The Weird Of The Wentworths Volume Ii Part 6

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 pa.s.sages hung in c.r.a.pe, through the great hall to the doorway, where a hea.r.s.e 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 hea.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing 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 superst.i.tious 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! G.o.d grant it may be false!"

"Well, Nelly, I never thought you were so superst.i.tious. 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d!" 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 a.s.sociations 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.