The Weird Of The Wentworths Volume I Part 34

Trust me for your rescue, though it will be d--d hard. What made you shoot Wilton, poor devil?"

"It was the Earl I aimed at; the rash fool saved his master, and did for himself."

"I wish to G-- you had hit your man. But here comes Arranmore, I must keep up my character. Egad, how d.i.c.k Musgrave and I will laugh over our toddy. Ha, Arranmore, I have been trying to play the priest, and get confession, but the villain plays the mute; the rope will find him his tongue."

"He will be hung, then?"

"Not a doubt of it; as cold blooded a murder as I ever saw; poor Jack Wilton!"

"The Earl wants you, John."

"All right, I'll go--now for Ellen," he muttered, as he stepped across.

Ellen very nearly did for him, but his good star, as he called his luck in infamy, still shone on him, and the Earl misunderstood her expression.

"Bad man, do you dare show your false face? more hypocritical than the wretched young man you have led astray!"

"List thee, Ellen, now you are safe; be wise and hold that tongue of yours. Keep your thumb on this, or by G--, safe as you think yourself you will come to grief. Breathe not a syllable of this, and as you value your life betray not me. I will be reasonable. If you are silent, I give you my word--my plighted word--my vow, if you like--that you shall be the Earl's wife; if you are mad enough to venture to betray me, though you were kept in the Earl's sight--though you sheltered beneath his wing--thence would I drag you: and no power shall ever stay me, nor make you the countess you wish to be!"

"These are not terms, you compel me; but what security have I? your word--your oath, I do mistrust."

"Then I swear by my sword--the most sacred oath--I swear not by G.o.d, whom I believe not in; nor by the Devil, a phantom existing only in the mind of priests, and priest-ridden fools; but my sword I see and feel, and by it I swear. Do you trust me?"

"I have no alternative; you shall at least see Ellen will keep her faith. If you keep your part I will never divulge this awful secret as long as I live, not even to my husband; and oh! may G.o.d change your heart, unhappy infidel, and may remorse of conscience never sting you like an adder."

"No fears of that; you are a better girl than I thought. Ah, here comes your lord, be silent or dread me."

"Now, Ellen, dearest, take my arm, the carriage waits; I have sent a man with the news to your father, he will be at the Towers as soon as we are. John, see the prisoner in the carriage, and he will be sent off to the prison: I have sent a messenger to the Sheriff. Musgrave, will you see about Wilton's remains? and Arranmore, attend to Scroop. I fear the worst in his case."

The Earl then a.s.sisted Ellen to a carriage, which was ready at the door.

"G.o.d bless you, miss, and I am right glad to see you," said old Andrew, with tears of joy standing in his eye.

Ellen thanked him warmly, and the Earl wrung the old servant's hand.

They then drove off together, and if after rain the sun looks brighter, if after snow the gra.s.s greener, so after her long suspense the Earl's presence at her side seemed sweeter, and after the long darkness of doubt and fear Ellen's smile seemed brighter than it had ever been before.

One of the first questions she asked was after Juana, the n.o.ble girl who had sacrificed so much for her sake.

"I have made every inquiry, darling, but she has not been seen. Her disappearance is not the least remarkable part of this extraordinary plot, so darkly, deeply, cleverly laid. I hope we may yet meet her, to try and express our grat.i.tude. Oh, what a wondrous week this has been!"

"Talk not of it--let us forget past misery in present bliss, and not forget to thank Him who protected me when naught else availed. Oh! what I thought my worst trial proved my safety. I had almost put an end to my life. I struck, and he stopped the blade, and I thought all was over.

Had he not I should have been now cold and dead. Man's extremity is surely G.o.d's opportunity."

"We should indeed be thankful. What should I have done if I had found my Ellen dead?"

"And what should I have been had that fatal pistol shot not been intercepted by faithful Wilton?"

"But let us not talk more of it, but rather of the welcome of our friends at home."

Whilst the Earl and Ellen drove to the Towers, the Captain lifted the bound man, and, carrying him down stairs, tossed him on the ground as if he had been a bundle of hay and not a human being, making him groan again with the pain. But the Captain was aware any tenderness to the man whom everyone was reviling would excite suspicion.

"Lay hands on the villain, and pitch him into the carriage. Wilson, you will guard him to prison--he can't move."

"I will, right gladly: let the ruffian only attempt an escape, or any of his foul companions try a rescue! I am armed, by G--! and they will catch it."

"That's like a sea-king!--mind he is put in a strong cell."

"Trust me; good-bye. I'll see you to-morrow; I shan't come out again as it is so late now."

The second carriage then drove off for Edinburgh, where the prisoner was safely lodged in the Calton gaol. Another carriage, with the Marquis, left soon after, bearing Scroop, still insensible--indeed it was feared his skull was fractured. Last, a sad procession left the Peel, bearing the mortal remains of Wilton for the Towers. The corpse was laid across young Nimrod, who seemed by instinct to know his burden, and paced solemnly along. On either side rode huntsmen, or walked foresters; and there was many a manly eye wet with tears as the _cortege_ wound over hill and dale, and at length stopped at the widow's door.

Already his fate had been broken to his poor wife and young family; so it was with a wail of lamentation that they received the cold remains of the jolly huntsman into his neat little cottage, now no more his home, but young Wilton's, to whom the Earl had at once given his father's situation.

Whilst this sad spectacle drew tears from the mourners' eyes, a very different scene was being enacted at the Towers, where a perfect ovation hailed Ellen's safe rescue and return. It would be impossible to relate the joy with which the Marchioness received her back, or the welcome of Lady Florence; and when at length a carriage drove up with Mr.

Ravensworth, Johnny, and Maude, the joy was indescribable, and one a stranger intermeddleth not with. Ellen hung on her father's neck, and with tears of joy he kissed his long-lost child. Johnny was wild with delight; and Maude wept with very joy. Scroop was not overlooked; the doctor had great hopes. By-and-by he opened his eyes; and Ellen was the first to press his hand and thank him--he was then left to repose.

Next day the news spread far and near, and persons of all ranks hastened to the Towers to inquire after the lost and re-found Ellen, and young Scroop. Every exertion was made to trace Juana, but without a favourable result; and during the next week lawyers were busy about L'Estrange's defence. His trial was soon to come on for the wilful murder of Wilton, and attempted murder of the Earl. All Edinburgh was on the _qui vive_; and it was said there would not be standing-room in the court. If he even escaped the doom of murder, there was the abduction of Ellen, and things looked ugly for him.

At last the morning fixed for the trial came. Scroop was quite well again, and Ellen was nervous enough at the thought of having to appear as a witness. The whole party were at breakfast at the Towers, talking over the approaching trial, when a special messenger arrived with the news--The prisoner had escaped!

"Well I'm shot!" cried the Captain--"that beats all! He is a more thorough-paced villain than I thought!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

"And doubly loud, Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder cloud; And flashed the lightning by the latticed bar."

_Corsair._

There is nothing like solitary confinement to bring the transgressor to his right senses. He is shut out from all external communication, and forced to look in upon himself; his eye turns and looks inwards; he has free time and full scope for thought; nothing to distract, nothing to wean away from self-examination; all resources are taken away but one--thought; and the solitary one has time to think both on his past and future fate.

When Edward L'Estrange was first confined in prison, his mind was not yet settled from its pa.s.sions; the whole of the first night he paced his cell up and down, and black thoughts filled his mind. He had the Captain's word he would be rescued,--he would yet have free scope for revenge. He felt doubly angry; first at the total miscarriage of his time-wrought plot, secondly at the absurd delay and loss of precious moments he had made in his useless attempts to convince a woman against her will. If he had only been quicker!--if he had used more despatch in the business! Then he was vexed at being caught at so dastard an endeavour; he was vexed to think what the Captain would say,--he was now perhaps laughing over his grog at the failure! Yet he would be rescued;--he would have a sweet revenge! He would enter the Towers disguised, and challenge the Earl to mortal combat--nay, he would a.s.sa.s.sinate him; he would break the proud heart of Ellen; she would not love _him_,--he would be avenged on him she did love. Oh! how he abused himself for his lack of courage. If she was only once more in his power!

These, and a hundred other such thoughts, coursed his mind as he marched round his prison; and he fancied every minute he should hear the door open, and his liberty would be gained.

The hours of darkness fled by, and the sanguine thoughts he had cherished during the night began to cool with the first gray dawn; his spirits fell, a reaction took place, and his mind became less and less sanguine, till he felt low--very low.

The excitement of the night pa.s.sed away with its shades; with the morning a very different train of thoughts arose. He began to see things in their true light; he saw himself first an angry lover--angry because the girl he loved did not love him; then he had become a companion of men worse than himself, he had touched pitch and not escaped its defilement; then he had been a false friend to the Earl, a guest for whom his n.o.ble host had sought with sorrow, and one who had been guilty of a breach of all the laws of hospitality, and who had basely turned his heel against him whose bread he ate. He had sunk lower still, he had been the accuser of innocence, he had filled a happy home with tears, he had abducted a high-souled pure maiden, and had he not been stayed in his villany he would have perhaps driven her to death; he had been caught in his wickedness, had attempted the life of one, been the murderer of another, and a third was placed at the doors of the grave by his hand.

What had he done all this for? a dream, a baseless vision. How could he ever fancy a being so pure, so loveable, would love a thing of guilt like him? He had lost his name, his honour, his fame; he was the occupant of a gaol, and a felon's death and unhallowed grave were before him,--the fitting meed for such a crime, or rather a succession of crimes like his. There was one thought that still gave him some relief, and this was the thought of his rescue; he would then live to retrieve his character; he felt he could never be worthy the love, but perhaps he might yet gain the friendship, of Ellen. He would leave for a foreign sh.o.r.e, change his name, achieve high renown, and come back meriting at least the _friendship_ of one, of whose love he had now lost all hope of being worthy. This was a better tone of mind, and he began not to repent, but to feel remorse for his crimes. It was the remorse of one of those fallen angels, who yet know no wish even of repentance.

Conflicting hopes and fears too, often sinking to despair, took possession of his mind. His morning meal was brought,--he could not partake of it. The day wore through, he became hungry and tired, and he ate some of his prison fare; alas, to what had he brought himself! The knowledge that others were now happy, especially one, and that his name would only be mentioned to be reviled, was maddening; he began to hate all mankind, because he had made them justly hate him; he began to be angry at any one being happy, because he had made himself miserable. Oh!

how slowly the hours pa.s.sed, how he longed for night and darkness. All was sunshine and happiness without, all gloom and misery in his prison; and because he was wretched he felt angry because the sun shone. Would it were night, more congenial to his dark temperament of mind. He looked at the barred window of his room, it was high beyond his reach and the wall was smooth. Oh! if he could only climb and look at the world without, anything was better than the accursed walls of his gaol. A little bird settled on the bars, but it was outside; it warbled a few notes, and then flew away. He hated that bird, because it was happy and he was wretched. The turnkey brought his evening meal; he was a harsh, bad-looking man, and as incommunicative as a stock; he asked him some questions, but surly answers only he got in return. A second night came, and still no rescue. That night he slept, but his sleep was full of horrid dreams. Another day pa.s.sed through, and still no help. He began to despair, and thought the Captain had promised too much; he could not perform his promise, he would leave him to his fate, _he_ would be hung.

Oh, horror! and yet he couldn't do so. But why not? he would not betray him, he had sworn that on the book of G.o.d. The Captain knew he would not perjure himself, and would leave him to be executed. What did he care?

would G.o.d he had never known him. These are your worldly friends, they leave you in the hour of necessity. Ellen would not have left him, and even now, if he were condemned, he felt sure she would visit him in his condemned cell. Even that thought had bliss in it, he would see her again. But to die like a felon, oh! it was horrible; to be a felon was nothing, but to die one was horrible; he never would,--he would put an end to his life first, dash out his brains against the wall. Another day pa.s.sed; he became moody, and lower in spirits. The dull routine,--the same prison fare twice a day, brought by the same ill-looking man; the same dreadful thoughts; the same dream-scared sleep;--it was a living death. He began to look forward to death as a release. Sunday came, that evening he would have been a week in his cell. It was Sunday a fortnight ago Ellen had been taken away; on Sunday a week ago he had perpetrated his deeds of darkness, after keeping the innocent girl a week in a still crueller prison--for she was innocent, he deserved it; and now on Sunday he was in solitary confinement: there was something of a retributive providence in it. It did not escape him. He heard the church bells ring their call to the house of G.o.d; there was a time he had loved that sound, the time when he had loved Ellen, and they went to church together; now the sound was maddening to his ear, the bells rang the knell of departed bliss; they would soon ring his knell, and in a felon's grave he would rest. To-morrow his trial came on; he would confess his guilt and soon all would be over.

The day was very hot,--hot to oppressiveness, and as the evening came on he now and then heard distant peals of thunder. Criminal experience tells us that the night before the trial is far more awful to the criminal than the night before execution. This was the night before L'Estrange's trial, and he did not prove an exception to the rule. He had all the week determined to plead guilty, but now the trial was near he would not; he might be pardoned by some clever defence, and he determined to use it. He could not go to sleep that night, he paced his cell in an agony of mind. It was then certain the Captain had deserted him. Oh, how he hated the man! Darkness increased: now and then a fitful glare of faint lightning glimmered through his cell; by-and-by it got brighter, and the thunder crashes grew louder and more distinct; it was evident a heavy storm was wearing up. He heard the rain descend in torrents, and the vividity of the double-forked lightning, and the detonating peals of thunder which shook the prison, shook also his guilty mind. It seemed as if heaven spoke in wrath for the last time, and gave her final warning. It wakened something between conviction, and a desire to become better; but, alas! it was only like the breath of a dying lamp, which wakens a ray, too soon to expire again. Something muttered in his heart it was too late; it was so voice-like it made him start, it was as if some one spoke. He sat down on his comfortless bed, and looked the picture of guilty, hopeless woe. Suddenly he heard a footstep outside his door; it was like the step of a soldier; he heard the clanking sound of the spur. A key grated in the door, and it was opened by the turnkey; behind him strode in a tall dark figure: the latter person took the lamp from the turnkey, and ordering him in a low voice to come back in half an hour, bade him quit the cell. The door was again locked, the key turned, and the two alone in the prison.

L'Estrange knew who it was, he felt an instinct that told him it was--it could be--no other than the Captain. He could not see him, though he was aware he was seen by the dark lantern. Just then a tremendous flash lit up the prison, and distinctly showed him he was right in his surmise; it was the Captain. He waited till the crackling peal ceased, and then said in a light voice: