The Weird Of The Wentworths Volume Ii Part 16

"He shrinks not from death, but has gone to bring you a priest," said the girl. "The Virgin grant you may yet live!"

She then as noiselessly departed, and once more left the dying man to his own reflections.

His thoughts were far from enviable; he felt perhaps remorse--for it was not repentance nor grief--for his crimes; and as he recalled them all, the long dark catalogue seemed endless,--terrific! Deeds of rapine and murder long forgotten revived like adders, and stung him once more;--but it was the agony of lost despair--the echoes of horrid crimes!

From these thoughts he was roused by the entrance of Bill Stacy, and with him a Roman Catholic priest.

"Ha! Bill! you are come at last. Egad! I thought you had clean forgotten a wounded mate. But who the devil have you got there? Where did you pick up yon shaveling?--and why bring you accursed priests to my bed?"

"Your cable is nigh run out; I thought you would like a chaplain mayhap, and brought this fellow along--for I had hard work to prevail on the cussed fool to venture his head here;--but here he is; and he knows a yarn o' long prayers!"

"My son," said the priest, looking heavenwards as he crossed himself, "look on this blessed sign, and ere life takes wing, ask the bless--"

But he was cut short by the Captain.

"Cease your drivelling--idiotical nonsense, or preach to others who believe your fables. Egad, you think me dying, but I'll come it yet.

Away, old dotard!"

"Blaspheme not, my son; think upon the blessed Virgin; think on him who forgave the dying thief."

"I, the dying thief! be d--d to you. Bill, if you love me, chase the whining hypocrite from the cave. G.o.d's name! had I the strength, I would break his shaven pate for him."

"He don't want you, nor do I neither; so spread sail, old monk, and look sharp our lads don't tear your frock off your back or your hide off your old bones," said Bill, pushing the priest unceremoniously from him by the way he came in.

"What in the foul fiend's name brought you that pattering shaven-headed rascal here for?"

"I told you, but howsomdever let it pa.s.s. What did you want me for?"

"Sit down, Bill. I say, Bill, this cut isn't mortal, is it?"

"There's small doubt of that: you are overhauled at last. I bound it up, but the blood flows into your hold, when it is full you will sink."

"You lie, sirrah! and yet--yet, I do feel queery. D--n Ned for a villain; it was a cowardly felon-thrust. You will avenge me, Bill, if I flit."

"I promise you. Our band will go to wreck now when their skipper is gone."

"And yet, Bill, I may come it. I've escaped worse than this."

"No you havn't; you won't ride out this squall. You are wrecked at last, and on the shoals now."

"Go to the devil. You are a capital Job's comforter, Bill," said the sinking sinner, trying to laugh.

"I'm thinking you will see him first. Gin there be a devil he should give you a good berth, since you have helped so many downwards. You'll know if there be a h.e.l.l or not this night."

For some time, as if exhausted by his exertions in speaking, the Captain lay silent and motionless, save that now and then, as if in agony, he ground his teeth together or clenched the clothes between his fingers.

Old Bill sat silently watching him without a feature moving. Again the dying Captain sat up, and pa.s.sing his hand over his eyes as if to clear his vision, said, "Bill, the candle is going out--it is getting dark."

"It is your own candle going out, and the darkness of death in your brain!"

"You lie, dog, it is false! and yet--yet how dark it grows. The shadows pa.s.s quickly; ah! they're gone, I see clear again; and now once more they come--it grows dark, so dark! Bill, I'm dying--but get brandy, I've heard it has do--ne won--" He sank back, unable to articulate the final words.

Bill pa.s.sed some of the burning spirit into his mouth from a flask; its effect was rapid and wonderful. Once more, fed by the ardent liquid which gave a short-lived strength, and, as it were, nourished the flickering lamp of life, the expiring man sat up.

"More, Bill, more! hurrah for brandy! More, I say. Ha! I begin to see clearly again. More yet, more! The shadows are gone; I feel new vigour.

Ye G.o.ds, I'll come it yet!"

Bill shook his head.

"Give me the flask again," said the Captain, ere five minutes were flown; "the shades fall again; I will drive them to h.e.l.l! ha! they go--they go to the devil who sent them; I shall live yet."

Again he drank the maddening liquid, which in a fearful way buoyed up the sinking man; but the alcohol and loss of blood combined worked on his brain and fired it into a kind of frenzy. He sprang up as if convulsed, and crouching amid the wolfskins that covered him, like a wild beast in his lair, struck at an imaginary foe which seemed to haunt him.

"Don't you see him, Bill? the fiend; have at him, drive him away."

"I see nought," replied the old man, still watching him with imperturbable countenance; "who is it you see?"

"Who?" yelled the wretched man. "D'you ask who? See him at the foot of my bed; 'tis the Devil himself."

"Come to overhaul his son," answered Bill, with a brutal laugh. "What like is he, Jack?"

"Bill, you are the archfiend's self, to mock me in my last distress. He is gone, thank G.o.d! No, no, there he comes again--will no one scare the demon hence? Ho! there are more--I see them--they crowd around me--they gibber--they laugh a h.e.l.lish laugh! All my victims come to daunt me!

There is Hesketh, Graham, ye G.o.ds! Musgrave too; he points to the red hole in his forehead. Avaunt, fiends, away! you frighten me not, I dare you one and all. There's Strogonoff--ha! more, by Jove--crowds--the hung, the tortured, the strangled, the drowned--crowds of them, the infernal n.i.g.g.e.rs! the air is full of their horrid faces! they will tear me. Save me, Bill. Oh, powers of darkness; _she_ too, she is there."

"Who is there?" said Bill; "you seem to have a good company--a devil's dance, and women to dance too!"

"Yes, it is she; then I did murder her. G.o.d above! I dreamed I had failed, but no, she is there too."

"She, who is she?"

"Antonia, Juana, who you like. I may as well make a clean breast of it--I poisoned her. I feel remorse for her--for none of the rest. Ah!

how pale she is! how dull her once glorious eye!"

"Fiends of h.e.l.l! you didn't; but you have said it, dog, and for her you die." And with an expression of horrid ire, the old man sprang from his couch and gripped the dying man by his throat.

"Death, h.e.l.l, and furies! would you murder me, villain? a dying man. Ho, help! he is throttling me, I cannot breathe--help--let go, dog!"

"No, I won't defraud death; you may die scatheless, murderer, villain, foul poisoner! if there is a h.e.l.l you have dearly earned its torments."

"Leave me, hound, let me die in peace; but stay, give me brandy once more, the room gets dark again, scales of blackness seal my eyes. No, I will not drink; I am better again, I shall yet live."

He lay back calm on his pillow, his eye looked bright, he felt lighter, but it was only the dead man's lightening, when the blood flows back to the seat of life and relieves "the o'ertortured clay;" and what he dreamed was the return of life was only the first touch of death. It seemed the last mercy accorded to this miserable man that at least he should die with full possession of his senses.

"Bill," he said, "forgive me--forget that deed--I am going now--it was that fiery liquor distorted my senses. Bill, there is a h.e.l.l, I feel its breath scorch me now!"

"Will you have the old priest to absolve you like?"

"No, no, I will die as I have lived; I will meet the devil like a man; I have served him all my life; I have sown the wind, why should I play him false now, or be amazed if I reap the whirlwind? I have been a great sinner, but G.o.d knows my blood is on your head, Bill; you brought me to this, and--Oh G.o.d!--I am gone! A mortal pang ran me through like a knife--the Devil has hold of my heart! oh, heavens! I die--I d--i--e."

The death rattle in his throat choked the last words, and the soulless form of what was once John de Vere sank back,--the immortal soul fled to its dread Maker.