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The Weird of the Wentworths: A Tale of George IV's Time, Vol. 2

by Johannes Scotus · English · Gutenberg #39983 · 464,336 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Weird of the Wentworths: A Tale of George IV's Time, Vol. 2

Author: Johannes Scotus


        
Release date: June 17, 2012 [eBook #39983]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Mirjam, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WEIRD OF THE WENTWORTHS: A TALE OF GEORGE IV'S TIME, VOL. 2 ***




Produced by Mirjam, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)









TRANSCRIBER NOTE:
Words that were printed in italics are marked with _ _.
Obvious inconsistencies, printing and spelling errors in the original
have been corrected.




  THE

  Weird of the Wentworths;

  A TALE OF GEORGE IV.'S TIME.


  BY
  JOHANNES SCOTUS.


    All nations have their omens drear,
    Their legends wild of woe and fear.
                              SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  [Illustration: SANS CHANGER]

  IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II.


  LONDON: SAUNDERS, OTLEY, AND CO., 66 BROOK STREET, HANOVER SQUARE 1862.




  LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING
  CROSS.




THE WEIRD OF THE WENTWORTHS;

A TALE OF GEORGE IV.'s TIME.




CHAPTER I.

    "Oh! Liberty, inspire me!
      And eagle strength supply!
    Thou, love almighty, fire me,
      I'll burst my prison--or die!"
                                  _James Montgomery._


Perhaps the noble aspirations contained in the lines that head this
chapter are misapplied to a murderer flying his just punishment, but
even to the felon-convict liberty is sweet. L'Estrange, as soon as he
was left alone, began to think what he should decide on,--whether to
escape or remain. There lay the rope, and the file to burst open the
prison bars! All was prepared for his flight. Why did he hesitate? Why
did he linger? Between the peals he heard the clock strike twelve; he
thought too he heard the clatter of horse-hoofs, probably the Captain on
his way home. Why did he stay? he felt an irresistible inclination to
await his doom. Why? Because he would see Ellen once more! If he
went--if he escaped--he would perhaps never see her--he would have to
fly his country. He would stay. Come what might--it was death at the
worst! But alas! the Captain, what would he think? he cared not for
that. But what would he _do_? He who had gained admission to his cell
could again do so; he who had offered means of flight could also force
him to fly; it was useless then, after all he must go! Oh, that he had
never come! that man was his evil genius! "Farewell, then, to Scotland,
farewell, Ellen, I must go and hide on a foreign strand." He then began
to think how he was to manage his escape. After all it was not so very
easy. What if he should fail? he had already lost precious time! Bill
would only wait till three--he must be up and doing.

We must leave him a few moments in order to follow the Captain home.
When he had brought L'Estrange to see escape was after all not to be
trifled with, slipping a cheque for a large sum into the turnkey's hand
he was let out by a side door. It was raining torrents, and his only
light were the rapid flashes that lit the Welkin, and disclosed for an
instant Arthur's Seat, and then swallowed all in the jaws of darkness
again. He strode along whistling; if he met a watchman made some casual
remark, or damned the night, then walked on again, taking his soaking
with the utmost coolness, till he came opposite the High School. There
he turned to the right, and descending a steep pathway dived into the
north back of the Canongate, threading his way through the murky dirty
habitations till Holyrood rose dimly before him. Here he was challenged
by a sentry, but as he had possessed himself of the password and
countersign, was readily admitted. Passing through the courtyard he
again sallied forth, again gave the password, and was at last clear of
all buildings in the Park now called the Queen's Park. He walked on a
dozen paces, and then gave a shrill whistle: another, echo like,
answered him, and he quickened his pace to where Archy stood holding a
horse.

"A soaker, by G--, Archy."

"'Deed, sir, it is a soft night for being out by!"

"Go and rout up old Stacy--he is at the King's Tavern in High Street;
tell him to watch for L'Estrange at Hunter's Bog from one to three. Have
three horses, and ride to Prestonpans; there the smack is ready--don't
let him stay behind, he must fly the country. It's no go about his
sweetheart; he may perhaps carry her off a wedded dame--I never promised
her he shouldn't--but I did promise she should get spliced. If he is
obstinate shoot him, do you hear--tell Bill to shoot him, 'Dead
dogs'--you know the rest, Archy. Now off, you young devil; you are as
cunning as a fox; away--be sharp--quick march!"

With these words the Captain mounted, telling Archy to get a glass or
two of grog to warm him, then putting spurs to his horse he rode
homewards at a tremendous pace by a cross route for fear of being
recognized. When he reached the Holly Walk, Archy's father met him, and
took away the horse, which belonged to his own farm.

The Captain then walked to the east tower of the castle, crossed the
bridge, and whistled an air beneath one of the windows. He had not long
to wait; soon a window above was gently opened, and a rope-ladder
lowered, up which the gallant officer swung, entered the room, and shook
hands with Sir Richard. The window was shut, and no one in the castle
aware the Captain had been absent, as he had retired earlier than usual
from his toddy, having a natural dislike to Sunday evening.

"Is it managed?" said Sir Richard.

"Bravely--I had a d--d work to get round the old turnkey, whose brutal
pigheadedness was only equalled by his gormandizing cupidity. Then
L'Estrange was well nigh sobered by his solitary confinement, and then
that accursed storm has soaked me through. Give me a glass of brandy for
God's sake. He must be gnawing through his cage now--and he'll have a
good shake when he drops, for the rope wasn't half long enough!"

"Ha ha! what a joke! I should like to see his face after it; but how
will you know if he got through all right?"

"Archy comes with the news to-morrow morning. Now good night, I must get
to bed; won't the judges look blue? Egad!"

When Edward L'Estrange had made up his mind for the attempt, he began to
consider his best plan of effecting it easiest; the window of course was
the path to liberty; but the window was at least twelve feet above the
ground, how was it to be reached? L'Estrange was no fool, and soon hit
on an expedient. He uncoiled the rope, and found it was about twenty
feet in length, and made of silk, being both thin and strong; he then
took up the file; it was a foot in length, and in the middle a smooth
place, with the edges rounded off. Why was it thus? It had evidently
been made so? There was a reason; the Captain told him he was no fool;
he would find it out. He was not long in doing so. To establish a
communication between the window and the dungeon floor was the first
point; there were three stout bars, with iron points like teeth along
their edges placed uprightly in the window; if he could get the rope
round one of them, or in any way catch it, so as to bear his weight
scaling the wall? The reason for the file's shape then struck him; so he
tied the silk cord tightly round the centre of the file, and threw the
rope lasso-fashion so as to fling the file through the bars, and drawing
it back sharply fix the line. The first throw missed; the second time
the file went through, but as he drew the rope back, it slipped through
the knot and fell. A thrill of horror ran through him,--but fortunately
it fell inside. He seized the file as if it was his last friend, and
resolved not to hazard it again. What was to be done now? The knife--yes
it would do; so he made it secure much in the same way, and he had a
better hollow between the haft and the blade. Again he threw it; the
light from the window was very slight, but after two more failures he
succeeded, and, catching the rope, tried if it would bear his weight. It
did, and he swarmed up, and was soon seated on the window sill. He tied
the rope firmly round one of the bars, and then commenced filing. The
rain dashed in upon him, and the vivid lightning once startled him so
much he nearly fell back; but he worked on, and after an hour's labour
filed through a bar; he forced it backwards and forwards till he
loosened the upper end soldered into the stone; at last it fell out into
his hand, and he then dropped it below in order to gain from the length
of time it took in falling a rough estimate of the depth. He calculated
it was at least thirty-five feet. He had twenty feet of rope; he would
stretch nearly seven, leaving eight feet to drop,--nothing after all! He
descended once more into his cell, secured his pistol, and climbed up
again. He could not suppress a laugh as he thought how scared his
gaolers would look when they found the bird flown. He then wound himself
through the bars and the wall, getting somewhat torn and clawed by the
spikes; but liberty was before him, and he recked not of the pain. After
much squeezing and exertion he at last got on the outside. He looked
once more to see if the rope was firmly knotted, waited for a faint
flash of the waning storm, and then began his descent. It was not long
ere he reached the _Ultima Thule_ of his line; then with a beating
heart, he let go. It was a horrid feeling, that letting go, and the fall
in darkness! He had miscalculated the height; instead of thirty-five,
the depth was forty-one or forty-two feet, and instead of dropping
eight, he had fourteen or fifteen feet to fall. He fell with a heavy
shock, bruising himself a good deal on the slippery rocks down which he
rolled. He was, however, not materially injured, and when he looked back
at the perilous height he had come from, and looked at his befouled
garments dimly seen in the early dawning, he laughed heartily, and,
losing no more time, dived into the Canongate, soon reaching the
Hunter's Bog, where he found his comrades waiting. At first he hardly
distinguished them from the rocks; then he saw the dark outlines of
horses and men; by-and-by he distinguished Bill Stacy, Archy, and three
horses. He quickened his pace.

"Hillo, you young dog, so you've run the blockade? A rascally time you
have kept old Bill anchored in these d--d moorings."

"Bill, how are you? I was as quick as I could be. I thought I'd never
saw through those d--d bars. How they will gape when they find me off!"

"I have no time for words now; get aboard your craft and away, or the
bloodhounds will overhaul us."

"Away--where to? The old Peel."

"Not likely; away to the sea. You must give the old land a wide berth.
The Peel! good God! That would be a wise _cache_ to hit on."

"But I must not--will not leave this country. Can we not hide? What
would happen?--they would be married!"

"I don't care what would happen, or what wouldn't happen. The ship has
weighed anchor, and by it you go; and be d--d to the wench!"

"Stay, Bill,--what if I say I won't?"

"Then I say I will shoot you. I am in earnest. So you had better be led!
What the devil makes you care about a gal that don't care a straw for
you?"

"Bill, what should you know of love?"

"What should I, or what shouldn't I,--up, I say, and off. G--'s name, it
is gettin' light!"

Finding there was no remedy, L'Estrange mounted, and the three rode
along the shore till they got to Musselburgh, when Archy turned off to
the right; Bill and L'Estrange kept on till they reached a barren
stretch of sand and common, where three more men met them. The five
walked to the beach, where a smuggler's craft was in readiness. Leaving
one to take away the horses, the other four embarked, and set sail. A
fresh breeze, which had sprung up after the storm, swelled the sails,
and they soon rounded the bay, steering southward.

Leaving them, we now return to the Towers. Of course, the news of the
escape was so unlooked for--so startling--that for some time it was
hardly credited. The Earl, the Captain, and one or two others rode in to
Edinburgh, and found everyone at the prison in a vast state of
excitement. A more audacious escape had never been perpetrated.
Moreover, the turnkey was also missing, and the detectives could gain no
clue. Hundreds of visitors saw the cell, the bars filed through, the
rope still hanging, and the tracks of the fall on the rocks. Here, as a
matter of course, all traces were lost, and it was conjectured he might
be hiding in some of the dens of the old town. The most vigilant
inquiries ended, however, in nought. It was evident he had bold and
powerful confederates. The Earl was not without anxiety about Ellen, and
determined to take her from the spot for some time. The marriage was
fixed for the first week in November, and meantime Lord and Lady
Arranmore invited the Earl, Lady Florence, and Miss Ravensworth to spend
a month or two at their residence, Claremont Castle, close to Killarney.
The Captain left for Brighton, promising to be up at the marriage, and
bring Sir Harry Maynard, Major Forbes, young Pringle, and others. The
rest of the visitors left for their respective homes, receiving an
invitation to come to Dun Edin Towers on the 8th of November, when the
castle would be all decked out for the ceremony. A letter from Frank
also announced he had got leave, and would come home from Corfu in time
for his brother's marriage.




CHAPTER II.

    "And ruder words will yet rush in
    To spread the breach that words begin."--_Moore._


We pass over the time spent at Claremont Castle, and again introduce our
readers to the dining-room at the Towers, where a large party sat down
to a very handsome repast. At the head of the table sat the Marchioness
doing the honours of her brother's table with the greatest grace; she
had but lately made the Marquis happy by the tribute of a son and heir
to his titles. On the right of the Earl sat his bride elect in blushing
loveliness, and down the long table we observe many old faces amongst a
tribe of new. Talking to a pretty girl sat Sir Richard, about the middle
of the table; directly opposite him was the Captain. Frank, lately
returned from the Mediterranean, sat a few seats from the Marchioness.
Then there was Scroop, Wilson, and Sir Harry Maynard, Major Forster,
young Pringle, and numbers of ladies, amongst whom Lady Florence shone
next Johnny, who was her devoted admirer; Mr. Lennox, Mr. Power, the
clergyman, and Mr. Ravensworth made up a large company. The greatest
merriment prevailed, and every one was speaking of the approaching
marriage.

"How have you amused yourself to-day?" said the Earl, who had been in
Edinburgh with Mr. Ravensworth and Ellen, as he cut into the fine haunch
of venison that smoked on its massive silver plate; "it has been snowing
so hard, I suppose it kept you in the house."

"Snow doesn't keep me in," said the Captain; "I and Pringle were riding,
though most preferred the ladies' company to snowy roads."

"Ah! we had the best of it," said Sir Richard, "had we not, Sir Harry;
knocking about the billiard balls with the fair occupants of the
Castle?"

"What? Why you don't mean to say you played billiards all day, Sir
Richard?"

"Oh, dear no, my Lord; we spent most of the afternoon in admiring your
fine gallery of family pictures; there's a long line of De Veres."

"Did you observe any peculiarity in the pictures?"

"I can't say I did, my Lord," answered Sir Richard.

"I did though," said Sir Harry; "and that was--excuse me, Mr. Lennox,
but you are taking white wine with the brown vein of the venison"--(Mr.
L. rectified his error)--"that was--hock, if you please,"--(to the
footman)--"yes,--what was I saying? Some jelly--I thank you,--yes,
yes,--that your Lordship had placed all the old personages on the right
side, and all the young on the left side of the fireplaces,--a curious
crotchet--some beer,--I thank you."

The Colonel was a great _bon vivant_.

"It is no arrangement," said the Earl; "but since the time of Earl Hugh,
or the Roundhead peer as we call him, none of the family ever became
old."

"A most curious fancy indeed! Here, Andrew, some more hock; this venison
is beyond all praise, my Lord, cooked to the nicety of a minute,--a
singular fancy to prefer dying so early,--ha! ha! ha!"

"It is no fancy, Sir Harry; you have evidently not heard of the Weird of
the Wentworths."

"Do, Lord Wentworth, tell it to us,--you have so often promised," said
Ellen.

"Of course," said the Earl; "I must do whatever a lady asks,--especially
what Miss Ravensworth wishes."

He then told the singular narrative of Augusta de Vere, which we shall
not repeat, as our readers already are acquainted with it. Lord
Wentworth had merely wished to tell Ellen; but as he told a story
remarkably well, before he had finished he found the whole table
listening to him.

"A most singular and interesting story, my Lord," said Mr. Lennox; "but
I opine we must give it the same belief we give ghost stories in
general."

"No, Mr. Lennox," said the Marchioness, "this is quite unlike all other
stories, because its truth is proved by facts in the Peerage:--you will
find no De Vere since Hugh, Earl Wentworth, ever lived to be old."

"Certainly a curious coincidence, Lady Arranmore; and possibly explained
by the simple fact, the De Veres are a short-lived family."

"But," said Lady Florence, "they were very long-lived before, as the
portraits show; you must never tell a De Vere you misbelieve The Weird."

"There's no doubt about the matter," said the Captain; "with everything
to attest it, he must be a fool who does not credit it; you will see all
of us will be knocked on the head soon enough,--girls first; but a short
and merry life for me!"

"Indeed, John, I don't see why we should die before you," said Lady
Arranmore. "I fear you will be the first, with your fights and duels."

"Devil a fear; come, I'll bet I outlive both of you!"

"Come, I don't like this jesting," said the Marquis; "it is a serious
thing; and for my part I am like Lennox, and don't believe in such
nonsense."

"Nor I," said Sir Harry; "you are all hale and well; why should you
think you will die so early? What a splendid pine!--will you allow me to
give you some, Lady Florence?"

"I should think it was enough to make you quite nervous, Lady
Arranmore," said Ellen, still thinking on the Weird,--"it is such a
dreadful thing."

"No, Miss Ravensworth, we have become so accustomed to it, and brought
up in the belief, we are almost proud of our doom,--we have learned to
love it almost. After all, I should not like to grow old and--"

"Hideous," said the Captain; "no, no,--whom the gods love die young!"

"I fear, then, you will be the first old man, John, in our family," said
Lady Florence, laughing.

"A good one! How d'you like that, Captain?" said Sir Richard, filling
his glass. "Your health, De Vere!"

Without replying the Captain drank wine.

"If this is really an established fact," said Mr. Power, "I think it
should make you very serious; it is doubtless intended as a warning; and
if your days are to be short on earth, do you ever think that, after
death, there is an endless existence of bliss or misery?"

"After all," said the Earl, "you are no better than we are, Mr.
Power;--none of us know our end."

"True, my Lord; but if, as you say, none of your family live long,--and
you are now all grown up,--the time is short; and you should take the
more earnest heed to these matters."

"That is not my theory, Power: 'Happy for the day, careless for the
morrow,'--that's Scripture; at least it was when I was a boy," said the
Captain, whose ideas of the Bible were not very correct.

"This is the very perversion of Scripture, my young friend; when it bids
us not be careful of the morrow, it means we are to lay all our cares on
One who has promised to carry them."

"Well, Power, I am not learned in divinity; you stick to your trade, and
I will to mine; you be a soldier of God, and I will a soldier of the
King, or the devil, if you like it!"

A suppressed murmur of disapprobation followed this, and the Earl
changed the conversation by a totally irrelevant remark. Sir Richard,
unfortunately for himself, as the story will show, brought back the
conversation by saying they had found some striking resemblances to the
present family in some of the portraits.

"Indeed!" said the Earl. "And in whom did you find my likeness?"

"In the seventh Earl,--Algernon, I think was his name,--a young man in a
hunting suit. Then we found out a likeness for Lady Florence, in her
grandaunt Guendolen; and for the Marchioness in the Abbess Augusta; but
the best of all was--"

"Don't, please!" said Lady Florence, whispering across Johnny; "don't
say it; John doesn't like it." (Whether he did not comprehend Lady
Florence's meaning, or whether he wished to prove the truth of her
assertion, we know not; but in an evil moment he finished his remark)--

"--was the likeness to the Captain."

"And to whom do you liken me?" said the Captain, in a gloomy voice.

"To whom? Why,--ha! ha! ha! I shall die with laughter,--it was so
like,--the old Roundhead peer, Hugh. I'faith you might have been
brothers!"

"I wish to God you would find likenesses to yourself, and leave me
alone! I like that old murderer, egad!--I like that!"

"Come, there's no harm meant,--it's a mere joke."

"D--n joking," muttered the Captain,--"I like the old Roundhead, egad!"

Lady Arranmore, fearing there was something looming here, bowed to Ellen
Ravensworth, and the ladies rose and left the room. The Captain looked
gloomy, and appeared to have taken great umbrage at the unhappy
resemblance; it was not a newly found out likeness, and even before this
he had shown great wrath at the allusion. It was never quite evident why
he disliked it, but at any rate it _was_ evident he did so. When the
ladies were retired, Sir Richard, anxious to gloss over his mistake,
began--

"Really De Vere, you take mortal offence at a _jeu d'esprit_."

"Sir Richard, you seem determined to work me up to-night. I advise you
to think twice before you do so, or by heaven you may repent it."

"Why, De Vere, I think you are--I was going to say--crazy to-night: I
merely said you were like Earl Hugh--you are like, and there let it end,
I shall say no more."

The Captain was not inclined to let matters drop so easily, and replied,
"I shan't drop it in such a jolly hurry; the fact is you have laid a
plot to annoy me: egad you have, you did it before the ladies, and now
you're raking the accursed thing up again, which proves it. You compared
me to that d--able old renegade just to enrage me, by G-- you did. I
like that d--d, round-headed old ----! You have insulted me, Sir
Richard. I am not the man to brook insults--you will apologize--I demand
an apology."

The whole room were listening in dead silence to the quarrel, and
Johnny, who had not yet left, was in high delight at the prospect of a
scene. No one interfered yet, and the loud voice of the Captain as he
demanded an apology to most seemed at the least ominous.

"I have done nothing to give me cause to make an apology; I appeal to
the table, should I make one? Lord Wentworth, what say you?"

"You have insulted me, Sir Richard, and by G-- I'll have one, or know
the reason why. I don't care who says you should not, I say you shall--I
am waiting for an apology!"

"You may wait, De Vere, till doomsday,--you may sit there till you
die,--but never will I apologize when I have done no fault."

"You have committed a fault. Ha! I see you are incapable of feelings
like a man of honour; you must be forced to feel as you should. Sir
Richard, you say you did not intend to insult me, I say you lie most
foully in your throat; there--will that do?"

A thrill of horror ran like an electric shock through the company.

"Ha! you give me the lie, do you?" said Sir Richard, blanching with
rage, "then take that."

As he spoke he threw a glassful of port wine across the table: the
liquid hit the Captain on his mouth and chin, and poured over his orders
and medals, for he was in full uniform. The revenge was quick as
thought! Uttering a fearful malediction, the enraged officer seized a
heavy cut glass tumbler, and threw it at Sir Richard with unerring aim.
The Baronet dodged aside from the missile, and saved himself a blow on
the centre of his forehead, but he did not escape. The tumbler struck
him a terrific blow on his temples, and, as it flew into a dozen
fragments, inflicted a terrible wound. In an instant, as by one consent,
the whole table sprung to their feet. For a moment, too paralyzed to
speak, a deathly silence reigned. The Captain's face was lit by a
fiendish smile, as he wiped the red wine off his breast. Sir Richard's
face was black with ire, as he staunched the blood that covered his
forehead with his kerchief. The two foes looked as if they could have
leaped the barrier that severed them, and locked in each other's arms
divided not to death.

Soon a confused murmuring arose on all sides, and then voices grew
louder.

"I wouldn't stand that," said Wilson.

"Nor I," said Frank.

"Give it to him, pitch into him, confound him, thrash him, Captain,"
cried the Marquis, whose Irish blood was at boiling point.

"Yes, pitch him out of the window,--kick him out of doors--d--n him,"
cried Frank, catching the fire. "He had insult enough to enrage a
Moses."

"True--by heaven, sir! a glass of wine thrown at his face, good wine
too, a most ungentlemanly trick, and unbecoming an officer of his
Majesty's service," said Sir Harry.

"They should fight it out," remarked Forster.

"Yes, give it him, Captain, do," said Johnny.

The clamour now grew uproarious, when the Earl's voice was heard, loud
and commanding,--"Silence, gentlemen, I insist! I _will_ be heard at my
own table. Silence, cease this brawling."

When order was restored, the Earl continued: "I am deeply grieved such
an unjustifiable proceeding should have occurred at my table--that a
scene which would have disgraced a pot-house should have been enacted
here. I am surprised at Sir Richard's resenting an angry insult in the
way he did, and at my brother giving him the lie, and then so far
forgetting what was due to himself, and to me, as to fling glass at any
guest of mine. I fear but one result--an hostile meeting--will wipe out
the dishonour. The thing is done now, and cannot be undone, but at least
let seconds be chosen, and all done in a decent and gentlemanly way. In
conclusion, I am much hurt at my brother-in-law the noble Marquis
hounding on the antagonists in the way he did, and at Frank's supporting
him. I would have expected a boy, like Johnny Ravensworth might have
forgot himself. I do trust this is the first and last time such a
disgraceful brawl will occur here, at least while I am master of the
Towers!"

The Earl then sat down, and was complimented by several of the gentlemen
for thus expressing his opinions. Mr. Power urged the plea of apology,
but little heed was taken of him.

"Will you be my second, Arranmore?" said the Captain.

"Faith, not I," replied the Marquis, "I have made fool enough of myself
already. I will not meddle in this unlucky matter any more."

"You have no such scruples, old boy," said the Captain.

"Not I," said Scroop, "I am your man."

"And will you be my second, Wilson?" said Sir Richard, his voice
tremulous with passion still.

"With pleasure, we are quite _au fait_ at these things on board ship."

"Come, Scroop, let's get to business; after all, Musgrave, he had no
business to give you the lie, and you retaliated the broadside well."

"And he found his match by G--," said Scroop, as he and Wilson walked
aside, and in the most cold-blooded manner arranged everything with the
utmost despatch--Time, place, weapons, and distance. "Time, at once;
place, the Holly Walk; weapons, pistols; distance, twelve yards."

When these regulations were announced the Captain ordered Andrew, who
then entered the room having got an inkling all wasn't right, to go to
his room, and bring a mahogany case down.

"Is't to be a duel?" said the old man, handing him the case, which the
Captain unlocked, and produced two duelling pistols with black ebony
handles, and inlaid with silver; on each was a silver plate, and on one
neatly engraved three names with dates after them,--three victims to the
Captain's sure aim!

"You'll gie's permission to hae ane keek at yer shootin', Captain."

"No--go to the devil."

"Sure, Captain, you're no in earnest; I was speerin' if--"

"Come then, but for God's sake cease your clavering," said the Captain,
cutting the old butler short.

The whole of the gentlemen then rose and followed the principals and
their seconds to the fatal spot. In those days little heed was given to
the evil of duelling, and it would have made many modern ears tingle had
they listened to the light converse on the road. The Marquis and Major
Forster were betting on the likelihood of the Captain's being shot or
not, as Sir Richard fired first, and the Major offered ten to one
against him, which the Marquis took, saying, he had little fear he would
miss his shot, unless he was hit through the head; for even if he was
mortally wounded in any other part he would still give a dying, and
probably a killing shot--he was so famous for his pistol-shooting. The
two antagonists were each conversing with his second; Frank and Sir
Harry were laughing and joking; the Earl and a large party were the
quietest; and some few, such as Mr. Power and Mr. Ravensworth, came not
to see the duel, but to strive and arrange a friendly termination yet. A
short distance behind, old Andrew, with a tribe of footmen, followed;
the butler was descanting on the wonderful sureness of the Captain's
shot.

"I would not be him to-night though, and Sir Richard getting first
fire--that's not a gentlemanly plan--both should fire together," said an
English valet.

"Deil a fear o' the Captain--an' he be na shot in the heed, he'll hae
his man! See him, he is as cool an' unskeered as though he had the first
bleeze! Sir Richard is fey, I saw it a' the day--puir young man--his
time is oot!"

"It isna the first chiel he has shot," said young Wilton, who appeared
just then.

"Deed no, Jack--there's mayhap three, and mayhap mair names scratched on
his weapon--Mr. John was ay a quarrelsome-like chiel--I mind him frae
his childhood, he was ay fechting and pummeling, an' noo he has grown a
man he but fechts wi' pistols."

"If neither are shot will they fight it out still, Andrew?"

"In troth will they--but dinna you trouble yer pate wi' sic
nonsense--the Captin is na goin' to miss! Sir Richard I'll na swer to,
but I wud tak' my aith _he'll_ no miss."




CHAPTER III.

    "It has a strange quick jar upon the ear,
      That cocking of the pistol, when you know
    A moment more will bring the sight to bear
      Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so;
    A gentlemanly distance, not too near,
      If you have got a former friend for foe;
    But after being fired at once or twice,
    The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice."
                                             _Don Juan._


The snow, which had fallen on and off during the whole day, had ceased,
the sky cleared, a sharp frost had set in, and was already beginning to
crisp the top of the snow, across which in varied groups the guests and
retainers of the Towers walked. A few minutes brought them to their
journey's end, and they all assembled in the Holly Walk. It was so named
from the immense holly hedges that rose on each side of the broad green
walk, and in the coldest weather was always a warm and sheltered path.
Now the hedges were weighed down with the newly fallen snow, and the
green grass covered to the depth of some inches. In the north-east was
rising the cold round moon, which looked down on a white world with a
placid eye, soon to be awestruck by deeds of blood. A few of the
brighter stars challenged the lady of the night, and asserted their
prerogative of giving light; and over the north and north-west the
northern lights shot out brilliant streamers. The air was shrewd and
biting, but no wind was stirring, and the only sound that broke the
stillness was the cranch of the footsteps on the newly frozen snow
surface. In the dark shadow of the eastern side of the holly hedge was
grouped the whole company,--excepting the seconds, who were pacing the
right distance in the moonlit side of the walk. The Captain was talking
in a light manner to Sir Harry; it was not his first, nor second, nor
even third encounter, and he seemed to treat the matter with great
indifference. Sir Richard had never before fought a duel, and though he
had first shot he was not wholly at his ease like his antagonist; he
stood by himself and silently watched the distance marked in the snow.
Popular feeling was certainly on the Captain's side--he had heard them
say there was only one place to shoot his foe if he wished to disable
him from firing too, and he secretly resolved to aim for his head. The
Earl and several others were speaking in a low tone on the coming
dreadful match; Mr. Power, Ravensworth, and Lennox, were all three
talking together, and Johnny some distance behind.

"This is a most ungodly and lawless business, Mr. Ravensworth," said Mr.
Power; "we should try and stop it--you as his lordship's future
father-in-law should have influence to prevent it."

"Mine is a delicate position, Mr. Power; much as I should like to see
things amicably settled, I do not like interfering," replied Mr.
Ravensworth.

"Certainly in your ministerial capacity, and as a soldier of the Prince
of Peace--it seems to me, Mr. Power, this important duty devolves on
you."

"Perhaps it does, Mr. Lennox, and I am but an unprofitable servant to
fear man's displeasure; I must magnify my office and try what can be
done; but I greatly fear it will be useless to try--nevertheless I can
but make the attempt."

With these words he walked to where the Captain was standing, but seeing
several persons round him he proceeded further, where Sir Richard stood
alone.

"Sir Richard, excuse my boldness in addressing a stranger, but as a
servant of God I cannot see His laws broken without at least speaking
His message. Sir Richard, you are either going to leave this ground with
the stain of blood on your hands, or are going to rush unprepared into
your Judge's presence. I beseech you pause, and make up this unseemly
quarrel."

"I fear, sir, you do not know what you ask; it is impossible for me to
back out of this even if I wished,--and I do not wish it,--without
incurring the stain of cowardice."

"Alas! Sir Richard, you fear the opinion of your fellow mortal more than
breaking your Maker's laws!"

"Sir, I admire your sentiments, and wish I could see things in the light
you do; I regret I cannot--it is useless to urge me more, my mind is
made up!"

"And God grant your peace with him is made up too!" said the clergyman,
turning sorrowfully away towards the Captain, whom he thus addressed:

"Unhappy young man, ere it is too late, forgive your enemy--you will
leave this ground with your hands stained in a fellow creature's blood,
or--"

"Really, Mr. Power, it is not unlikely _I_ may be shot, you are
premature."

"And dare you meet your Maker with all your sins full blown--dare you
hurry unprepared--"

"Mr. Power, you came here to dine, and not to preach--Heaven knows you
have time enough on Sunday--so you had better keep your sermons for
those who will listen to them."

"Ungodly man, I tremble for you--"

"It is more than I do for myself. Come, stow your sermons, old
Squaretoes, and for God's sake, if I am to be knocked off, let me end my
life in peace. I'd rather stand at a cannon's mouth than yours--Lord
knows which breathes hottest!"

Cast down, but not vanquished, Mr. Power next attempted the Earl.

"For the love of Heaven, my Lord, use your authority to put down this
breach of God's laws, and man's also; let not murder take place in sight
of your castle."

"I am very sorry I have no power in this matter at all, beyond seeing
everything is done as it should be--else I would not be here. My motto
is let every man mind his own business--you should apply to the
duellists."

"I have, my Lord, and woefully I have been served."

"Then, Mr. Power, I have no chance in the world."

"Lord Arranmore, will you not use your influence?"

"What in the devil's name have I to do with it?--besides I have a bet of
50_l._ on the affair, so am not likely to stop it if I could."

"I wonder to see you patronizing such a meeting, Mr. Power; however, I
suppose you are like your lay-brethren, and curiosity overcomes
consistency," said Frank.

"Come, Mr. Ravensworth,--come, Mr. Lennox,--let us leave this godless
crew--I have done my duty at least."

"I am much obliged, but must certainly stay," said Mr. Lennox, who had
no idea of missing the first hostile meeting he had ever come in for. "I
am a bit of a doctor, Mr. Power, and my presence may be
required--there's Johnny Ravensworth, however, too juvenile for such
entertainments."

"Come, my boy," said Mr. Ravensworth; "come along with us," following
Mr. Power as he spoke.

"Mayn't I stay, papa?" Then in an under tone, "Confound Mr. Lennox; he
is glad enough to find an excuse, and vents his anger on me."

"No, my boy; come along directly. Do you hear me?"

"Let the boy stay, Mr. Ravensworth," said the Marquis. "It is well to
accustom them early to this sort of thing!"

"My Lord, I wonder at you. When you have been a father as long as I have
you will think otherwise."

"I'faith, were my boy a little older he should have been here," answered
the Irishman.

"You had better go, Johnny," said the Earl. "Always obey your father.
Sir Harry, here, will tell you discipline is the mother of all good
soldiering."

"Indeed is it, my lad; now, quick march; you are delaying the encounter.
And, by my stars! it is cold work halting in the snow. I had rather be
over that excellent punch, all spoiling," said Sir Harry.

The three proceeded to the Towers without speaking. Mr. Power and Mr.
Ravensworth in silence, Johnny often casting a wistful look back, and
asking old Andrew if it wasn't a shame to take him away, to which the
old butler answered in the affirmative: "Ay, ay, Maister Johnny, it's a
sair trial; yet Scripture saith, obey your parents; mayhap ye'll fecht
one your ainsell some o' these days."

When the two gentlemen and their reluctant companion reached the
drawing-room, they were beset with questions from the ladies, who had a
most imperfect knowledge of the affair.

"It is a dreadful thing," said Lady Arranmore. "I wonder you did not try
and stop it."

"God knows, madam, I did try. I had perhaps a hearing from Sir Richard;
but your brother's heart is as hard as the nether millstone."

"I fear John is too often mixed up in these disgraceful affairs."

"Why, Johnny," said Lady Florence, "I thought you would have been
there?"

"And so I would, had I had my own way; but I was dragged off whether I
would or no."

"Then you really think they will fight?" said a lady.

"I fear so, madam."

"But perhaps they may miss," suggested Ellen.

"Little fear of John," said Lady Florence. "But it is awful."

"Indeed, madam, I am--but, God love us! there goes one," said Mr. Power.

In fact, at the moment a clear ring of a pistol-shot was heard; and, ere
any one could speak, in quick succession another echoed through the
woods.

"I'll run and see," said Johnny; and he was gone before any one could
stop him.

We return to the Holly Walk. When Mr. Power was gone the Captain said,
"Now we've sent Squaretoes to preach to the girls, we'd better be at
work. It's d--bly cold, and will spoil our shooting."

"All is ready," said Scroop, handing him a pistol, while Wilson gave
another to Sir Richard.

The Captain looked at the cap (the detonating system, but lately
introduced, was all the rage, and the pistols were percussion), then let
the dogshead press on the nipple an instant, and, half-cocking the
piece, walked with Scroop to his stand. Sir Richard and Wilson also took
their places.

The scene was awful! Twelve paces from each other stood the two
antagonists; their seconds walked back and joined the rest of the
lookers on. Not a word was spoken, save by old Andrew, who stood at the
end of the walk, beneath a cypress-tree, almost directly behind the
Captain, some thirty yards off, and kept up an incessant channering, as
the Americans call it. The moon shone on one cheek of each of the foes.
The Captain had a devil-me-care aspect; and though he was first to stand
fire, seemed to reck little what happened. Sir Richard looked very pale;
perhaps it was the moon--perhaps the thought he was about to shed a
fellow-being's blood--or be hurled into another world. Old Andrew
declared he was "fey."

At last, as if tired of the delay, the Captain's voice was heard clear
and loud: "If you are ready, Sir Richard, I am."

Sir Richard cocked; the click seemed as if it rapped every heart that
heard it, save his whose life it threatened. He raised the piece slowly,
and, pointing it at the Captain's head, took a cool, deliberate aim. A
slight frown gathered on the Captain's brow, who thus saw his life
menaced. Then came the flash--the explosion--and the ping of the leaden
ball, which rung through the cypress-tree, making old Andrew "loup," as
he said.

"Missed, by Jove!" shouted Wilson. "It was a shaver, by--"

Before he could finish his sentence the Captain flung up his pistol,
and, without seeming to take any aim, fired. The flash--the loud
report--and then the thud of Sir Richard as he bounded forward, and fell
flat on his face upon the snow!

Every one rushed to the fallen man--save one, the slayer, who stood like
a statue, with the pistol smoking in his hand. The seconds turned Sir
Richard over on his back; in the centre of his forehead was a round,
bleeding hole.

One figure left the crowd, and, walking up to the Captain, said in a
husky voice, "Drilled, by G--!"

It was Scroop.

"Where?" replied the Captain.

Scroop put his finger to the middle of his brow.

"Where I generally hit. But I must go and have a look. Not the first
soldier I've _drilled_!"

With a calm face he stooped over his victim a moment, and then, as he
walked away, muttered, "Ha! Dick Musgrave! thou wert a fool to quarrel
with me. That shortens our count by one. The grave keeps her secrets!"

"This has had a more tragical ending than I imagined," said the Earl.
"Andrew, have the remains carried to the castle. Come along home," to
Frank.

"Confound my ill luck!" said Major Forster to the Marquis. "Poor Sir
Richard seemed all of a tremble; no wonder he missed!"

"Is he dead?" cried Johnny, running up.

"Deed as a nail," replied old Andrew, and away Johnny ran.

Like a wild thing he entered the drawing-room, and all the ladies
gathered round him, pale with terror.

"He's killed," cried Johnny, out of breath.

"Who is killed?" said Lady Florence. "Who, Johnny?"

"I am sure I didn't ask. One is; I saw them carrying him."

"You careless boy," said Lady Arranmore. "Oh! I hope it is not true!
Here's some one who will tell us. Oh! Captain Wilson, who fell?"

"Musgrave, of course, Lady Arranmore."

"But is he dead? Oh say no," said Lady Florence, trembling with
excitement and fear.

"Did you ever hear of a man living with an ounce of lead through his
brains, Lady Florence? No, no; Richard of Musgrave breathes no more! The
Captain will have to fly the country. Ah! here he comes."

As he spoke the Captain, accompanied by Scroop, both booted and spurred,
entered the room.

"Oh! John, how could you?"

"Oh! what have you done?" exclaimed his sisters.

"Lord help us! what's done can't be helped. I am sure I am d--d sorry.
But I must be off, so no recrimination. Good bye, Edie. Good bye, little
Floss. And you, Miss Ravensworth. What, will you not even shake hands?"

"I cannot--your hand is bloodstained!"

"Ellen, if you knew all you would thank me. You do not know that Sir
Richard was he who carried you off," said he, _sotto voce_.

Ellen hid her face in her hands, and the young officer turned away and
clanked out of the room, bowing to the other ladies.

"God forgive you this murder; and may you never feel remorse for the
deed!" said Mr. Power, as he strode past him.

"Ha, my preacher! are you primed, and at it again? Nothing like sticking
to one's trade. You to your Bible, and I to swords, guns, and pistols!"

"You will think better some day. I trust God will break your heart in
his own time."

"I am like to break your head if you detain me any longer, old
Snapdragon! Never you mind me. If I get to the devil first I'll fire a
salute when you come! Till then, adieu."

Leaving the worthy man to mourn over his wickedness, our hero proceeded
to the hall, where all the gentlemen were grouped, talking to his
brother and the Marquis. He and Scroop hastened to the courtyard, where
young Wilton stood with three horses, ready saddled and bridled, to
carry them and Archy to Leith, where they were to set sail at once for
the Continent.

"I'll show my face again when this has blown over," said the Captain, as
he mounted. "Poor Sir Richard! I am very sorry for him,--unlucky devil
as he was. You will see he is decently buried. He'll have a warmer time
of it than we shall, if Power speaks gospel."

"Well, good bye, John. Write to us sometimes," said the Earl, giving him
a pocket-book. "This has been a most unfortunate night; it will delay my
marriage,--and get me into a jolly scrape, too."

"Egad! I'm deuced sorry; but Ellen won't spoil for keeping a bit. Ha,
the needful; I had forgotten that. Thanks--"

"An' I was thinking you would aiblins no be sorry to hae a keg of the
gude stuff," said old Andrew, handing a big-bellied flask of whisky.
"Gude save us, Captain! yon was a grand shot--puir Sir Richard!"

"Why, bless me, you are a better fellow than I thought, Andrew! Here,
Scroop, you carry this flask; we shall be glad of it, I warrant. What a
d--d night it is; the snow will be balling in our nags' feet, and leave
a track for a blind man to follow. But we must be off. Good night,
gentlemen. Come, Scroop, for God's sake be mounted and away, or we shall
have the hounds on our scent!"

The horsemen then spurred off, and were soon lost in the darkness. The
guests returned into the hall, and went upstairs.

When the Earl entered the drawing-room, Ellen drew him aside, and, in
the mildest, gentlest manner, told him how sorry she was that this had
occurred.

"You are right, dearest. I am very sorry, but it is done now; it will
delay our union, Ellen, for six weeks, and that will be punishment
enough for me. I have your forgiveness, I hope?"

"Ask God's forgiveness, not mine; for this has been a sad--sad evening."

To tell the truth the Earl was little pleased at the part he had taken
in it: but he had a hard part to play; brought up without the least
religion he had only lately come to see the harm of duelling. Ellen's
example was silently doing a world of good, and she saw it, so she said
no more: those few words told more on him than a hundred sermons.

The irreligious character of the Towers was well known; and the way in
which this awful affair was treated will sufficiently show it, and our
readers will see how difficult it was for the Earl to change his course
all at once. He had laughed and joked on such occasions before, and he
was not so changed yet that he was beyond the influence of the evil
current.

As he left Ellen, Frank entered the room, equipped for riding.

"Why, De Vere, where the deuce are you off to?" said young Pringle.

"I am going to Piershill--do you think I am going to sleep here
to-night, with Sir Richard lying below?"

"Oh, Frank," said Lady Florence, "I wish you had not put that into my
head; I am quite nervous--I wish I did not sleep alone!"

"Then you should make friends with his ghost, Floss!" said her brother,
laughing.

Without appearing to notice his remark, Lady Florence prevailed on Ellen
to share her room that night.

"I wouldn't be you, youngster," said Wilson to Johnny; "you are next
cabin to him."

"Oh, bother it!--Lord Wentworth, may he be moved?"

"No, no, Johnny," said the Earl, who could not help relishing the
dreadful jest--"he has been knocked about enough for one night. You may
sleep in another room; but I put my veto on moving him again."

"Well, who will come to Piershill?" said Frank; "I am not going to ride
alone--Arranmore, come along!"

"Faith, not I--I never feared Musgrave, alive or dead! Besides, I am
married; I have my wife to defend."

"Ah, that's well enough; but we poor devils who have no wives must look
out for company. Come, will no one accompany me?"

"I think I had better weigh anchor and be off," said Captain Wilson; "I
have had far too much to do with it to moor myself here and be snapped
up by the sharks!--only for God's sake don't put me aboard that vicious
craft young Nimrod again."

"Good night, then--and don't dream about ghosts, Florence," said Frank,
as he and Wilson descended. "It is not I am really afraid you know,
Wilson; but I want to tell the news at the barracks."

The two young men were soon mounted, and riding along to the cavalry
barracks, where the 10th Hussars were now quartered. When they reached
the barracks, they found the yard full of men and officers, crowded
round a soldier who had lately dismounted.

"Hallo! here's some one who can enlighten us better than this d--d
Paddy!"

"How are you, De Vere?--so you've had a duel at the Towers?" said
Captain Ross.

"How the devil did you learn the news? Well, that's a nice sell for
me,--coming all this way to tell you stale news."

The explanation was given that one of the troopers had been supping at
the Towers that evening, and, with true Irish wisdom, having heard there
had been a duel, and one of the duellists killed, without staying to
inquire which had fallen

                  "much aghast,
    Rode back to _Piershill_ fiery 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.




CHAPTER IV.

    "From that chamber, clothed in white,
    The bride came forth on her wedding-night;
    There, in that silent room below,
    The dead lay in _her_ shroud 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, and _her_ change 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 while
_he_ would 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 would _they_ hear 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!




CHAPTER V.

    "Oh, do not look so bright and blest,
      For still there comes a fear,
    When brow like thine looks happiest
      That 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 be
    Melted 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."




CHAPTER VI.

    "He knew himself detested, but he knew
    The hearts that loathed him, crouched and dreaded too.
    Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt
    From 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 in _dis_favour 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 a _flare 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.




CHAPTER VII.

    "'Tis long since I beheld that eye
    Which gave me bliss or misery;
    And I have striven, but in vain,
    Never to think of it again;
    For though I fly from Albion,
    I still can only love but one.

    "And I will cross the whitening foam,
    And I will seek a foreign home;
    Till I forget a false fair face,
    I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
    My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
    But ever love, and love but one."--_Byron._


On a dark night in December--stormy as that eve on which Leander swam
for the last time across the broad Hellespont--a small lugger manfully
breasting the billows ran ashore near Musselburgh. There was a high
north-easter, driving sleet and snow before it, and raising a heavy
surf, through which old Bill skilfully ran his craft ashore on the
sandy, seaweedy, mussel-beds, whence the burgh takes its name.

"Have a care, you scurvy old devil," cried the Captain, as a huge sea
broke over the side of the boat, and christened him with its salt
spray--"Easy there--where is your seamanship gone? Egad, I'm drenched
like a water rat."

"When you've sailed as far as me--you won't swear at a bit dusting like
that--you are but a land-lubber after all!"

"Stow your venom, you old dogfish, and give us a dram. Ah! here comes
another sea over these accursed sands! Ho! well done, Bill; she wore off
like a gull: jump out, Ned, never mind wetting your boots. Easy, ho!
down with the sail, here we go--ashore at last."

So saying he leaped into the water up to his knees after L'Estrange, and
these two on one side, with old Bill and a German boy on the other,
shoved up the smack high and dry.

"Well, let those like the sea who do--terra firma for me," cried the
Captain, shaking the sea-water off his waterproof cloak. "'The white
waves heaving high' be d--d! such a pitching and lurching as we've
had--I am right glad to stand on something solid, arn't you, old
fellow?"

"I am indeed--and glad to stretch my limbs--so miserably cooped up this
last five hours! what an age it is since I last trod these sands! Oh!
could I see how this will turn out!"

"Where do you steer for now, and where am I to moor myself? Leastways,
not here, if I knows it! for it is rascally cold--we'd best run down
after a boosing ken."

"You are for swilling, no doubt, Bill--you drunken old satyr--always up
to filling your barrel-shaped body with liquor! but look you, Bill, we
haven't come all this way to lush. I must be off to the Towers. Blow
this climate, it's always sleeting and raining in this rotten hole! You
and I, L'Estrange, will go and meet Archy, he will have the nags ready;
and you, old sot, you may go and be d--d, or swig, or what you like,
only be here by the time tide is full, and leave Hans (the boy) to watch
over the boat. Give him some grog--for it is infernally cold! Come,
Ned."

The Captain and L'Estrange walked off and left old Bill to find a pump,
whilst the unfortunate foreigner was left to watch in the sleet and wind
which blew most chillily over the Links.

"This is a regular wild goose chase," said the Captain, as he and his
friend struck out for a small village called Fisherrow, a bleak hamlet
between Musselburgh and Portobello, where Archy was to be in waiting
with horses; "and I only do it as a last hope--you must make up your
mind for a failure--and then remember you are never to speak of the
wench again--that was the promise."

"It was--oh! how my heart seems to sink--in a few hours more I shall
know my fate!"

"You will--and I am thankful for it. Your whining and teasing after that
woman are enough to drive a saint mad! On my soul I wonder at you--I
dare swear she has never thought of you once! Then there's her child,
whatever are we to do with that, supposing our plan succeeds? To be sure
it's easy giving it a heave into the sea! But yet it is an awful risk!
Carrying off Ellen Ravensworth was one thing, but carrying off the
Countess of Wentworth is another! Never mind--nothing like aiming high,
as Lucifer once did."

"And got a grievous fall for his pains too," put in L'Estrange.

"As we perhaps, nay doubtless, shall!" said the Captain.

"Had we not better think again? it is not too late yet," said
L'Estrange.

"It is too late; I haven't come all this way, nor been tossed on that
rough sea for nothing! I tell you, however, I shall go and see only; if
what we heard is true and she is alone, it is but a whistle and you come
up, toss her over a nag, brain any flunkeys who interfere, and away over
heath and moor to the boatie good! The sea is a road where it is hard to
track a cunning fox like Bill."

"I almost repent I ever came--after all if she did nothing but cry and
lament, I could do nothing. Remember what I said, I will try by words,
and if she doesn't come round again, I will take her back scathless."

"A fool's errand that--you may do what you like after you have got her.
I will be shot if I burn my fingers again for her, or any other woman
under the sun! But here we are at last--I will whistle."

The Captain--for though he no longer had a right to the name, we still
know him best by it--then blew a shrill whistle. It was answered, and
presently Archy Forbes appeared.

"Glad to see ye baith looking sae weel--it's ay a saft night when we are
about."

"It is, Archy my boy! it's easy to see Heaven doesn't smile on us--but
devil's weather for me! Have you the nags?"

"Surely, surely--they are in yon byre--follow me."

"Who are at the Towers, Archy?" said L'Estrange.

"Dinna speer on me, sir! I have na been there this mony a day. Sin my
father was dead and gane--Heaven rest him! the gear a' went wrang, and
my mither and the bairns left. The laird wasna pleased, and folk say he
kent mair than was right anent your honour's business, and thae----"

"Peace, fool, who wants to hear about your concerns? If you had found
out who were at the Towers you might have been somewhat worth listening
to. Where is this byre, or what d'you call it?"

"It's near by noo, yon dark house, wi' the reek frae the chimla."

"All right--there's your hire--and now decamp and find out old Bill, and
tell him to put the cabin in order for fair freight."

By this time they had reached a wretched stable, or rather cow-house,
from which two tolerable horses were produced. The Captain, selecting
the best, was soon mounted, and together they trotted off for the
Towers. During the long ride scarcely a word was spoken, except now and
then a hoarse curse on the snow, which now began falling thick and fast,
and balled in their horses hoofs, forcing them to dismount several times
on their way. When within a quarter of a mile of the Towers they stopped
at a summer-house or arbour, where L'Estrange was to await the result of
the Captain's reconnaissance, and if summoned by the whistle ride up at
once to the Towers. This bold and diabolic attempt had been undertaken,
owing to a statement which had reached the Captain to the effect that
the Countess and her infant baby, a fine little girl of nearly three
months of age, were then staying in perfect seclusion at the Towers, and
the Earl in London on business. Judging themselves able to overcome old
Andrew, and any other footmen, they fancied they could get clear off
with the lady and her child before any of the out-door servants took the
alarm, and then their determination was to set sail for the north of
Scotland, where L'Estrange madly dreamed he could excite the old love by
his eloquence of woe. He vowed he would restore her safely to her home
again should he fail, and then fly to America and bury himself from the
world. The Captain took part in the plot, and promised his assistance if
the little girl was also carried off--Bill was to take care and keep her
out of sight, living or dead--and we are authorized in stating that
though he verbally approved of L'Estrange's plan of returning the
Countess, unless she chose to stay with him,--an idea that could only
take its birth in a mind maddened by a strange delusion,--yet he inly
determined, if he once got hold of both he would keep them out of sight
until he could gain a heavy ransom from his brother; for his violent
deeds seemed to have excluded all hopes of his ever succeeding to the
title even if he got rid of the heirs.

Leaving L'Estrange at the arbour, the Captain wrapped himself up in a
costly cloak of sable fur, and rode for the Towers, which he reached a
little past ten in the evening. The brilliant lights first excited his
fears that the rumour was a false one; however, he rang the bell and
waited to see the result. Whilst he is waiting we will take a view of
the dining-room and its inmates. About a dozen gentlemen are sitting
over their wine after dinner. The Earl at the head of the table--next
him the Marquis--all the rest are strangers but two, young Scroop and
Mr. Lennox.

"I wonder what has become of the Captain?" said the Earl; "except these
scandals, which I hope are worthless, we never hear a word of him, or
his friend."

"Their names," said the Marquis, "are, I fear, famous for infamy; while
John kept to a few harmless revels, and only now and then an affair
_d'honneur_, I didn't care; but shooting fellows at every town, is too
wild by half!"

At the same moment the door opened, and a tall figure, so muffled in fur
as to be almost irrecognizable, entered. Old Andrew appeared giggling
behind.

"Hallo! old fellows," said the figure, throwing off his cloak; "here I
am again. By Jove! this snug room, and these merry fellows make me feel
jolly. Andrew, you knave, get some hot punch, blest if I am not half
frozen--I will thaw anon and welcome old friends, wait till I have got
some life in me," approaching the fire.

Old Andrew, grinning with joy, hastened to get the punch as he knew the
Captain liked it, whilst all his old allies gathered round him, and
beset him with questions on all sides.

"Preserve me from my friends; why, you will be driving me into the fire,
and one in a family is enough for it. Egad, I am thawing now: how are
you, Wentworth, hearty, and you Arranmore, old boy? I was very sorry for
poor dear Edith; how the devil did she go and manage to get burned? ah,
I see you are still tender about it; never mind, time will cure you of
the burn. And you, Scroop: ha! bless my soul, I am gladder to see you
well than any; shake hands, old fellow, no malice. And you, Lennox; by
Jove, this reminds me of old times. Where's Johnny Ravensworth?"

"He is at Sandhurst, preparing for the line. My father-in-law has
succeeded to a nice little property in the Highlands, and Ellen--you
havn't asked me about my wife."

"Egad, I quite forgot her. I'll warrant her flourishing from your
face;--and your little boy--"

"No, no, little girl; it was rather a disappointment, but she is a
darling child."

"Never mind, better luck next time; do you not think so, Wentworth?
Come, let us sit down and hear about all my friends. Ha, Scott, I
thought I knew you; and Trevors too,--keen after the hounds as ever,
squire?"

"As ever, but this weather is bad for us, it's like snow, I fear."

"Like it; it is snowing like fury now. Egad it was balling in avalanches
on my nag's hoofs."

"Oh, you rode then?" said the Earl.

"I didn't exactly walk, as my boots and spurs might have told you, but
where I came from I won't say; the fox doesn't show where it earths, and
I mustn't show my face by aught than lamplight."

"Then I fear your evil reports are true,--you have been making the
Continent too hot for you."

"My evil reports,--if you mean by that my duels,--are certainly not few
and far between; but it isn't my fault, if those rascally foreigners
will quarrel so. Egad, they will find one Englishman a match for twenty
of their cowardly selves. I'll whip them into order. But it is sheriff's
officers that I fear here, and when I've had my grog, and seen the
girls, I must put a dozen miles between us."

"I am sorry for that; but remember the Towers are safe, no sheriff's
officer puts his head in here."

"I know that, but then I have a friend waiting--Czinsky." Scroop looked
uneasy.

"Why didn't you bring him here?" said the Earl.

"He wouldn't come; he's waiting a dozen miles from this, and I must soon
be off."

"Stay, we can send. Do rest a day or two," said the Earl.

"No use pressing, I can't. I don't mean to be rude, only God knows I
can't stop. Ring the bell, Lennox, please; what is that stupid villain
Andrew about?"

"Here, Captain, here; het, strang, and sweet, isna that your song? an'
how are ye? weel to dae?" said the old servant, bringing in a large bowl
of smoking punch.

"Egad, this is the stuff on a snowy night. It's always snowing here it
seems. Do you remember the night I hooked it, after nailing Musgrave,
poor devil--I hope he was decently interred. By Jove, I was very sorry I
hit him where I did; he was a good fellow, and here's to his health, and
yours, Scroop; and as you love me don't quarrel."

"If little quarrels make great friends, sharp cuts make blunt ones. Why
you drive your rapier through and through a fellow, like a spit through
a partridge, and then talk of being good friends again! however, I will
drink your health, and the further we fly the tighter we'll tie! I've
had enough of close friendship with you."

"Come, I believe you are angry after all. Never mind, _chacun a son
gout_, nothing like being on good terms with the man that eats you. Ha!
ha! ha!"

After emptying another bowl with the Marquis and one or two others who
remained behind to hear the Captain's adventures, whilst the Earl, who
didn't exactly like to ally himself again with such a scapegrace, and
the remaining guests joined the ladies, the Captain rose, exclaiming
with an oath he must be on his travels. He however went up stairs to see
Lady Florence and the Countess; the first received him with sisterly
warmth of welcome, whilst the reception he met with from the latter was
cold, and politely frigid in the extreme. He asked to see the little
girl, and was shown by the Countess and his sister to the next room,
where in a handsome cot the infant slept. Lady Wentworth bent over it
with a mother's love, whilst the Captain looked gloomily on the little
features of her, who at any rate would cut him out of his prospects. To
the question if he did not think her a lovely child he answered, "Every
baby, he supposed, was thought lovely by its mother; however, she did
seem much above the usual run of children." He then came back to the
drawing-room, shook hands with those he knew, and departed as
mysteriously as he came. Mr. Lennox and the Marquis saw him off, and
each returned disgusted by his parting sally. As he shook hands with
Lord Arranmore he observed:

"I say, Arranmore, that flare up you were to give after the Earl's
wedding was one with a vengeance. Egad it made me laugh in my sorrow for
poor Edith."

The Marquis, totally unprepared for such a heartless jest, drew himself
up to his full height, saying:

"De Vere, I never knew you before; henceforth let all intercourse cease
between us. Inhuman vampire, thus jesting on the death of your sister. I
discard your friendship for ever."

"Nay, but--"

"I hear you not," said the Marquis, striding away.

"Well I'm d--d, that scurvy joke makes every one so infernally wrath!
After all, Lennox, it wasn't a bad one, was it?"

"Mr. de Vere," said Mr. Lennox.

"Stay, give me my rank, you saucy fool, or by G--d I'll lay this whip
about you."

"Captain de Vere then, if you like, a word in your ear; stay, I must
speak low," he said, going up to him close. "It surprises me, sir, you
dared to show your face. I have long suspected you, and lately found out
your share in the abduction; you are here on no good to-night, and
unless you will give me your word you will again leave these shores
before twenty-four hours, I will tell the Earl my suspicions."

"Hark you, my pert coxcomb, if I did not think it beneath me to touch
such a reptile as you, I would give you what would shut your mouth up;
you may live to repent this, Mr. Lennox. As for your threats, I heed
them no more than yourself, and you have my full leave to proclaim your
suspicions, but egad you'll suffer, though I am safe in ten minutes.
Who'll track me with the snow falling like this? Now you may go and be
hanged, and hold your secrets if you are wise."

So saying he rode off in the blinding snow, leaving Mr. Lennox
petrified. He did tell his suspicions to the Earl, however, and a watch
was kept up all that night, as several others felt perplexed at this
singular appearance, and sudden departure of such a bird of prey. When
the Captain reached the arbour he found L'Estrange buried in such a
reverie his heavy arm only awoke him from it.

"It is useless then. Oh! my God! I am truly most ill-starred."

"If you don't want to be manacled and prisoned you will be up and away;
there are a dozen stout fellows at the Towers, and havn't I just stirred
up a wasp's nest,--we shall feel their stings if you are not sharp.
Confound the snow-storm, and yet it is a friend in need to-night."

Without another word the two remounted, and rode off for the beach,
where they found the tide had already floated the craft.

"No fair freight to-night, Bill," said the Captain, "and now let us be
aboard and away; it is well, Bill, you know the steerage of these seas;
in such a storm of snow as this it is pretty dangerous."

"Never a fear; I can take her through as if the sun was blazing," said
old Bill. "The auld country be cussed, and hoora for Italy!"

"Yes, hurra for Naples! No such nights as these, Bill. Come, Ned, what
the devil are you dreaming of? Remember you have done with her. Hurra
for sunny lands, fleet steeds, and bonny black eyes!"

L'Estrange silently took his place in the small lugger. Hans and old
Bill spread the sail, the Captain took the rudder. After one or two
sousers, they got under weigh, and steered for the schooner, which lay
in the Leith roads, and was ready to carry them to Italy.

Despite the snow, Bill and the Captain sang sea songs, and drank grog,
but vainly attempted to rouse their sombre companion. He was miserable;
he was leaving Albion for the last time as far as he knew,--leaving his
country--leaving his hopes, his fears, his everything. It was a severe
wrench. Bad as he was, he was not like the Captain, without one
redeeming quality; amid all the vice, guilt, and blackness of his heart,
one star shone--the brighter in contrast to the darkness around it. The
snow drifted heavily on him, he shook it not off, he felt it not; a
sense of utter sickness and despair was at his heart: he knew all was
his own doing--he sighed now only for her _friendship_, only to see
her--she could not be his wife now, and he was, by a life of guilt and
vice, closing even that door of hope. How could a creature so pure, so
beautiful, so refined, look on a wretch like him, so impure, so unholy,
so lost to all sense of even shame! Every hour of his present life was
adding another league to the distance that severed her from him in this
life, as every bound his vessel made was adding another wave to the many
that rolled between them. He wished the next billow would gulph their
frail boat; alas! it rode them like a seagull, and seemed as if it
mocked his misery and laughed at his woe. He was lost--not even the
prospect of meeting her above. A gulph--a great gulph was fixed between
them; she couldn't love him; he loved her still, though he felt he dared
not look up to her, so vile had he become. He was roused from this dream
by the clanging of the coupling chains, which showed they had reached
the schooner. More dead than alive he was hoisted up, and soon sails
were spread,

    "And, shrouded as they go,
    In a hurricane of snow,"

they soon made for the open main. When poor L'Estrange next woke,
nothing but waters were around him, and old England, and all good, all
delightful, all virtuous, left on the lee. He then tried to nerve
himself up; he drank, he swore like the rest, and even joined in the
song--

    "Why so pale and wan, fond lover?"

with its ending lines,--

    "If of herself she will not love
          Nothing can make her."

"Ha! grown wise at last," said the Captain; "'let the devil take her,'
and wine and laughter for us!"

L'Estrange's heart still beat true, and though he laughed, sang, and
seemed after this the gayest of the gay, all was false. Often, when on
his lone couch, on the lonely billow, his eyes would fill with bitter
tears as he thought on what he was now, and what he had been; as he
thought how sad a contrast his present loveless wicked life was to that
of former years, he would cry with Byron--

    "I look around, and cannot trace
    One friendly smile, or welcome face;
    And even in crowds am still alone
    Because I cannot love but one."




CHAPTER VIII.

    "When hope is chidden
      That fain of bliss would tell,
    And love forbidden
      In the breast to dwell,--
    When, fettered by a viewless chain,
    We turn and gaze and turn again,
    Oh! death were mercy to the pain
      Of those that bid farewell!"--_Heber._

    "On India's long expected strand
      Their sails were never furled."
                                 _James Montgomery._


We turn with pleasure from these dark outlaws to pure affections in pure
bosoms. Johnny Ravensworth was growing up all that his father could
desire; he was full of the most exhilarant spirits, but had been
strictly moral in his private character, amid all the temptations of a
dissipated military school. He took away such a character for diligence,
good conduct, and steadiness, that the highest hopes were formed that he
would prove an ornament to the profession he had chosen. His talents,
though not brilliant, were of a high order,--his attainments were steady
and solid. To these he added the gifts of excellent good temper, and
thorough unselfishness, the main-spring of all real politeness; for
though it often happens a finished gentleman like the Earl of
Chesterfield may be exceedingly selfish, yet we never find an unselfish
man who has not the principles of true politeness, and is not a thorough
gentleman. It was, therefore, with feelings of pride and delight that
John Ravensworth, as we must now call him, after passing a severe
examination, yet gaining a high place, bade adieu to his masters, with
whom he was a great favourite, owing to his steady progress and
unimpeachable conduct whilst under their discipline; and to his fellow
students, who lost in him their captain in all manly amusements; for,
while Ravensworth would never join them in any ungentlemanly, or foolish
expedition, in riding, rowing, cricketing, and all the healthful and
useful accomplishments, he took the lead that his well-knit frame and
unimpaired physical strength entitled him to hold. Assuredly all who saw
him as he walked forward, amid the plaudits of his fellow companions,
and the waving of fair ladies' kerchiefs, to receive the gold medal for
good conduct, and contrasted his handsome face, glowing with health and
conscious pride, his manly form proportioned like a young Adonis, could
not but contrast health and vigour of mind and body, arising from
subjecting them to their proper discipline, with the sallow looks and
impaired constitutions of many of his collegiates, which told too
plainly the ravages of youthful intemperance on unperfected frames. But
who could look for a moment on the bright, healthful, young Ravensworth,
and the dull impoverished devotee of pleasure, and not see how
temperance has the promise of this life as well as the next? And what
young beauty would not rather gaze on him than on those poor debilitated
companions in learning? Thus, at the youthful age of eighteen, after
having won golden opinions from every one he was connected with, young
Ravensworth, with a light heart, bade farewell to the south, and started
by coach for the Highlands, in order to spend a couple of months with
his father before sailing for India, as the regiment to which he was
gazetted was on service at Delhi. The third, and last month of his leave
was promised to his sister at the Towers, and we must say that in the
young soldier's breast an inmate of those towers claimed a large part.
It was now more than two years since he had seen his sister or Lady
Florence, whose fair face and sunny tresses had made so deep an
impression on his youthful fancy.

The two months passed away swiftly but pleasantly among the hills, the
valleys, and dark rolling burns of the North. In rambles with Maude, or
riding excursions with his father over the romantic county of Perth, the
days were fleeting away, and he was able to have a week's slamming at
the grouse ere he bade adieu to his home. The pangs of parting with his
father and his sister, who was now growing into girlhood verging on her
fourteenth year, were alleviated by two thoughts,--the first that he had
high hopes of a future meeting ere long, when he came back with laurels
to be welcomed by his friends and relations as a hero; the second, that
his parting was only the prelude of his meeting with Ellen, and one,
still dearer, of whom he thought morn, noon, and even; and it was that
uncertainty if he should find her still the same Florence he had left
two years ago--if he dwelt in her heart as she did in his--that made his
pulses beat higher. That very uncertainty which like clouds on a sunny
day lend their beauty to the sky, for without the shades of doubt love
would often lose half its charms. It would be difficult to depict his
feelings as his post-chaise entered the gates, and drove up the park
towards the Towers. The past and the dim future so possessed his mind he
could not but lose sight of the present. The two years seemed but so
many hours; it was but yesterday he had scampered across that park, but
yet how had those years altered him, and all his ideas. He was then a
careless boy, he was now a young soldier just entering on the campaign
of life. Burning hopes of high renown, lawful ambition that pointed on
to glory, were his now. In one thing he was unchanged, in one matter his
heart was the same as then--in love to Lady Florence. It was then a
boyish flame--time and absence had deepened it into real attachment. He
had seen much beauty, he had been courted by fashion, but he had never
altered in sentiments to her! Now he was about to see her again--would
she be the same to him?--had time altered her sentiments? No letter, no
message had passed between them all that time; it would have been
presumption in him, it would have been unmaidenly in her, to have sent
such--that was nothing. He had hopes; she had often and often, when he
was a boy, declared Johnny only should be her husband--that she would
never forget him. Ah, how would it be? how would she receive him now?
would it be with the cold politeness of the world, as if they had never
loved, or with the warm affection of those who meet to love again?

Whilst these and many such thoughts occupied his mind, the post-chaise
whirled on, and ere he hardly woke from his reverie it stopped before
the arched doorway. He leaped out, and saw old Andrew, who gazed for a
moment as if he hardly recognized him, and then, with a beaming face,
shook hands, exclaiming--"God bless you, Master Johnny, ye are grown a
braw sodger noo, I wad scarce hae kent you."

Delighted at the warm reception even from the faithful old servant,
young Ravensworth hastened up stairs to the drawing-room, where he found
his sister the Countess, with her infant son in her arms, and her little
Edith Augusta, such was the child's name, prattling at her feet on the
soft Turkey carpet. Ellen's warm heart swelled with joy when she saw
Johnny, a fine soldierly young man, and as he clasped her in his arms,
her eyes filled with tears of joy, and a sort of bright sorrow as she
recollected how George had thus come home, and then parted never to come
back.

"My dear soldier brother," she said, "welcome to the Towers. Why,
Johnny, how tall and handsome you are grown, and so like poor dear
George! sit down and tell me all about yourself, and papa, and dear
Maude--and look, Johnny, at baby; I am so glad he was a boy,--how
Wentworth did rejoice; and my little Edie, isn't she a darling? Come,
love, and kiss your uncle."

The little girl toddled up, and with her outspread arms, saluted
him--his was that open face children like.

The beautiful Countess, whom time had moulded into a more lovely being
still, gazed with a mother's pride on her fine children, and a sister's
joy on her youthful brother. Certainly if there was a happy mind on the
face of the earth it was hers then--happy in her husband, who loved her
with the most faithful adoration, happy in her children, pledges of that
holy tie; happy in her brother--her family; and happiest of all in
herself--her own virtues; a mind in unity with God and her
fellow-creatures; a heart full of charity; a love faithful and true; one
in which her husband's heart could safely trust, above even the breath
of suspicion, as the poet beautifully says--

    "And on that cheek, and o'er that brow
      So soft, so calm, so eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow;
      But tell of days in goodness spent,
    A mind at peace with all below,
      A heart whose love is innocent!"

Such was Ellen; and if she looked with pride and joy on her brother, who
was growing all she could wish, it is not too much to say, he gazed on
her with a feeling bordering almost on adoration. She seemed a being
almost too good for earth, and exciting worship as her adequate homage!
So far his most sanguine hopes were realised,--at least he had a fond
sister there, and he had also the Earl, whom alone he had often seen,
and who was the most delighted at his conduct. Still, there was one he
had not seen, and it was long ere he summoned resolution to ask even his
sister after Lady Florence.

"Oh, Florence is out riding with Wentworth. If I had not had baby to
take care of I should have gone too, and you would have had a cold
welcome, Johnny! How glad I am I was at home!"

After speaking on many other things, at last the door opened, and a face
too dearly remembered appeared;--Lady Florence was eighteen,--still in
her teens,--that delightful affix to the numbers that afterwards move
less musically! Her face seemed exactly the same,--as did her figure,
shown off to perfection by her riding habit, save that the girlish
expression was softened into the more sober air of riper, though still
youthful years, and the light form more rounded, and developed into the
contour of woman's figure. She wore a black velvet hat with a white
feather coquettishly displayed, and in one of her little hands, covered
with white gauntlets, she balanced a riding-whip, whilst the other held
up her train. John was partly hidden by the white muslin curtains, and
the young lady did not observe him.

"Oh, Ellen,--you in yet? I thought you would have been out this fine
day!" and she was on the point of shutting the door, when the Countess
said--

"Why, Florence, love! where are your eyes? Do you not see my brother
John, who is just arrived?"

A faint blush for a moment crimsoned her face; then, apologizing for her
mistake, she walked gracefully forward, while young Ravensworth leapt up
and hurried to meet her.

"So you have arrived, Mr. Ravensworth;--I am glad to renew our old
acquaintance."

"Not more than I am, Lady Florence. Why you are not altered the least; I
should have known no difference!"

"You flatter me," answered the lady, giving her hand; "but I must say, I
doubt if I should have known _you_ again. Why, dear me, Ellen, when last
I saw him he was not so tall as I am, and now he is a head over me! I
must now look up to you, Mr. Ravensworth,--you are grown out of my
recollection almost!"

"I trust not out of your remembrance, Lady Florence?"

"Certainly not out of yours, if I am to judge by your shakes of hand.
You forget you are now so strong;--you nearly wrung my poor hand off!
Excuse me now; I must go and change my habit,--_Addio!_"

The light-hearted girl then sailed away, leaving her admirer in
half-hopefulness, half-fearfulness, and scarce knowing what to think.

The Earl's reception was as warm as he had anticipated; and he then left
in order to dress for dinner. Several guests besides himself were
numbered at the table, and, of course, Lady Florence fell to the care of
a young peer, and not to him; she sat a few paces from him on the same
side,--just too far for him to address, and not too far for him to
listen to. Her partner seemed to pay the most assiduous attentions,
which were certainly, as far as he could judge, far from unacceptable,
and he was not altogether sorry when the ladies left. When they rejoined
them in the drawing-room, he was quite monopolized by his sister, whilst
Lady Florence was disengaged; and when, at last, he got free, the same
young man walked up to her, just before him, and kept up incessant
flirtation. During the whole evening he but once addressed her, and only
received a laughing repartee. Time wore on; Lady Florence was one of the
earliest to retire, and by-and-by the visitors departed, and he too went
to his room anything but pleased:--it seemed quite certain she had
forgotten him. Next morning, at breakfast, he sat next her, and she
seemed so like herself again his spirits quite rose; but during the rest
of the day she hardly noticed him; and again he sought his couch
thoroughly discontented. During the days he was of course carried off to
the field by the Earl, who was a keen sportsman; and as a large shooting
party gradually gathered at the Towers, his chances for a _tete-a-tete_
with Lady Florence grew more and more hopeless. He saw her the star of
every drawing-room; she danced and laughed with him, and quite won
him,--often thrice in an evening; and then he saw her treating some one
else exactly the same; and at length came to the conclusion that she was
a heartless flirt! The days hurried by, and soon he would have to say
adieu! and sail for India. He tried to reason with himself, how he could
be so foolish as to think the reigning belle of town and country, and
daughter of an Earl, could deign to look on him, save as on any other
young man. But love will not listen to reason,--and he loved! Yet he
soon came to the sad conclusion, he would have to leave without even
speaking to her on the subject; he would soon hear of her alliance with
some noble family, and then he would throw his life away in the first
brush with the enemy! All his high hopes of coming home a conquering
hero, and receiving as his guerdon the hand of the lady of his choice
seemed to "moulder cold and low!" When she saw his death, she would
perhaps say, "Poor fellow!--he is gone at last!"--this all from one who
had said she would be his wife:--oh, the thought was maddening! Those
were her girlish vows,--unstable as the name traced on the sands,--so
her vows were washed away by the stream of years! Oh, woman, thy faith
is written on sand!

The most provoking part was, she would often walk with him, ride with
him, sit with him alone; she would listen to all his nonsense, and flirt
in her turn; and after these interviews he used to return vexed with
himself for frittering precious time in folly, and vexed with her for
returning it too well.

In this way three weeks passed away. During the next few days he fancied
he saw a change in Florence: she was less frivolous,--she seemed more
quiet; and he could not but connect it in his own mind with his
approaching departure, and said to himself, "She has a heart, after
all!" Three days only of his tether remained, when, one afternoon, he
found himself walking with Florence alone in the shrubberies; he nerved
himself up, and determined he would speak his whole mind, and began by
asking her "if she remembered what she had told him two years ago?"

"Indeed, Mr. Ravensworth, if I remembered all the foolish things I said,
I should have enough to do."

"Then, Lady Florence, those days are gone. I would I were Johnny
Ravensworth again,--could you be the same you were then to me."

"I scarcely understand you. I have always been amused at your
pleasantries; I have always liked your company,--but you did not, I
hope, imagine more."

"Oh, Lady Florence, do not say so! Have you, indeed, forgotten all you
once said,--how often you promised and vowed affection to me?"

"Mr. Ravensworth, I was then a girl, and you were then my playmate.
There was no harm, then, in our being so much together, or in all the
foolish things we said to each other. We are now nearly grown up; and I
hope your good taste will allow, we could not go on as we did
then,--why, the world would never let us hear the end of it."

"Would God, Lady Florence, I was the same heedless boy again! Oh! to
grow beyond our childish loves is surely the bitterest part of life! To
be brief,--you love me no more?"

"I am grieved to hurt your feelings, Mr. Ravensworth,--I really never
dreamed of this! You are a friend,--a near and dear friend,--and shall
ever remain so."

"Then, all my hopes sink,--all my fondest hopes are crushed! Oh! why did
you draw me on only to crush me? Why did you lead me,--why did you
encourage me,--only to blight my best affections? It cannot be you have
ceased to regard me! Oh, Lady Florence,--dear Lady Florence, have pity
on me!"

"I shall ever regard you as I have done, and still do, Mr. Ravensworth;
no one could feel more sorry than I do. If I have awakened hopes I never
dreamed of raising, it will read me a lesson to be more careful in
future. I sincerely regret I cannot reciprocate your feelings;--may you
meet some one who can, and who will make you happier than Florence de
Vere!"

The young girl broke away without listening for a reply, and hurried to
her room. When she was alone she threw herself on her bed and burst into
tears, exclaiming, "God forgive me!--how could I tell him such a
falsehood? I do,--I do love him! What made me so foolish, so mad, as to
refuse him?"

At dinner they met. You could hardly tell anything was wrong, to listen
to those two, speaking so merrily; but, could you have read their
hearts,--what a tale of wretchedness was there! Young Ravensworth felt
utterly cast down at heart: he had heard from the lips he best loved to
hear the words that spoke his doom! He had proved her he thought
faithful, false! His trust in womankind was gone; but he felt he must
veil his feelings. "I will show her," thought he, "I can laugh, and
sing, and, with false smiles on my face, throw a light on sorrow's dark
tide. I will not let the cold world know my misery; but, after once
finding the fickleness of the sex, I will not try it again."

Alas! Ravensworth did not know how often a proud beautiful girl rejects
the love she would accept from a vanity man knows not--the vanity and
pleasure of playing with hearts! Lady Florence felt grieved that she
should have dallied with deep feelings, all for the silly pleasure of
seeing her powers; but she felt faith in those powers, and thought her
smiles would tempt the moth, even after singeing its wings, once more to
woo the flame. Alas! Lady Florence knew not there are hearts which, once
refused, are too haughty to ask again. Time was short--two days
only--and early on the morning of the third John Ravensworth must start.
Florence, by all means in her power, strove to rekindle the flame her
refusal seemed to have quenched. Young Ravensworth was partly surprised,
partly angered at this, to his idea, heartless trifling. A word would
have set all right; had he asked again she would have become his
betrothed, but he asked not. Had she only whispered, "I do love you," he
would again have asked--she spoke not. And thus whilst she fancied he
was too proud to ask, and resolved to lower that pride by appearing
everything he wished, all to make him ask once more, he fancied it was
cruelty in her appearing so affectionate, all to induce him to ask
again, that she might once more have the pleasure of refusing, and he
resolved he would not give her the chance. Thus a mutual feeling of
restraint prevented each of them from saying the word or making the
concession on which their future joy or sorrow depended! Time, which
stays his course not for mortal man, wore on; the day--the last
day--hurried by! The excitement of packing, preparing, and looking at
the beautiful presents showered on him from all sides, partly distracted
Ravensworth from gnawing care; yet through all he felt that sinking,
aching void within which only one could fill. He had no present from her
he valued most, not even a flower! and a flower from her were worth the
wealth of Golconda from others. The evening--though he wooed its stay as
if it were his last below--passed away with the rapidity happy hours do
pass. He sat by her--talked to her; she played and sang to him, and he
was at once happy and wretched. One song--

    "When we two parted
    In silence and tears,"

the latest production of Lord Byron's muse then set to music, she sang
with such pathos the tear sprang to his eyes. But afterwards she
laughed, and his spirits sank again as she bade him good evening and
good bye.

"Good bye; I shall not see you again, Mr. Ravensworth; you will be gone
early, I suppose. When we meet again you will be a captain perhaps. I
hope you will have a nice voyage. Good bye, I sha'n't forget you."

Poor Ravensworth could only press her hand as she was leaving the room,
and offer a little packet, probably containing a costly keepsake, but
Lady Florence fathomed his meaning, and said, "Thank you, but I could
not accept it, it would not be right; I shall require no souvenir to
cause you to be remembered! but if you want one, there is a flower for
you." As she spoke she took a sprig of blue forget-me-not from the
wreath that bound her hair, and playfully gave it. She then hurried away
with a light step, but a heavy heart. Young Ravensworth stood mute, with
the rejected gift in one hand and the flower in the other, gazing
abstractedly on his retreating vision of beauty. He thought he heard her
sigh. He then slowly retraced his steps, bade farewell to the Countess,
and retired to his own room, heavy and discontented. He could not sleep,
so fevered grew his head, and thinking the cool night air might do him
good, he left the castle, crossed the span-bridge, and sought the Holly
Walk. The night was extremely beautiful, the moon walking on high in
brightness, the air warm and perfumed as it swept o'er the
flower-gardens, and gently whirled the sere leaves from the beech-trees
behind the hedge.

What a different scene had been enacted there a few years ago! Awful as
it was, to him it was brighter than now, and as he marked the leaves
fall, silently but surely, before the touch of the waning year, so, he
thought, fall my hopes one by one, till old age will leave me without a
leaf to bless the bare branches. He sat down on a bench, and there
taking the little rejected packet, he broke the seal, tore to fragments
a few lines of poetry he had written and wrapped the little brooch in,
and scattered the fragments amongst the dried holly-leaves at the root
of the hedge. We are, however, able to state they ran thus:--

    When morning is beaming,
    And dew-drops are gleaming,
    My heart is still dreaming
        Of Florence de Vere!
    No eye owns such splendour,
    No heart is so tender,
    All--all I'd surrender
        For Florence de Vere!

    While this even of sorrow
    Bodes darker to-morrow,
    Some ray I still borrow
        From Florence de Vere;
    On my spirit repining
    The pole-star is shining,
    That knows not declining,--
        'Tis Florence de Vere!

    When parted our dwelling
    By ocean proud-swelling,
    Hope will still be foretelling,
        My Florence de Vere!
    A day of glad meeting,
    A voice of kind greeting,
    And echo repeating--
        "Sweet Florence de Vere!"

    Be my cynosure yonder;--
    The further I wander
    I'll love thee the fonder,
        My Florence de Vere!
    And vain's fate's endeavour
    Our hearts to dissever,
    They're mingled for ever,
        Loved Florence de Vere!

"It is false! she is no pole-star, and my nonsense isn't worth burning,"
exclaimed the unhappy lover. "And thou, poor rejected souvenir, no eye
shall ever see thee!" dropping it on the ground, he stamped the brooch
into the greensward in his fury. He looked up,--you could scarce have
told that pale livid face to be the same bright visage that smiled as he
received his medal. He arose and retraced his footsteps towards the
Towers. Once or twice he fancied he heard a rustle among the branches at
the back of the hedge; as he neared the end of the walk the sound rose
so distinctly on his ear it made him start. He was brave as a lion, but
not untinctured with the superstition of the North. The idea at once
struck him it was the spirit of Musgrave haunting the walk where he had
been murdered. An involuntary thrill ran through him; he stood as if
rooted to the ground, and he felt his hair somewhat bristle on his head.
Had it been twenty robbers he had not known a particle of dread, but
anything supernatural was horrid! It was some moments ere he found his
voice, and he was almost ashamed of himself to hear how it quavered as
he asked, "Who goes there?" No answer came; the rustling came nearer,
and through the branches he saw a dim white figure approaching. His
heart sank within him, and in a voice tremulous and hollow he asked, "In
God's name who are you? avaunt! away! by all that is sacred go!" The
cold drops stood on his brow like icicles, and his whole frame shook.

"Hist, speak low--follow me," replied a female voice, and at the same
moment the form broke through the bushes. For an instant he thought it
was Lady Florence, but no, she was an inch taller at least, and it was
not the light beautifully-moulded figure of the lady of his love. "Are
you ill? are you glamoured, that you will nae speak nor move? You look
dumbfoundered as if a ghaist had speered on you. Quick, follow me, Mr.
John."

"By heaven! I did think it was a ghost! What, in the name of God, brings
you here in such a place, at such an hour? By my troth I did think it
was Sir Richard's spirit."

"Whisht, for the love of God dinna speak sae. Dinna ye ken the place is
no canny? Follow me. But you are a brave sodger."

Young Ravensworth felt his blood kindle, and felt angry at his folly in
imagining she was a ghost, and eager to disabuse her of the idea, said,
"No, Jenny, speak here--it is all trash--what is it?"

"Na, na, not here. Either come, or I maun tell her ye willna come ava."

"Her, who is her? I will come."

And he hastened to follow Jeanie Forbes, who, when the rest of the
family had left, was promoted to the rank of lady's-maid to Lady
Florence, as a reward for her uniform kindness to the Countess in her
imprisonment. Following his guide, he entered the castle by a back-door,
and ascended the back-stairs till he reached the door of Lady Florence's
room. "Tap thrice," said his guide, and disappeared in the darkness. For
a minute he stood irresolute whether he should tap or not. Love overcame
pride, and he gently struck the door thrice. A light step crossed the
room, the door was opened, and he stood face to face with his lady love.

"Come in; tread lightly," said the lady. "Oh! I am doing very wrong, Mr.
Ravensworth! but I could not let you leave this without seeing you once
more. It is very wrong--it may be, unmaidenly--I cannot help it! Sit
down--there," pointing to a sofa.

Hardly knowing what he did, he sank down on the sofa as he was bid.

Lady Florence still kept standing.

"Why have you brought me here, Lady Florence? For heaven's sake relieve
me of my doubts!"

The lady stood speechless.

It was a fine picture: the despairing look of the lover, with his eyes
cast on the ground, as if unable to lift them to the idol of his
affections; the half earthly, half heavenly look of the lady, as if
dying to breathe a word and kept back by an irresistible chain. She was
still, of course, dressed as he had last seen her, save that her hair
was let down, and in long tresses almost swept the ground as she bent
forward, and with eyes swelling with tears, and hands clasped together,
exclaimed, "Johnny, I _do_ love you!"

As though he heard not, or understood not, he was silent as death for
some seconds, and contending passions strove for mastery in his bosom.
The pride, that would rather suffer than bend, fought against the love
that would rather die than cause its object to suffer. For a few dread
moments they fiercely contended, and, alas for love! pride vanquished,
and he replied, "Lady Florence, you have trifled once with my tenderest
feelings; you shall not again. Once refused, I am too proud to implore
again the love denied me. Would we had not met! My peace is
gone,--perhaps yours also."

"Hear me, Johnny--hear me! I repent,--I bitterly repent of my folly. Why
this false pride? Your peace, you say, is gone. I can give it back. My
peace is gone. You can give it me again. Let me not ask in vain!"

"Alas! it is too late now, Florence!" said her lover, relenting. "I had
my resignation penned when I asked you. I had given up all my dreams of
glory for you! I have sent the letter stating I am ready for service. At
the least, it will be years ere we meet again; but if my Florence will
be true, she need not fear my infidelity."

"My God!" exclaimed the unhappy young lady, "I am punished indeed! But,
oh, Johnny! it is not too late! it is not! Wentworth has such interest;
he will get your discharge. You can sell your commission. What is glory?
An empty dream! The mere bray of the trumpet! Oh! stay, stay with your
Florence--your beloved, loving Florence! Do not leave me!" and the young
girl threw her arms round him, as if she would not let him go.

He felt the embarrassment of his situation; he felt a softness stealing
over his soul, he felt his decision all melting away; he saw how much
she was devoted to him. He then thought of martial glory; high fame; and
his honour; his duty; and then again of love and home delights! Half he
was inclined to throw over all, and spend his life in inglorious
indolence,--in retired, blissful, domestic happiness! but again feelings
the young soldier only knows--the sound of the trumpet,

    ----"whose breath
    May lead to death,
      But never to retreating,"

spoke in his ear, and again love failed, and glory won the battle.

"Nay, my gentle Florence, not even love must bring dishonour. I have
pledged myself a soldier of the King. I am no more my own. My
fellow-soldiers are bleeding, and suffering hunger, vigil, heat,
marching; and shall I in indulgent ease stay at home in beauty's arms?
No; had it been earlier, before that letter went, it might have been.
But regrets are vain. It is too late now! Honour, and glory, and duty
before even love! But weep not, my own darling, I will soon come home
crowned with laurels; and you shall welcome me home! And the thought of
the girl I left behind me will steel my sword, nerve my soul; and in
battle I will think both of you and my country, and fight for each more
valiantly! And, should I fall, I will die happy, knowing that Florence
will weep over her soldier lover!"

"No! no! you shall not, must not go! I should never see you again! They
would kill you! If you must go, let me go with you. I will share your
tent and your danger, and bind your wounds, and--and--"

The rest was lost in sobs.

The lover disengaged himself tenderly from the weeping girl's arms, and
again and again kissing her velvet brow, bidding her farewell, and
lingering, and again kissing her, at last left her, with, "God bless
you, my own darling! Adieu! adieu! I shall not see you again; let this
be our parting. Your tears might shake my purpose; and even Florence
would not wish that."

He then sought his own room, first asking Jeanie Forbes, who watched
outside, to wait a few minutes whilst he penned a note. He sat down and
hurriedly wrote the verses we have already made our readers acquainted
with, from his memory, and, folding them up, sent them to Lady Florence
by Jeanie, to whom he gave a valuable ring, as a memento.

Early next morning our hero arose, and, unable to eat more than an
apology of a breakfast with Lord Wentworth, who alone was up, prepared
to leave for ever. He never came back.

"Give my love to Ellen, and to your sister," he said, as he got into the
post-chaise, which was to tear him from all he prized. He felt a choking
sensation from grief as he said the words.

"I will. God bless you, my boy! win laurels and then lady-love!" said
the Earl, shaking hands.

Just as the carriage was starting Jeanie Forbes hurried up and pressed a
note into his hand. He could hardly read it, so dizzy grew his brain. On
the outside were the words "Look to my window."

The carriage started. As it crossed the bridge he looked towards the
window of the room in which all that was dear then was. He saw a white
figure, and a whiter arm that waved a kerchief. He kissed his hand; and
then an envious corner of the castle hid all from his view. Again the
window re-appeared as he drove smartly down the park road. He looked
back, his eye fixed on that lattice, and the white kerchief and the arm
that waved it! But the horses cruelly trotted on; it grew fainter and
further--further and fainter--dimmer still--until not even an eye of
fondest hero could detect it any more.

He sank back with a feeling of utter heartbroken and sickening grief--as
if deserted by all he loved. Had she asked him then, he had thrown
honour, glory, duty to the winds!

As he drove on, the first poignancy passed away, and he began to break
the seal of the note he had not yet read. As he opened it a long tress
of her golden hair fell out at his feet. He picked it up and pressed it
to his lips. The letter ran thus:--

     "DEAREST JOHNNY,

     "I am punished for my vanity; but let it pass. It is vain to lament
     what is done. You did right. Had you stayed I would not have loved
     you half as much as I now do, though it would have gratified my
     wishes. Johnny, I shall ever think of you in my prayers--when
     tossed on the restless billow--when on the battle-field--when on
     the sultry march. When at even you see the star we have gazed on so
     oft, you will think it is the morning star of my hopes! Farewell,
     Johnny! And whether we meet again or not, our vows shall never be
     broken. Farewell! If you come back you will find Florence faithful.
     Nothing but death shall then part us. And, if you die a soldier's
     death, you shall have it watered with Florence's tears.

     "Go where glory waits thee,
     But while fame elates thee,
        Oh! still remember me!"

     Bind my hair in your plume; and, when you fight, remember your

     "FLORENCE DE VERE."

We shall no longer spin out this already long chapter, but merely add,
the vessel that bore John Ravensworth, and many other brave and fine
young officers, sailed for India, but

    "On India's long expected strand,
    Their sails were never furled."

Whether she ran on a sunken rock, or went "down at sea, when heaven was
all tranquillity," or was overtaken and shattered in a typhoon, or fell
a prey to the pirates off Madagascar, who even then were not quite
smothered, was long unknown.

John Ravensworth was an expert swimmer, and we can fancy how he struck
manfully out on the wide waters; and, perhaps, holding high that golden
lock, sank with her name on his lips to whom it belonged!

    "There are to whom that ship was dear
      For love and kindred's sake,
    When these the voice of rumour hear
      Their inmost breast shall quake,
    Shall doubt and fear, and wish and grieve,
    Believe and long to unbelieve,
      But never cease to ache.
    Still doomed in sad suspense to bear
    The hope that keeps alive despair!"




CHAPTER IX.

    "Yet more! thy billows and thy depths have more:
      High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast;
    They hear not now the booming waters roar,
      The battle thunders will not break their rest.
    Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave,
          Give back the true and brave!"--_Hemans._


Lady Florence was, as may be easily imagined, totally unable to appear
on the morning of Ravensworth's departure. She had watched him, as we
know, from her windows, waved her parting sign, and if her young
adorer's eyes had been strained to catch the last glimpse of her
kerchief, not the less had hers been to see the last vestige of his
carriage. In this she had the advantage, as her eye could trace it
receding long after he had lost her signal. She watched it till it grew
a mere speck on the white road, and at last disappeared altogether. When
all was gone the hapless girl gave way to her grief, and mourned her
folly in a paroxysm of weeping. Oh! if she could recall that hated day!
she had done all, she had banished him, her vanity had its due reward.
The absence of Lady Florence was a matter of no comment; she often took
her breakfast in her room, and neither the Earl nor Countess dreamed the
truth. The latter was unusually dispirited by the departure of her
brother, and altogether it was but a sombre house. After breakfast the
Earl took his gun, and strolled out after some partridges.

"We miss Mr. John, my Lord," said the keeper, "he was ay first and
foremost wi' his gun; he's a braw young man, and a pity it is he should
gae to throw awa his life in the Indies, folk are sure best at hame!"

"You forget, Halket, he likes it. Do you think every young man likes to
stay at home like yourself? I am sure if I were unmarried I would have
been off with Ravensworth too. What think you of shooting tigers and
elephants? better than this," said the Earl bringing down a brace of
partridges right and left.

"Na, na, my Lord, scarce better,--besides the het sun; I have cause to
know about it, having lost two sons in the Indies of Yellow Jack, as
they call the fever; fine lads they were, and most like Mr. John that's
gone."

"Tuts, that was in the West Indies, not where Mr. Ravensworth is gone;
it's a fine climate, perhaps a little hot, but to a steady young fellow
like him there is no fear."

"West or East Indies, it's all one; I say to the devil with foreign
lands, begging your Lordship's pardon for the word, and hoora for auld
Scotland, na place like hame."

"You had better mind your business, and let Mr. Ravensworth mind his
own, and talk less--see, your chattering has put up a whole covey out of
shot! do hold your tongue."

Halket saw he had better be still, and sought to remedy his error by
more sportsmanlike behaviour, whistled the dogs nearer in, and tried a
turnip field where he had marked the birds to.

Meantime the Countess getting uneasy at the continued absence of Lady
Florence, went up to her room and, after knocking twice without gaining
any reply, opened the door, and was much surprised to find her sister
lying dressed on the sofa, crying like a child.

"My darling, what is wrong? why did you not tell me you were unwell?
what is the matter?"

"Oh, it's all my doing! poor Johnny, poor Johnny! I shall never see him
again. Oh, that I was dead!" cried the poor girl, scarcely knowing what
she was saying.

"Hush, dear, do not say so! why, Florence, I never dreamed you loved
him--I am sure you let none of us guess it."

"Oh, I know it! it was my cruel, wicked heart.--I did love him, and I
told him falsehood, and then it was too late. Oh, I shall never see him
again!"

"Gently, love, I hardly understand you; tell me all, hide nothing. You
need not fear me, I will not betray my trust."

In broken sentences, Lady Florence then told the whole to the Countess,
and when she had finished broke into a fresh flood of tears.

"I am glad, love, you told me all, and while it was foolish at the first
to trifle with such fragile things as hearts, it is all for the best. I
am glad Johnny showed himself such a true man as he did; I could hardly
have thought such a young creature could have decided so properly. And
you, darling, did right too not to press him against his conscience.
Never mind, it is these partings that make such pleasant meetings! he
will come back again, and you shall prove how faithful you are. Come,
Florence, cheer up, and you shall find I will not let you forget Johnny.
I am sure you are both worthy of each other, you both did right."

With these and many other kind words the Countess cheered her young
friend; and, as she had known herself what the pangs of love were, she
could the better sympathize as only those who have felt like feelings
_can_ do.

"You are better than I was, Floss, for I thought my lover was untrue,
and you know yours is faithful! come we must see you smile, you wouldn't
like Johnny to come back and find all your roses gone."

Lady Florence was a sensible girl, and convinced that the Countess was
right strove to bear up against her feelings. By-and-by she was well
enough to come down and go on as usual. She took a walk with Ellen in
the afternoon, selecting the Holly Walk, as she knew that was the place
where he had last walked. She and the Countess by chance sat down on the
very seat where fifteen hours ago he had sat in so dejected a frame of
mind. As they were talking, and of course speaking only of the absent
one, Florence's quick eye detected the place where the little gift she
had rejected was crushed into the velvet soil.

"Why, Ellen, what is this shining so bright?"

"I am sure I can't think; this is where Jeanie saw him sitting so long;
you know she said he stamped something into the ground, and tore a
letter to pieces--look Florence, love, there are some of the pieces
blowing about."

"I wonder, oh, I wonder if it is the little packet I refused last night!
yes, Ellen, it must be; see, here is the paper it was wrapt in, with his
seal on the wax, the lion rampant, and eastern crown!--quite
prophetic--and your motto, '_Unus et idem_,' what does that mean, Ellen?
we will ask Wentworth."

The little brooch was soon rescued from its prison, and though somewhat
the worse for its rough usage, Florence determined to have it put right
again; which was done, and she ever afterwards wore it.

"Wentworth, what does '_unus et idem_' mean?"

"_Unus et idem_, what put that into your head, Floss?"

"Never mind, and don't give Scotch answers. I asked you what it meant,
and you, by way of answer, ask me what put it into my head? I believe
you have forgotten your Latin."

"No, no, not yet; it means 'one and the same,' Floss; and now give me a
direct answer, and tell me why you want the motto of the Ravensworths
translated--ah, your blush tells the tale! never mind, Floss, I couldn't
wish you a better lover."

Days passed away--slowly at first, then more rapidly--and in a week or
ten days the Countess received a long letter from Johnny just before his
embarkation; enclosed was a note to Florence, in which he again declared
his undying love, and faith; it was written in high spirits, and more
than anything tended to raise those of Florence; after all it was but a
year or two, and then they would meet again. She began to look and feel
bright once more; yet all her flippancy and flirtation were for ever
gone, as the young peer John Ravensworth had been so jealous of found to
his cost when he next met her. The day after the arrival of the letter,
the newspapers announced that H. M. S. "Recluse" had sailed from
Southampton for Calcutta, with a company of soldiers and several young
officers. As all regrets were vain now, Lady Florence ceased to grieve
over the unhappy circumstance that had driven them apart for so long,
and amused herself by following in her mind the voyage of the gallant
ship that bore him she loved so far away. She knew too he was thinking
of her, and when at evening she watched the western star she often
fancied how he was perhaps gazing on the selfsame planet, and it seemed
as if an electric chain bound them together whilst severed so far. Often
when at night the wind whistled shrill through the lofty towers,--when,
too, the equinoctial gales roared amid the surrounding woods, strewing
the ground with summer's leafy honours, or whirling the broken boughs
across the park,--she would quail in heart, as she thought how one she
loved was tost on the angry billow, whilst the fine vessel was like a
cockleshell on the hissing surge, then she would lift her heartfelt
prayer, as she lay on her wakeful couch--to Him in whose hand is the
broad ocean, who in the wildest turmoil can say, Peace, be still! and
commend her lover to his sleepless care. The Countess was agreeably
surprised to see how well her friend kept her plighted faith, and she
had no reason to fan the flame, which seemed to grow brighter and
brighter every moment. She often used to walk with her, and lead her
mind gently and unostensibly to better things than the light, and, if
harmless, certainly useless frivolities in which she had so long shone
the admired of all; indeed her own inclinations were little bent towards
such amusements now. Before her parting with John she had been like a
child, happy in some fair garden, chasing the butterfly from flower to
flower, careless of all save the present moment, forgetful of the past,
heedless of the future, without aim or object save pleasure. Now it was
as if some one had pointed out the shining light, as did Evangelist to
the Pilgrim--now she cared not how soon she left idle follies; she had
something to live for, something to aim at, something to think on as a
spur to future progress. The past was as a reminder a noble prize was in
view, and she pressed forward to obtain it. The change of mind produced
a corresponding change even in her appearance. The coquettish smile, the
careless toss of the head, the very walk, were either gone or mellowed
down; without being crushed the exhilarant spirits were chastened, and
no one could have told her to be the same being she had been only a few
weeks ago. It was all a change for the better; the Earl loved her more
as Il Penseroso, than he did as L'Allegro. The Countess loved her more,
and she won the most favourable opinions from all her friends and
relatives, who saw the change without being privy to the cause. To use a
hackneyed similitude, she had been like the plant, which uncrushed is
beautiful, yet void of perfume, but which gives out its most precious
odours when bruised and crushed.

About a month after young Ravensworth had sailed the papers reported the
safe arrival of the vessel off Funchal in the Madeiras. The ship which
had spoken the "Recluse," also brought home letters,--a long and
affectionate one to Lady Florence from himself, in which he gave an
interesting account of his voyage, and all the wonders of the deep he
had seen. Several very nice young fellows were on board, as well as many
ladies going out to their husbands or friends; one exceedingly pretty,
with whom he was a great favourite, he added by way of raillery, and he
was quite afraid she would make him forget Florence. He said he was
drest in sailor's costume, and helped the tars in their tasks aloft;
they had dancing by moonlight every night--the air was clear and
delightful, and they were nearing the Trades. Funchal was a little
Paradise on the waters, such flowers and fruits, he wished he could send
some of its wines to the Marquis. The stars were magnificent, and the
southern constellations daily growing more splendid, and more brilliant
than dwellers in the northern zone could imagine. He ended by tenderest
love to his Florence and the Countess, and best remembrances to the
Earl, saying he hoped to bring home the sword he had given him hacked
like a saw in many a stiff encounter. Months passed by, and then a
second letter from St. Helena arrived; so far all had gone well, their
sails were filled with the fresh trade winds again, after three weeks'
becalming in the tropics, under a fierce red sun, vertical, and casting
such rays as melted the very tar on the ropes, and beneath which the
waters seethed like pitch. They had only anchored off the island, not
being allowed to land owing to its then being the prison of the
illustrious Buonaparte. He spoke with great delight about the cross of
the south, a constellation surpassing all his powers of description;
"and yet," he added, "when on the line I beheld the great bear's seven
stars, magnified into fearful splendour, as if most glorious ere it left
its old friends, I turned from the flaming southern cross to those stars
sinking beneath the waters, and they alone were dear! the only, lonely
lights that still bound us together, and I sorrowed when I could see no
more the well-known, cherished cluster that shines on the north, and
_my_ northern star."

This was the last letter Florence ever received from him; long ere she
read its welcome news the hand that penned it was cold, the heart that
dictated it forgotten to throb far beneath the blue waters, lowly laid
among the coral reefs. The "Recluse" was to touch at the Cape, but it
never cast anchor in sight of Table Mountain. In vain Florence scanned
the papers, in vain she read the ship news; time passed on, and no
letter came. News arrived that some terrific gales had swept the ocean
at the time the "Recluse" was expected to reach Cape Town, and it was
surmised she had run past, and would perhaps steer for Madagascar. Two
more anxious months passed away, in which the Earl and family left the
Towers for their town residence--still no news of the vessel; by-and-by
the Earl himself, who had been the most sanguine, began to despond, and
grow anxious. The papers were full of the missing vessel, in which some
of the flower of the land had sailed. Lady Florence grew pale and paler
still, as vessel after vessel arrived, and no news of the missing ship.
By this time it ought to have long since arrived in India, and doubts
became almost certain conjectures that she was lost. Still it was
possible that she might have put in at some out of the way harbour in a
disabled condition, and hope still lingered in many a mourner's breast.
A war ship was sent out by the Admiralty and scoured the seas in search
of her; every port was called at, but without avail. After a long age of
suspense, and hope deferred which sickens the heart, the frigate
returned without tidings, and the "Recluse" was struck from the Navy
List. Lady Florence still hoped, so long is it before we bid hope
depart! Ships had been lost ere this for years; he was such a fine
swimmer he might have been picked up by a vessel, which had sailed to
the other end of the world, or cast on a barren rock, and like Alexander
Selkirk might come back after long years. About a year after the search
a little vessel arrived at Liverpool with news, the only news ever
gained of the "Recluse," and it was only cruel tidings that rekindles
dying expectation to quench it again. This vessel had seen the "Recluse"
drifting--a mastless hulk, on its beam ends, in a fearful hurricane off
the Cape, lat. 40 deg. 7', long. 35 deg. 13'; not a soul was on deck, and she
had neither bowsprit nor rudder. The little vessel herself could render
no assistance, though she scudded under bare poles so near as to read
her name on the stern. Shortly after she heard a gun of distress, and
the last thing she saw was the ill-fated vessel lying in the trough of a
monstrous billow which she could never surmount. They fancied this sea
had swamped her, as they neither saw nor heard more of her afterwards.
They declared her case was quite hopeless, and a worse hurricane they
had never weathered.

Such was the news which banished the last ray of hope from every
breast;--no, not from every breast, one still madly hoped on. But it was
a hope that belied itself, for the despairing Florence showed her
belief, though she owned it not, by wearing the garb of mourning. It was
a hope which killed its victim. As the power of swimming holds up the
shipwrecked mariner only a little longer on the wide waters, and makes
the pang of sinking at last only more intense, as he strikes for the
light far in front which he knows he has not the strength to reach, so
Florence's only fed her despair. This despairing, unbelieving grief was
like a blight at the core; the heart's woe slowly, but surely, worked
its desolations on the fair, frail bearer. It was slowly received, but
lasting; as the frost at night imperceptibly, but surely, freezes the
waters that sleep beneath its chilling breath; or better still, the
unseen, unnoticed, petrifying water hardens, chills, deadens, the living
grass that grows green on its banks--so with Lady Florence, the grief at
first discredited, then doubted, and little by little gradually imbibed
into her heart, and believed--whilst she denied the pang that killed
her, showed its outward ravages on the pale cheek, tinted with a hectic
flush that told its tale, and in the eye unnaturally bright. Her friends
saw the dire premonitions of her fate, and her brother took the best
medical advice. But the heart's wounds are not to be cured, and when the
seat of life is touched, when the root is blighted, woe to the branches!

When the doctor saw his patient he pronounced it at once a lost case;
that fast decline no mortal hand could arrest, its stay could only be
gained by an immediate removal to a warmer climate. Madeira was first
chosen, but as the Villa Reale at Naples had every comfort of an English
house the doctor decided on her departure thither, stating that every
hour spent in this damp, foggy country was a day lost. The Earl and
Countess, deeply grieved not only at the untimely death of the young and
promising soldier, who had perished,

      "As on that night of stormy water
    When love, who sent, forgot to save
    The young, the beautiful, the brave,
      The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter--"

but also at the near prospect of another loss to add to their woe,
delayed not in obeying their medical adviser, and at once started for
Naples in their yacht, "The Star of the Sea." The voyage was specially
recommended, so they sailed with the invalid about to end her short life
amid the flowers and myrtle-groves of Ausonia's sunny clime and favoured
shores!




CHAPTER X.

    "And one, o'er her the myrtle showers
      Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
    She faded midst Italian flowers,
      The last of that bright band!"--_Hemans._


Though we have not mentioned the grief of the Countess for her only
brother's death, owing to the greater and more distracting woe of Lady
Florence's engaging our attention, it must not be inferred from thence
she did not deeply and long feel her irreparable loss. After her husband
and children, there was no living being who had so entwined himself
round the young mother's heart as her brother had ever done. She had
had, it might be said, his entire moral education in her training from a
child; he had grown a credit to his mistress, besides combining all, in
his appearance and manners, that most captivates woman's heart. She was
at once proud and delighted with her pupil:--proud to see her careful
and painstaking bringing up had been so well developed, and exceeded her
highest expectations; delighted to see how he reflected credit on her
family; and, most of all, found an anxious well-wisher in her husband.
But alas for early promise! alas for youthful hopes! The pride of her
eyes, the idol of her heart, had been rudely snatched away. All her long
watching,--just when the plant was beginning to reflect glory on its
trainer,--had proved in vain. The child of so many prayers had early
been called hence; his sun had gone down whilst it was yet day; in the
very spring of its sunshine, at the very hour when his rays were most
cherished, the eclipse had come on and the Countess felt a double pang
in thus losing not only her brother, but as it were her son,--for so she
almost regarded him. Her father, too, was an object of solicitude; he
had lost the prop of his old age, his only surviving son; and so heavily
had the loss fallen on him, it seemed as if he too would soon follow the
light of his eyes to the tomb.

The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; and Ellen
was now learning, by sad experience, that to be great is not to be
happy,--to be rich is not to be free from care. The Weird was fast
fulfilling; one by one, in the bloom of their age, the flowers of the
family were falling off. Lady Arranmore was gone; now Lady Florence was
going;--who would be the next to follow? These were sad thoughts, which
often cast a shadow on Ellen's fair face. She was still so young, but
seemed as if she was to be stricken again and again, and when she looked
on her lord, her children, and all over whom the Weird had its fatal
power, she trembled! Her own sorrows were partly lessened by the task of
comforting and sympathising with the griefs of others. She had her
father in his sonless woe, and Florence in her declining health; and,
like all tender minds, she forgot her own in alleviating another's
misery. She had also her children to think of, and almost seemed unable
to grasp all her duties, and do all that was required. Had she not had a
higher Comforter, she could never have borne up against such a
complication of disasters; but she had learned that lesson which is the
last a Christian is perfected in,--to cast all her care on a greater
than any earthly friend, and to feel sure all was for the best,--good
would spring from evil;--yes, often the shadow goes before the blessing,
the cloud before the refreshing shower, and the shower before the
rainbow! The darkest hour is the hour before dawn; and faith must not
tremble at the dimness of darkness, but look forward to the bright sun
that follows.

The Earl had determined to ask his bereaved father-in-law, as well as
Maude, to pass the winter with them at Naples; and early in October the
whole party started on their travels, proceeding first to Southampton,
and thence, by the Earl's schooner yacht, to Naples. This little vessel
was commanded by Captain Wilson, who had retired on half-pay from an
ungrateful service, and was glad to get such an excellent appointment
from his friend. He was much concerned at the altered looks of his
invalid charge, and took the most fatherly care of her during the
voyage. They had a very pleasant passage after the Bay of Biscay, which
kept up its character, and gave them a stormy welcome. It was a
sorrowful crew, and very unlike the usual voyages in the "Star of the
Sea." Lady Florence and the Countess used often to sit on the poop,
beneath the white awning, and gaze with a sad delight on the dark blue
billows, as they boomed and hissed past them, with their feathery
foam-crests. Beneath that blue, lone sea slept the loved of all! it was
on those surges, perhaps, he had striven long and well, but at last
succumbed to his fate! Sometimes the wish would force itself on the mind
of Florence that the same cruel waves would engulf their frail craft,
and she would rest deep under the changing, surging waves; but Ellen
used to tell her it was wrong,--to bear was to conquer her fate; when it
was Heaven's will, her bark of life would reach its haven of rest; and
from this she gradually went on, and spoke so sweetly, so gently, to her
young friend, that, little by little, her mind was weaned away from
selfish sorrow, and she half resolved to live for others,--not to give
way to unavailing grief.

Nine days after they embarked from England, the "Star of the Sea"
anchored off the Molo Grande. After some trouble with passports, the
party disembarked at the Porto Grande, from whence they drove to the
Villa Reale, so called from the gardens by which it was surrounded
resembling those bearing the same name at Naples,--the great promenade
in the evenings. About half an hour's drive on the Castellamare road
brought them to their destination. The villa stood on the rising ground,
sloping upwards towards Vesuvius, which formed its background to the
right. Behind it vineyards, orange and lemon groves made the white
castellated mansion stand forth gloriously; and Mr. Ravensworth and
Maude, who had never seen Naples before, thought,--as every one
thinks,--nothing could be more beautiful! The warm air, and mild sea
breezes, for a time seemed as if they would restore the drooping
Florence; but as the winter drew on,--unfortunately rather colder than
usual,--her cough grew worse, and every eye saw the swift decline again
hurrying its victim to the grave. Lady Florence alone thought she would
recover; alone she knew not her danger,--part of the fatal complaint!
Still, it was rather with grief than otherwise she looked on her
restoration. All that she had lived for had gone; life had nothing now
to make her woo its stay; and often, almost dejectedly, she would say--

"I shall get well, after all, Ellen; I half wish I may not; and yet
there is a lingering love of life, though its bloom is all gone."

"I hope, my darling, you may."

But Ellen knew her hopes were vain; yet she did not tell her fears to
the invalid.

As the spring came on Florence grew worse. At first she made long
excursions by sea and land,--to Ischia, Sorrento, Vesuvius, and many
other places; or took long drives into the interior. Soon she grew
unable to bear these fatigues, and used to drive along the shore, or
walk to the volcano's side only. As she grew weaker, and her cough
became more and more troublesome, and wearing on the system, even these
short excursions were given up, and the invalid during sunny days used
to be wheeled on a sofa to the balcony, where she used to gaze
listlessly on the blue Mediterranean, or converse with her friend the
Countess, who scarcely ever left her side. The most skilful medical care
now availed nothing,--slowly, but surely, the victim sank! the hectic
flush grew brighter, the eye more unearthly clear, the form more
emaciated,--and then the patient was unable to leave her dying bed.

Naples is now considered a climate thoroughly unfit for consumptive
patients; but in those days climatology was not so well understood as
now; and the Doctor balancing the comforts of the Villa Reale with the
miseries of hotels overlooked some more important items.

Lord Wentworth, when he saw his sister failing so fast, as a last
resource communicated with the then celebrated Abernethy, who, on
hearing the case, ordered her immediate removal to Rome, or else inland
as far as she could bear the journey. Accordingly a carriage was fitted
up as a couch, and the lady removed from the Villa Reale, travelling by
easy stages to the ancient mistress of the world. The journey again
seemed to feed the dying flame of life, and the Earl with joy beheld his
sister able to be wheeled once more to the balcony of the palace which
he rented. It was but once she was permitted to do this: never more did
she quit her couch. The fatal sirocco blew for three days, and this
seemed to dry up the last hope. On the evening of the last day she
called her friends to her bedside, and told them she was dying. The
scene was peculiarly sad. From their windows they saw the Capitol with
its ruined towers in the last light of day,--and her sun was sinking
too! The Earl sat with downcast looks near the foot of the dying girl's
bed; Mr. Ravensworth and Maude sat on one side, and on the other knelt
the Countess whispering words of comfort in her friend's ear. The
expiring beauty sat up in her bed, and, pointing to the reflected beams
on the ruins, said--

"My sun is, too, setting, Ellen; if there is one grief in parting, it is
leaving you."

"You will rise again, as will that orb, brighter, and in a better land,
Florence love! But, oh! it is hard to lose you, though we should not
grudge the change from weeping into glory, and life into eternity. Are
you happy, dear?"

"I never was happier; could all my life be promised over again, I would
not wish to live! to die is far better. I do but go before, Ellen, and I
shall see him!"

She then lay down again as if exhausted; her breathing became quicker,
as though she almost panted for breath; a light of glory seemed to shine
on her face, and her eye looked brighter still; her lips moved as though
she were speaking, but no words were whispered.

"Did you speak, love?" asked the Countess.

"I am dying now,--I feel the chain that still holds me here slackening
fast. Ellen, love, farewell!--Wentworth,--dear Maude, and--Mr.
Ra--vensworth--adieu! adieu!"

The last few words were rather guessed than heard. The Earl rose and
hastened to his wife's side; kneeling down, he took his sister's hand,
which he pressed to his lips,--it was growing cold. Just then the Doctor
entered. He did not speak, but took his patient's hand. The pulse still
throbbed, but so faintly it was scarce perceptible. For some time,
perhaps a quarter of an hour, they all watched in dead silence. The day
faded fast, and presently a small lamp was lighted by the Doctor. The
dying girl once more opened her eyes, which had been so long closed all
thought she had gone, but feared to express their opinion. Again her
lips moved. Ellen pressed close to her, but failed to catch the words.
The flickering flame of life hovered long;--they "thought her dying when
she slept, and sleeping when she died." So passively passed away her
soul, her form had long grown cold ere they knew she was gone. Not a
sigh, not a word, not a breath told the exact moment she ceased to
exist! It was on a night as calm as her spirit she died,--and thus
tranquilly ended a short, but latterly embittered life.

It is impossible to paint the grief of the surviving mourners; as they
stood round the bed where she lay so lifelike they could scarce believe
her dead. The "hectic streak" still tinged her face, and a smile so
placid that it seemed as if it lingered there to tell the mourners how
the disembodied soul was blessed.

"She is happy now," said the Countess; "we should not grieve over her as
if we had no hope; but we have a blessed certainty she is happy."

But though she said so, Ellen's heart was too full, and she gave way to
a passionate flood of tears, as she kissed the placid cheek of the dead.

We need say no more, save that the loved remains were laid in their
coffin bed, the waxlike arms closed crosswise over her breast, and a
white rose laid between them. The lid was then screwed down, and the
coffin sent to the Towers, where with becoming solemnity she was laid
beside her sister.

The Earl and Countess and their companions started for England, and
after the funeral of Lady Florence remained in perfect seclusion for
many months at the Towers. Grief often follows grief, and woe comes on
woe, as billows roll on billows, and smite the rocks. Scarcely had the
Earl and Countess recovered from the grief of Florence's death, when the
scarlet fever broke out at the Towers, and seized both of their
children. Augusta passed safely through it, but it assumed a more
malignant guise with little Viscount de Vere, and with fearful rapidity
crushed its victim, leaving the poor Countess almost heartbroken. She
looked on Augusta as her last hope left, and the culture of her opening
mind seemed almost the only object worth living for, excepting her
husband, who was utterly stricken by the death of his sister and their
only son, and needed indeed a loving wife like Ellen to soothe his
sorrow. Faithfully did she fulfil her vows to love him in sickness and
in health, for better and for worse!




CHAPTER XI.

    _Speed._--"Sir, we are undone! these are the villains
            That all the travellers do fear so much."
                                           _Two Gentlemen of Verona._


Mr. Lennox, about seven years after the events we narrated in the last
chapter, was sitting in his drawing-room with several of his children,
as well as his grandchildren, around him. Louisa, whom we recollect at
the picnic, we should have before stated had succeeded in captivating
our friend Mr. Scroop, of Scroop Hall, and rejoiced her lord's heart
already with two little Scroops, who promised to prove chips off the old
block. Both she, her husband, and the two boys were present, as were
also two other married daughters, and the only son, a wild but amiable
young fellow at Cambridge.

Although Mr. Lennox had lost his partner in life since we last saw him,
the world evidently had run smoothly with him. Through the Earl's
interest he had obtained a very lucrative appointment in the Register
House, in the Sasines office, and though his hair was sprinkled with
snow, otherwise he was the same comfortable looking, self-satisfied man;
proud of himself, his house, his hospitality, his children and now
grandchildren. He had managed to get off three of his six daughters, one
had died a few years ago, and one was engaged to a young Baronet; the
youngest, and best looking he destined for some still higher lover!
Indeed, Caroline was worthy a better lot than awaited her. She was tall
and elegant in figure; her dark hair almost black, brilliant eyes and
high colour gave an air of more than dashing beauty to her face. To this
she added the accomplishments of singing and requisite artistic talents,
besides possessing winning manners, wit and talent in conversation. Mr.
Lennox considered her the flower of his family, the golden cord to his
seven-stringed lyre, of which one string was only as yet broken; he was
never tired of showing off the painting and drawings of his
daughter,--he was anxious to bring her out on every occasion, and took
care that everybody heard and admired her singing, her conversation, and
her personal charms. Of William his son he was also vain to a degree,
and in his bringing up had totally neglected all proper discipline, or
inculcating a style of economy in living at all commensurate with his
means. The consequence was at seventeen young Lennox was a
conglomeration of personal conceit--vanity of dress--and dogmatical
pedantry. From his father he had inherited a pleasing exterior, had been
crammed with learning from his infancy; and, from all he had heard of
the way the young De Veres had behaved when they excited the wonder and
envy of all the country round, he had imbibed the idea it was a grand
thing to be fast, and so he had shaped his course, quite forgetting he
wanted the means to be so, and already he was deep in the secrets of the
Jews, and all the vices of juvenile depravity. When his follies were
told to his father he would say, "William is adolescent yet--when he
grows matured in years he will become wiser. The Earl of Wentworth was
also fast when young, but he is now quite sobered down--every young man
must sow his wild oats."

"Yo, ho! what a dull hole this is!" exclaimed William Lennox, yawning.
"What on earth shall I do with myself? Ha! I know, I shall go and see
Mrs. Siddons act."

"William, my son, I fear the stage has too great allurements for your
mind! but still I can fancy you must find this dulness intolerable. At
any rate you will be earlier to-night, won't you, my boy?"

"I'll see, governor--don't wait up for me; I've got a pass key," and the
young man sauntered from the room, leaving the rest to amuse themselves
without him.

"I am afraid William gets to no good at that theatre," said Scroop.
"What a state he came home in last night! he'll ruin his constitution if
he goes on so."

"He is but a boy--he will grow wiser in time--poor fellow, I do feel for
him!" said his father.

"You should check it while he is young; look at John de Vere: it was
just that way he began his course," said Scroop again.

"I hope you do not think my dear William will turn out so utterly
degraded as that most unfortunate and evil principled young man! Poor
William! it is only a little harmless extravagance I can blame him for
yet."

"Little beginnings you know; watch the first sign of decay, stop the
earliest symptoms of decline."

"Have you ever heard any tidings of that singular character?--he was the
most dark-minded, mysterious man I ever met in all my travels," said Mr.
Lennox, anxious to change the conversation.

"The Earl has I believe caused every inquiry to be made, but up till now
without any result. The last, you know, that was ever heard of them was
their sailing in a terrific snow-storm from Leith. I say them, for I
need no longer hide the fact that the Count Czinsky was none other than
Edward L'Estrange."

"You astonish me. Why did you never let this transpire before? does the
Earl know it?"

"He does not; to tell the truth my promise not to let this out was an
extorted one, and I consider myself no longer bound to keep it,
especially as there is little doubt that both of them have long since
paid the debt of nature, and no doubt secured a fearful reckoning with
their Maker. Certainly that Weird in the family is a wonderful thing! At
first I doubted it--but now we have the evidence of our own senses! Only
the Earl left! Lady Arranmore burned at nineteen, Lady Florence dead of
consumption at almost the same age, Frank de Vere killed in India at the
head of his men gallantly cutting his way through the enemy, and the
Captain, as far as we know, drowned years ago! The Earl is young yet,
and if he does die so I shall think it the most marvellous curse."

"The untimely fates of that family," said Louisa, "have quite cast a
gloom on the Old Towers: the Earl has not been there since the funeral
of his son: he has become quite a foreigner. I think he always lives at
Naples now."

"How I should like to do so," said Caroline; "that charming Naples--it
is my day dream to see it some day. Do you not think, papa, we should
make the tour some winter when you have your leave?"

"I should certainly like nothing better, Carry. We have travelled--let
me see--through France, Germany, Prussia, the Rhine and Switzerland,
Italy alone remains; we shall see, darling. Some day perhaps I may take
my Caroline to show the Italian donnas what an English beauty is."

"Louisa, love," said Scroop, "our little boys should be off to
bed--shouldn't they?"

"I will take them upstairs, and then we can have some music or play
cards. I wish William would stay more at home! Come, dears, it's time to
say good-night

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