoke sometimes. Will you swear to abide by your promise neither to betray our resort, nor by any means win Leonora to follow you? Indeed the girl knows better than to do so, and if you tried to carry her off, neither your name, rank, nor riches should save you; so I warn you not to try. Do you swear?"
"I give my word I will not."
"Nay, but you must swear."
"Old man, were I capable of breaking my word, I were capable of breaking my oath too!"
"It matters not; you cannot leave without swearing."
"Listen; a peer of England, even in Court, swears only by his honour. You little know the worth of a peer's word; his pledged, inviolate word is the most solemn promise he can give. I give that, and my oath were not a surer pledge."
"I believe you. You may then go. Good night, my Lord. You will never again see me; but be sure of this, it was only the hospitality, the goodness, and generosity of your character saved you too from falling a victim to my snares. I can see and approve the better, whilst I follow the worse. I have not forgot that in my school-training. Farewell!"
"Farewell," said the Earl, as the old man disappeared behind the black curtain once more, "and I shall not offend you by wishing you may turn to some better occupation."
When Bill had disappeared, the Earl sat down, and, bending his eyes on the ground, he began to recapitulate in his mind the extraordinary events and theéclaircissementhe had heard that evening, whilst he waited for his guide. His thoughts also reverted to the Countess as he looked at his watch, and found it was not very far from nine o'clock, and he began to think she would indeed have cause for anxiety. From his reverie he was awoke by a soft foot approaching, and, looking up, he saw Leonora close beside him. She seemed to read in his face he knew the secret, and as he exclaimed, "Leonora, my child," threw herself into her father's arms.
"And you know now who I am, and why I loved you so well, and are come to take me from this dreadful place?"
"Alas! my child, I do know who you are; I do know you are my daughter, child of one who was worthy better things than my false love, and believe me, I shall ever dearly regard you as such. But I cannot, much as I wish it, take you from this bad place; I have given my word I will not by any means entice you to leave with me."
"And why did you give your promise?"
"Without it I should not be able to leave this cave; it was extorted from me, Leonora; but as I have given my word I cannot, under any pretext, break it, and did I do so, I believe in this lawless country it would be of little avail. But at least, Leonora, you know you have one who loves you dearly, and if ever you are without a friend, you have a friend and a father in me."
A shadow of deep disappointment passed over Leonora's brow.
"It is too bad!" she cried, striking her hands together with Italian gesture. "What power has that cruel, bad, relentless man over me? Dark and cruel as my uncle there was" (pointing to the coffin), "he was not so dreadful as the old man; but I will run away! I will throw myself on the King's protection and yours! I will—"
"Hush, Leonora, for heaven's sake! you will be overheard. At least so far I will stoutly defend you as a suppliant; but to-night it must not be; for, dear as you are,—dearly as I should love to see you ever beside me, and thus in a way pay back the debt of gratitude the Countess and I owe to your mother,—I must not do more than follow you home to-night; but shall, you may be sure, try all expedients on your behalf that do not in any way compromise my honor given."
"I am sure you will, my father," said Leonora, pressing his hand to her lips. "I do so long to see my sister, that I feel quite sad at the delay; and I so long to show how I will love you, and the Countess, and Lady Augusta, that to be obliged to stay here among murderers and wicked men is very sad."
"It is indeed, my child; but we will pray that God will overrule it to your advantage. And now I must ask you to hasten my departure, or else my wife and your sister will grow quite alarmed: we have a long way to travel, and shall have plenty of time to speak by the way."
"You must then be blindfolded again—you will not fear your guide's faith now?" said the young girl, as she drew the scarf across her arm and folded it, with a sad smile.
"I shall not, indeed; but first I must take a parting glance at my poor misguided brother. Ah, Leonora! you cannot think what different feelings arise in my mind as I look on that cold form. As each of my race fall away in their prime, a link is broken—a blank, nothing can fill, made; and it seems like a warning voice to me that my turn must soon come!—that I should be preparing for my last change. I hope I am prepared, Leonora: and how I hope we shall all be brought to the narrow pleasant paths of righteousness! To-day I have lost and found a brother; and it makes my heart bleed to think what and who he is. But I forgot—you know nothing of these things: how much I seem to have before me!"
Intently, for some time after he had ceased speaking, did the Earl gaze on the face that was dead. His thoughts are unutterable—not to be written: that they were intense and burning his face showed; the expression sometimes approached to that of torture,—as if he was forced to credit what he least wished to believe.
He laid his hand on the marble brow of his brother; its coldness shot a thrill through his frame; and then he turned away as though utterly cast down, and sickened in heart and soul, and with a choking voice bade Leonora bind the scarf across his eyes, glad to have the sight veiled from his view. As he stooped to allow the maiden to do so, she heard him sigh deeply; and, as she bound the Indian fabric across his eyes, she saw more than one heavy tear glide down his cheek, and drop on the folds of her scarf. She felt an answering weakness within herself, and the tears flowed faster down her cheek, as she took her parent's hand and led him on silently.
"Farewell! if ever fondest prayerFor other's weal availed on high,Mine will not all be lost in air,But waft thy name beyond the sky.'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,Are in that word—farewell!—farewell!"—Byron.
"Farewell! if ever fondest prayerFor other's weal availed on high,Mine will not all be lost in air,But waft thy name beyond the sky.'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,Are in that word—farewell!—farewell!"—Byron.
Not a word was spoken either by the Earl or Leonora during their passage through the same long caves by which they had entered. The heart of each was too full for speech. Poor Leonora's dreams of liberation from a life she abhorred were for the present gone. It was, perhaps, the worst and darkest hour her young life had yet met. The shadow of the first cloud seems dreariest, as it sweeps over the sun-lit meadows; the darkness of the first sorrow is deepest, as it spreads a shadow over youth's sunny brow. By-and-by the eye gets accustomed to the frequent clouds; and in later years the stream of sorrows, often passing over the heart, leaves such a stony track behind, the quickness of its sensitiveness is destroyed, calloused, deadened; and what would once have crushed, scarce draws forth a passing sigh.
Whatever were Leonora's feelings, they were then fresh, poignant, and her woe seemed almost heavier than she could bear. Still she had a consolation;—she had hope! Hope that better, brighter days were in store; hope that rose buoyant over the waves of sorrow: and she was in this the happiest of the twain!
Lord Wentworth's thoughts were darker. It was but an hour or two since he had tracked the path he now trode: but in that hour what a mass of strange adventure and harsh truth had been compressed! That space of time had been the most remarkable era in his life; that hour or two had not only enlightened him on the past in a way he could not have dreamed of, but, as it were, undone all his life. He left that cave a different man; all his ideas—all his thoughts—had undergone a change. As the earthquake in a few dread moments overturns the labours of centuries, so had the tale he had listened to overthrown the structure of his mental economy. Not only had a system of intrigue been divulged, but he had been shown how, unwittingly, he had sailed all his life under false colours. The real Earl of Wentworth he was no longer; it had been no fault of his, but he felt he was not any more the man he had been, and he felt displeased that he had so long usurped a false character.
Then he had been made the residuary of a secret in such a questionable way he scarce knew what to think. He had only to destroy those fatal papers, forge an excuse for his absence, live as he had lived, and no being would ever be the wiser;—or, if the treason did come out, it would be impossible to furnish proofs. The Earl banished such thoughts almost as soon as created in his mind, as unworthy of him. Come what might, he would ever be the true man!—he could not endure the thought of bearing a false reputation, or depriving another of his rights.
He would do nothing rashly: calm consideration, quiet, and time, were indispensable; and the mattershouldhave his calm thoughts,—his time,—his whole mental powers. Beyond this, the case would be one which involved much more in a legal point of view; for, although it might be possible to prove that Edward L'Estrange was Viscount de Vere, and in his own right Earl of Wentworth, by his career he had forfeited all title to such honours.
He was a felon by the laws of his country,—a man outlawed, and lying under the ban of God and his fellow-creatures. The point at issue was this: had his marriage been a legal one?—had he any family? For incontestably, could this be proved, then the Earl was no longer so; but the son or daughter of this marriage would succeed to the title, and himself drop into Mr. de Vere.
Lord Wentworth was a man, and felt keenly the degradation of such an issue—it was gall and wormwood to him. Though by blood L'Estrange was his brother, had he in any way merited his love? Had he not been his rival—his bitter enemy through life? And this rival—this enemy—was able to deprive him of his name, his wealth, his future peace!—and all depended on these records he held in his hand. No wonder, as he passed across the thin bridge on his way out, and heard the thundering torrent foaming and swirling beneath, he felt tempted to drop the fatal budget into the wild waters, and trust the secret to the keeping of the waves. We are glad to say his better feelings overcame the trial, and he bore up under a temptation, it is not too much to say, half the world would have succumbed to.
"No," he thought, "I will let law take its course, it were mean not to hear both sides."
The two passed the bridge, and soon afterwards arrived at the spot where they had left their horses, when Leonora unbound her father's eyes. The face of Nature had changed since he was there bound two hours ago; the moon had reached her zenith, a few only of the brighter stars shone out, the air had gradually cooled till it was beyond freshness, and the Earl wrapt his cloak tighter round him.
Leonora blew her whistle—it was instantly answered,—a bandit broke through the woods leading two horses: they were not the same, but equally well bred, and richly caparisoned.
After assisting Leonora to mount, the Earl was soon firmly seated in his own saddle, and, giving a douceur to the man, followed Leonora slowly up the steep acclivity till they regained the road, and the scene of the morning's assault. He was surprised to find all the bodies had disappeared; the two poles were there—their burdens gone! the marks of the fray were still visible, the bodies of the disputants gone.
"What have they done with them?" he asked Leonora, pointing to the spot.
"They have taken them to the cave," answered the girl, "where they will be buried; it is not usually done—but there is fear of discovery now—so they have obliterated all marks."
"Leonora," said the Earl; "I can now talk freely with you. Do you know Naples? do you ever go there? I have my reasons for asking."
"I know Napoli well," replied Leonora, "and I believe our band, at least part of it, is going to travel thither shortly. I can go with them, they will not suspect; but why do you ask me?"
"Because," said he, "though I promised not to beguile you away—yet if you hate your present style of life, and fly to my villa at Naples—the Villa Reale—I see not how I shall compromise myself by offering you a safe asylum there, or taking you to England. However, I must have time to think it over, and I will try the power of gold on the old man."
"Alas! he cares little for money."
"Perhaps so, yet some of his band may not care so little: my first step towards your liberation must be getting a communication with you; I can always be found out, you cannot; so by your coming to me only we can fix a line of connecting link between us."
"I see," said Leonora; "but we should press on; it grows late, and your friends will get alarmed."
"True, my child, let us hurry forward."
With the words he spurred his horse into breathless speed, and side by side the two fleet animals spurned the light sand, and after a long ride reached the myrtle grove from whence they had started. The two dismounted, and then came the farewell; it may seem to some such a farewell would not be difficult, for, whatever the relationship between the two might be, they had in the course of their life been but slightly thrown together: it was not the case; each dreaded the moment, each tried to defer it, but come it must at last; and perhaps the quicker such separations are got over the better for those most concerned in them! It was no common separation—no ordinary farewell: they parted as father and child may for India, knowing they may never see each other again, for Leonora had told the Earl she was never more to meet him as the flower girl of his morning excursions, and she knew not whether she should ever be permitted to see him more; from all they knew of Bill Stacy this was extremely likely, and added much to the bitterness of parting. They never did gaze again on each other's eyes—it was the last parting here below.
"You are not going again to the Val," he said, still lingering; "could you not stay to-night with us?"
"No, it is impossible; there are those near who would prevent any such move! I am a slave yet; but I do not go back; we have many lurking places nearer you than you would believe."
"And I am to see you no more, my poor child,—you are never more to greet me with flowers, and brighter smiles, in the Val?"
"No more; indeed it will be long ere bright smiles lighten my face; but though you do not see me, you will know I love you, and if I live, I live to think of you, and all who are dear to you and me, and when I die, my last thought will be you!"
"And so will I think of you, Leonora! often and often when——but hark! what was that?"
"The signal, I must away.Addio!my dear father."
"Stay one moment, see," said the Earl, drawing forth a ring which he placed on her finger; "if ever you want any favour show that ring to me, or if I am gone, to any of my family, and it will secure it for you, if it is in their power to give it!"
"Grazzia, grazzia tanta!" said Leonora; "and here is what will protect you and yours from every bandit in Italy; show this, and you are safe." At the same time she gave him the small paper with the hieroglyphic marks that excited the Marquis' surprise some chapters back.
"Farewell then, Leonora! you will always know where to find me, and keep the ring for my sake."
Pressing his lips to her cheek, he commended her to God's keeping and blessing, whilst she returned the kiss with Italian warmth, but her heart was too full to speak. Then breaking away she fled from him, and was soon lost in the myrtle thicket, leaving the Earl in mute wonder and grief.
In a few moments Lord Wentworth was able to collect his thoughts; he began to think it was high time to hurry home, and give an account of himself. The grove was not far from the villa, and with hasty steps he approached his dwelling, not without those feelings all must know when, bearers of strange tidings, they draw near to relate them to unsuspecting friends.
As he approached he was somewhat surprised to see so many lights about, and still more at the groups of wondering, whispering servants in the hall, the door of which was wide open.
"God be thanked, my Lord; you are here at last!"
"Here, why, what—what on earth is all this—what is the matter?"
"My lady is very ill," replied one.
"Ah, my lady is dying," said another.
"Ill—dying—Oh! it will drive me mad! here, out of the way—make way there. Oh, Ellen—my wife—my wife! I am coming!"
With such disjointed words did the Earl hurry to his partner's side, where, as our readers will remember, he had the joy of seeing her comparatively well again, and asleep; and, after having enlightened the Marquis on the main topics of the extraordinary affair, he retired to rest, first depositing the papers on which so much hung in his bureau, in the study where we first saw him writing. Following the Earl's example we shall also claim a short repose before again proceeding with the story, and thus close another chapter.
"His heart was formed for softness—warped to wrong;Betrayed too early, and beguiled too long;Each feeling pure—as falls the dropping dewWithin the grot—like that had hardened too;Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed,But sunk, and chilled, and petrified at last."—Corsair.
"His heart was formed for softness—warped to wrong;Betrayed too early, and beguiled too long;Each feeling pure—as falls the dropping dewWithin the grot—like that had hardened too;Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed,But sunk, and chilled, and petrified at last."—Corsair.
On the morning following these events the Earl and Countess, with the Marquis of Arranmore, deliberated over the strange tale at their breakfast table. Lord Wentworth had told everything to his wife during the early watches of the morning; and if she was even more surprised than he had been, she yet bore the trial with still greater calmness and patience. Lord Arranmore, perhaps of the three, seemed most affected; but their different ideas will best be exemplified by part of the conversation across the table.
"If you do wisely, Wentworth," said the Marquis, "you will keep this story precious quiet; if it gets about it will kick up a desperate row!—excuse the word, Countess, but least said soonest mended; and to try the case can do no possible good to unfortunate L'Estrange, and will certainly do you plenty of harm."
"But still, Arranmore, right is right; and if I am aware I am an usurper, I have no longer any right to remain so."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow; look quietly at it. Here is a fellow, a cut-throat, an assassin, a murderer,—and you, without any flattery, an ornament to our peerage; and because another old villain tells you he is your brother,—ergo, my Italian cut-throat becomes an English Earl, and my Lord of Wentworth sinks into a plain gentleman!"
"You forget, he is rightful heir, and only by an adverse fate was kept from his own. Surely, Arranmore, if you were proved to be spending another's fortune by misapprehension, your duty is to restore it, as well as all you have spent."
"It might be my duty, but I should certainly never stoop to it; besides, the case is different. Suppose the cleverest lawyer in the kingdom proved to a demonstration a convict murderer was the rightful Marquis of Arranmore, d'you think I would give up name, title, and possessions to him?"
"I did not say so; but if this convict had a son how would it be?"
"You have no proof L'Estrange ever had a son. Take my advice,—burn the papers, and never trouble your brains about it again. I grant it maybe very romantic, and there may be a degree of likelihood in the story; but for romance I would never let solid reality slip away. Think of your wife and Augusta;—as a father you are not bound, on mere report, to bring them to ruin!"
"I hope," said the Countess, "as I have shared my husband's prosperity, I shall be enabled to share his adversity, if it is God's pleasure; and I do hope Wentworth will be ruled by right; and whatever may happen, at least I will not add to his trials by impatience or complainings."
"I am quite sure you will always be faithful for better for worse," said the Earl, with earnestness. "No, Arranmore, depend on it, whatever course justice points to, I will go; and though it would be a trial—a heavy trial—to lose rank, wealth, and authority, still the hand that gave them takes away, and we have no right to murmur. At least it will not be for long; but, however protracted the trial may be, I trust I shall have grace to bear it."
"That's right, dearest; I am so glad to hear you speak thus," said the Countess.
The Marquis did not appear at all of the same opinion; but with a slight toss of his head,—as much as to say, "You're a precious fool to lose all for justice,"—asked, "What do you mean to do first, if you are resolved to run such an absurd course?"
"First," answered the Earl, "I shall leave for Naples, and by all possible means try and find out this brother of mine, and then frankly tell him the truth, and leave him to decide what is to be done. The case will go before the House of Lords, and he will, I am sure, see the impossibility of his establishing any claim for possession; but if he has a family, the title must descend to them I fancy. However, the first lawyers will decide."
"And we shall lose our title either way, I suppose," said the Countess. "Poor little Augusta! I feel most for her. It will be a dark hour; but we must try by the sunshine within us to lighten its gloom."
"On my faith it is too hard! Certainly heaven doesn't seem to favour her children; for if anybody living should have been free from trouble, it was you, Countess! It's hard lines, I swear; and to think it's all in your own power. I call it a kind of tempting of Providence."
"You forget, Marquis, we are nowhere exempted from the common trials mankind is heir to; at the best we are all unprofitable servants; and as we have so long enjoyed the beams of fortune, we are least excusable if we faint before the first cloud. It is not I, but my husband, that is to be most pitied,—for I merely return to my former position in life, whilst he sinks to unaccustomed trials! But one thing I will promise him, and that is, he shall never know any difference in me,—except that by fonder love I will try my best to ameliorate his troubles."
"God bless you, Ellen!" said the Earl; "you have ever been my better angel."
"Oh, do not say so, Wentworth; after all I only do what it is my duty to do. Think you, when I took the solemn vows at my marriage they were empty words? I have loved you in health, and wealth, and happiness; and if a few dark days have occasionally interrupted the long career of pleasures, they have been few and far between. Really, I am almost impatient to show you how well I can fulfil that part of my vows which speaks of sickness and sorrow! We have tried the better together,—perhaps," said the Countess, with a winning smile, "we are to try the worse."
The Earl looked lovingly at his beautiful partner, thinking he had indeed found a good thing when he gained such a wife. The Marquis shrugged his shoulders, as if not much liking the turn of the conversation. The Countess arose, and left the room. When she was gone he again addressed the Earl:
"I say, Wentworth, it's uncommon rum to think, if that yarn is true, that L'Estrange was so much at his own house without knowing it! that you and he should have been after the same girl; and what made you the happiest of men, made him the most miserable."
"It is more than strange; now that all is laid open I sometimes wonder the idea never struck me. His age, likeness to poor John, extraordinary early career,—so many points of resemblance! It is hard still to fancy him, not only my brother, but eldest brother; his associations too with Ellen are so curious! I see it is a painful subject to her; so I may give you the hint now to say little about it."
"Yes, by Jove! for though she was free to love whom she liked best, and was very wise to make choice of you, there is no possible doubt but that her refusal drove him distracted. After all, she got hold of the wrong man!"
The Marquis laughed; but Lord Wentworth was apparently little inclined for humour, and did not join in the joke.
"Let's have a squint at these papers," said the former. "I only just glanced at them last night; we shall see at once if they are forgeries or not. I wish, i' faith, they would turn out so, as you are determined to act like a fool."
Without replying, the Earl led the way to his study. The window was open,—the desk, unfinished letter, everything exactly as he had left it. There was, however, something present which excited his surprise, and this was a large case of mahogany left on his table, and a letter on the lid.
"By Saint Patrick, the Countess's jewel-box!" exclaimed the Marquis.
"This grows stranger and stranger," said the Earl, as he found his bureau burst open, and the papers gone.
"Are you sure you put them there?" asked the Marquis.
"Sure as death! There is some vile conspiracy yet! If they break faith with me our contract is ended; but let us read this letter."
"A d—d cramped piece of penmanship,' as the poet says," remarked Lord Arranmore; "can you read it, Wentworth? I am not very clever at decyphering these hieroglyphics."
"I will try; let us see,—it runs something like this:—'My Lord: The jewels are turfed again, but the papers was gave in a hurry, and are taken away. Think no more on last night, but forget you ever ran foul of Bill Stacy!"
"The villain is too clever by half," said the Marquis, "but really I am uncommonly well pleased it has turned out so; now you can have no possible excuse for making a noise. Take the writer's advice if you are wise, for whoever he be his advice is sound and good."
"I am really perplexed what I should do: I must go and talk it over with the Countess; meantime we must inform the authorities here about the savage murder last night, but I will not let out a word about my midnight adventure. If you will take a weed, I will go and see Ellen, and join you again presently."
The Marquis, conformably to advice, lighted his havanna and poured out a tumbler of light wine, anathematizing the country that produced no beer, and calmly enjoyed his "otium cum dignitate," whilst the Countess and her husband were busy talking over the case, and deciding what the next move should be. In about half an hour the Earl again entered the study.
"Well, Arranmore, we are at last come to a decision: we leave this immediately, first for Naples, and then England. In London I shall privately obtain the best legal advice as to the course I should pursue, and we shall then quietly await thedenouement. I think I need not in any way be the prime mover, but time must elapse before the excitement of the case is passed away, and we are able dispassionately to consider itsprosandcons."
"Well, I congratulate you, my dear fellow! I for one shall be glad to leave for the old country, for I have paid you a long visit, and am anxious to be back at Claremont, and see my boy—at the Easter holidays; he is getting on capitally at Eton; I heard from him to-day."
"Oh did you? you generally hear pretty regularly, I think; he is a fine fellow, and we must have him up to Scotland in the summer. Dear me, Arranmore, if he and Augusta took a fancy to each other what a nice thing it would be!"
"Ha! I have long thought of that as a likely match; I hope I shall live to see them married. Faith! broadlands, and fair owners would meet. Augusta promises to grow a rare prize, and Arthur, dear fellow, he is getting up to me in height, though only twelve last October," said the Marquis, considerably overrating the young Anak's height.
A week after this conversation a travelling carriage drew up at the Villa Reale with the Earl, his wife, and daughter, and the Marquis, who was in high spirits at the thoughts of being homeward bound; he was to leave on the succeeding day, the rest following in a fortnight, as the Earl's yacht was then undergoing some slight repairs, and would not be ready before. On the next day Lord Arranmore left for Ireland,viâMarseilles. After seeing his friend off, the Earl called on the Count d'Azalia, prefect of police, to inquire if the whereabouts of Adrian Vardarelli were known, intending, if he could gain the information, to try and obtain an interview. Here he learned a piece of intelligence he was least prepared for. Scarcely had he named his brother than the Count, rubbing his hands together with joy, exclaimed—
"Ah, Signore, do I know where he is? Santa Maria, do I not! safe at last in prison!"
"In prison? impossible! in prison? how did you capture him?" asked the Earl, growing very pale.
"He gave himself up, the rascal; he will never more trouble the State with his atrocious villanies. He has assassinated Luigi, his brother, and now we are only waiting the king's pleasure, before he pays the penalty of his crimes with his life. He will tell nothing about his comrades, but the rack will find him a tongue. But my Lord, you are ill, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing, a passing faintness; I'll thank you for a glass of water."
The Earl drained the cooling beverage, and then asked, "Could I see this prisoner? in what gaol is he confined?"
"My Lord! see the prisoner, and why? Santa Maria, he is in no place suited for my Lord to enter, a felon in chains—ah! it is impossible, I fear."
"I have reasons for wishing to see this man, he is connected with my family in an extraordinary way."
"Well, my Lord, you are too well known here to incur suspicion, but you must be accompanied with soldiers, and also with a padre acquainted with the English language. There is no intention of prying into your conversation; and any secrets, if not affecting the State, will remain as safe with the holy man as if from the confessional. It is a form we cannot depart from."
"This would be extremely unpleasant to me, Monsieur le Comte; if I give my word of honour there is nothing to affect the prisoner's security, could I not see him alone? I do not doubt the honour of your priests, but not belonging myself to the Catholic persuasion I should be as well satisfied without one; it is in a family matter only the prisoner is useful to me."
"Well, Signore, as a friend, and as a great favour, I will give you a permit to see him for an hour or two: as he voluntarily gave himself up there is no fear of his trying to escape; if you will wait a few minutes I will write a permission."
"Given himself up, in a dungeon heavily chained, tortures and death in prospect, and he my brother! he the scion of a noble race, the true possessor of lands, title, and riches! to what has he fallen!" thought the Earl, as he watched the Count pen the permit.
"I think it right to inform you," said he, as he received the pass, "it is likely I may ask the life of this Adrian Vardarelli; he is not what he seems, Comte, he is not an Italian, and I have reason to believe that more hangs on that man's life than you are aware, and possibly the British Government may relieve you of the charge. I say I believe it only, I am not quite certain, but my interview with him will tell me all; meantime there is no chance of his immediate execution is there?"
"No, my Lord, it would not take place for months. There seems some mystery about this man. I have heard before he is an Englishman."
"He is, and I have reason to believe he is a great Englishman,—a man of rank and importance."
"Ah! that would be strange, but you will not be able to see him till the evening; it is against usual regulations, and must be done under the shadow of night; and, my Lord, you will tell no one of this permit."
"I will not, not even my wife. To-morrow I will come and see you again, and if he turns out what I believe him to be, as I said, his life must be spared until the Britannic minister has corresponded with his Majesty's government. I wish you a good day, Monsieur le Comte, and am much obliged for your kind services."
True to his promise, not even the Countess was made a confidante; she observed there was something on her husband's mind, and even inquired if all was right, but seeing his desire not to be interrogated, forbore asking more. About eight at night he told the Countess he had an engagement, and also bade her not to be alarmed if he was rather late in returning. Soon after he left in a close carriage and drove to the Castel Capuano, the ancient palace of the Swabian dynasty, now used as a court for the different tribunals—the Court of the First Instance, the Criminal Court, and Court of Appeal. Beneath the palace are dark dungeons in which many a captive has pined,—justly in requital for his crime, or unjustly, and that often, as the victim of injured innocence. At the palace the Earl's carriage stopped; he descended and was met by the Count, who to his surprise led him through the intricate passages, and then descended to the deep vaults below. A soldier of the guard carried a torch before them, and at last stopped before a heavily iron-clamped door, and taking a huge bunch of keys fitted one into the ponderous lock, and, turning it with difficulty, next unbarred and unchained this portal of captivity, and allowed the huge door to swing back on its rusty hinges with a grating, harsh creak. Two more soldiers with lanterns and muskets joined them, and the Count and turnkey then motioned the last mentioned to stand near the door, and the Earl also to enter. He did so, the great gate was again closed, he heard the bars drawn across, the chains coupled, the massive key turn in the wards of the lock, and the footsteps of the Count and his attendant fade away. An involuntary shudder passed through him as he felt himself actually within the walls of one of those dread prisons, and in a cell that the captive's voice vainly strives to pierce, whether innocent or guilty. One of the guards then addressed him, warning him he had not too much time, and had better not waste it; giving him also a lantern, and pointing to the darkest corner of the dungeon as the spot where the bandit lay. He received the lantern, and walked forward to the point indicated; by its glimmering ray he saw that the floor was uneven, and in many places so damp it resembled a marsh. The walls were old and mouldy, the moisture glistening on the huge stones of which they were built; near the floor were many bolts of mouldy iron, built into the masonry, and from them depended rusty chains, dragging their long length on the damp cold floor, or rather soil, beneath his feet. As he pursued his way down the great dungeon he came on a dread relic—a skeleton still bound by the gyves and fetters that held it a living prisoner long years ago. A shudder again ran through him: who had that victim been? was it man or woman? he was not anatomist enough to tell; had the victim been guilty, or innocent, a noble or peasant? who should say. He passed on; the opposing wall now appeared; in the corner, on a bed of maize-straw, a chained prisoner was stretched; could that be his brother? he turned the lantern's glare on his features; he almost started back; it was as if the Captain lay before him; never had the resemblance seemed so striking before. The light, blinding the captive, caused him to pass his hand over his eyes. The Earl could see him, he could not see who his visitor was, perhaps a messenger of death. Still the Earl gazed on him, still he could hardly summon resolution to speak. It was years since he had seen that face,—years of trouble, danger, exposure, hardship; vices had left their trace behind, they had not swept away old likenesses. Last time he had seen that man was, when, tiger-like, he stood over Ellen Ravensworth, and shot the servant who saved his (the Earl's) life. And here he lay, pale, dejected, hungry, bound, with the sentence of death weighing on him, and his own dark thoughts for a prison friend.
What a fall! what an end! The gay gallant young soldier, the ardent lover, what had he come to? first abductor, then murderer, escaping from prison and just doom—not to repent, not to reform, but to sink, step by step, to descend bar by bar, the ladder of infamy till he was now on the very ground, a condemned felon. And this is my brother still, and he is cold, and in prison, and I have come to visit him, and must speak.
"L'Estrange," said he at last, "I grieve to find you here."
The convict started up to a sitting posture; his wild eyes dilated, his hair seemed to stand, his whole frame shook, and as he clanked his gyves together the Earl thought he had never seen anything so dreadful, or any picture so like Apollyon bound.
"Ha!" cried the wretched man; "it only wanted this to complete the sum of misery; you are come to glory over my fall, to reproach me for my base attempts on Ellen, to throw my crimes in my teeth; but hear me before God—the God I have scoffed at, and all my life offended—I wished not to slay your brother, I knew not what I did; and yet it was he who brought me here—he who led me on from folly to sin, from sin to vice, from vice to crime—he who has destroyed me soul and body. Yes, abuse me for abusing friendship, mock at my woe, I have deserved it well."
"I have not come to reproach you, nor taunt you with crimes which, had it not been for a restraining Providence, I might have done myself. I came to tell you I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and to see what I can do for you, to treat you as a brother, as you are."
"To treat me as a brother!" said the unhappy man, with a look of extreme surprise. "No, no, no; do not treat me as a brother, that were worse still. Taunt me with my crimes, I can bear it; with my ingratitude to you,—to you who were ever a friend; crush the viper who stung his benefactor beneath your feet, but treat me not as a brother, I cannot bear that; leave me to perish as I deserve."
"Listen, Edward L'Estrange, I speak not allegorically, I speak plainly. I come to treat you as a brother, because youaremy brother; you may have striven to hurt me, but you have really done me no harm, I have no cause for feeling angry. I regret your unhappy life, I mourn over your many and deep crimes, I hate the sin, I can love the sinner: take my hand, my brother, for I feel sure I shall prove you to be so—take it as it is given."
"I cannot," replied the wretched man, "I cannot do so; you are the first who has spoken a kind word for years; the first who has cared for the outcast. I honour, I love you for it, but I cannot take your hand, it would be defilement to you, agony to me; let light and darkness embrace first."
"The sinless One—our great example and guide—ever sought sinners; take my hand, I intreat you, and forgive me as I forgive you from my heart. I know unintentionally I have been the prime cause of your stumbling, let me be the first to recover you, and lead you back to virtue. Now listen to me—I have much to say to you, and when you have heard all you will take the hand you still refuse; first answer me a few questions—do you know who was your father?"
"I never saw him,—my birth is wrapt in mystery. I have heard he was some great man, and I was the unrecognized son of some one of rank in England; my early life I have told you. One only clue, or what might be a clue to the secret I have got, it is this." As he spoke he drew out a small steel casket. "It is locked; when I received it I swore never to open it till on my death bed. I am on my death bed now but I have not yet opened it; there is the key, you may unlock it."
"I will then open it," said the Earl.
He did so, and produced a small vellum on which the truth was engraved in the following words: