The Weird Of The Wentworths Volume Ii Part 18

Luigi is a bloodthirsty villain! but Adrian a--I won't say my fears!"

"Oh! my poor Caroline! my heart bleeds for her indeed! But had they not guards? How did it happen?"

"They met a count at their last stage--no real count, but a disguised brigand--who got everything out of our poor murdered friend. Alas! he little knew to whom he spoke. They hired two ruffians to guard them instead of the sbirri! though heaven knows they would not have helped them much! Then they were attacked--their false guards turned on them, and the postilion fled to hide in the woods, and from his hiding place saw the whole! I cannot repeat the horrors he saw, or the cold-blooded butchery! There was a quarrel between the Vardarelli, it seems, for poor Caroline, and Adrian mortally wounded Luigi. In the midst of the conflict some twenty sbirri appeared. Adrian galloped off with his prize. A fierce hand-to-hand fight took place, which ended in the total annihilation of the sbirri, and the victorious miscreants carried off their booty, and dead and wounded, as well as the dying Luigi. It is a comfort to think that vagabond has got his desert, and the whole country will be rid of a nuisance."

"This is a most fearful tragedy. Alas! what a lawless land this is, but perhaps the man may have exaggerated the truth, and they may be only captive, G.o.d grant it."

"I fear it is too true; this stained scarf tells its tale. Luigi never spared men; it was his plan to torture and then stick the heads of his victims on poles. Adrian only spares his captives for worse than death; poor Caroline, a sad fate is hers. However, this has now come to a pa.s.s, the whole country are up in arms, and they are determined to find out their hiding place, a secret that has baffled search as yet. I shall join, and so will Wentworth, and we will be avenged on the rascals,"

said the Marquis.

"Oh no, do not think of such a thing, dear Lord Arranmore. Wentworth shall never go; if anything happened to him it would kill me; for my sake leave their punishment to the troops. Wentworth shall go and see the King of Naples. Let us go and seek my husband, he must be told of this awful event. Poor Mr. Lennox and his son, and poor Caroline! I feel sick at heart for her. How I shall treasure this sad relic,--and all perhaps on my account! I would I had not asked them to bring my jewels."

The Marquis, accompanied by the Countess and their daughter, then descended to seek the Earl, who was busy with state papers in his study.

The Marquis knocked, no answer came,--he opened the door, the Earl was not there; his desk lay open on the table, his quill was dipped in the ink, and a half written letter lay on the floor.

"Curious he isn't here, and yet I only left him half an hour ago; he must have gone out into the garden; see, the windows are open: shall we go and see, Countess?"

"Yes, let us go. Augusta love, put your hat on, and bring me a shawl, the dew is falling heavily."

In a few minutes they all three walked out through the Venetian windows, which opened on a smooth lawn bounded on all sides by orange trees, and explored the gardens to see if the Earl was there, as it was a favourite evening resort. After an hour, when it grew dark and chilly, they gave up the search, and returned. He was not in the house either; the servants were next questioned, but had not seen their lord. Lady Wentworth began to get anxious, and sent several servants to various friends' houses near, as well as the reading-rooms, and any other place where he might have gone to in Foggia. After a long, anxious time they returned, but without news.

"I am quite distressed," said the Countess, sinking on a sofa. "I am so anxious. Where can he be? this dreadful night has quite upset me. Where is my husband?" and she burst into tears.

"Dear Lady Wentworth, you have no cause for any anxiety; remember the Earl is continually away at night; he often goes to tea somewhere you must know; we have not sent to the right house."

"I know it is foolish of me, but I cannot help it, I am so shaken by this awful night; oh, if anything has happened to him, I shall die.

Where is my Wentworth? Why did he not tell me where he was going to?"

Lord Arranmore did all he could to pacify the lady, but it was in vain he told her to fear nothing, as time sped on, and no sign of her lord still. Augusta had gone to her room, the Countess and he sat in the drawing-room, or rather she sat sobbing with grief, whilst he stood at the window straining his eyes to catch any glimpse of his brother-in-law. The moon had already risen round and full, showering down a light equal to many a day in the north. Every now and then he would say a word of comfort, begging her not to weep--"he would soon come;" but as time still went on, and not a sign of the absent one, he too began to feel a misgiving in his heart, and his mind readily conjured up real, or fancied terrors. The letter unfinished, the windows open; he had evidently gone for a walk but had not returned; could he have heard the fatal report, and with his natural impetuosity at once ridden off to the spot? as he thought of this a sigh unwittingly escaped him as he fancied the perilous position his friend was in. The quick ear of the Countess caught it, and suddenly springing up she ran to him; taking one of his strong hands between her own delicate fingers, she looked up into his face with a despairing earnestness that went to his heart, and with tears standing in her large blue eyes, asked him why he sighed.

"Alas, Ellen," he fondly said, "I sighed to see you so unhappy at nothing."

"My dear Arranmore, tell me the truth; do you not now fear? hide nothing if you know it from me. Oh, deceive me not, you too are anxious."

Often when we wish to comfort people we say the worst things we can by a sort of heartless chance--contrariety. The Marquis, anxious to alleviate her fears by a.s.signing a cause for her husband's absence, said the very worst thing he could.

"I think it is not at all unlikely, Ellen, that Wentworth has heard the news, and gone off with soldiers to the spot."

"Gracious Heavens!" cried the Countess, "I never thought of that; it is too true, that must be it, and he is now in those dreadful ruffians'

power,--he is perhaps, wounded,--he may be--"

But her lips refused to frame the word, all she thought to say was lost in a wild scream, as she sunk on the floor, in a dead swoon. The Marquis, terrified at what he had thoughtlessly done, rang the bell, while he lifted the insensible lady, and placed her on a sofa. The fit proved a long and dangerous one, and it was not till the doctor had been sent for that Lord Arranmore felt free from alarm. The medical gentleman said there was no cause for any apprehension, and in a short time she would recover. In the excitement occasioned by the Countess's illness the absence of the Earl was partially lost sight of, and whilst the Marquis was bending over the patient, he was somewhat surprised by the sudden reappearance of the Earl _in propria persona_, who when his lady's illness was told him, rushed to the drawing-room, and forcing his way through the surrounding servants, in an agony of fear pressed his wife's hand, exclaiming:

"I knew it, see what my folly in not telling her has done. I think everything is leagued to rob me of my mind to-night,--mysterious guides, horrid butcheries, robbers' dens, and now my wife dying."

The voice of her husband acted as a restorative when the doctor was beginning to think all would fail, and the Countess opened her eyes.

When she saw the object of her solicitude she burst into tears, crying--

"G.o.d be thanked you are safe, my own Wentworth! where have you been? why did you leave me?"

"My darling, I could not help it, I was unwillingly lured away, but you shall hear all when you are better; we must get you to bed at once, the horrors of this evening have been too much for you."

The Countess grew rapidly better, and ere long was calmly sleeping away her terrors, whilst the Earl drew the Marquis aside and told him the cause of his absence. For more than two hours they were closely closeted together, and as they shook hands the Earl said:

"It has been truly the most wonderful day of my life."

"It indeed seems so,--it is the most extraordinary history I ever heard in my life,--it out-Herods all romances and novels. Faith, you were a bold fellow to risk your life amongst such ruffians."

"Had I not I should never have known all this; poor John, such an end,--and the other--"

"After all, you would have been happier in blissful ignorance, but you are sure it is not a tissue of lies?"

"Lies, oh, dear no, I have the proofs here," (producing a large packet of papers,) "besides, I saw enough to prove the truth of at least part; but we must not talk any longer to-night; to-morrow we will sift the whole to the bottom, and see what is to be done for our unfortunate friends; their remains must be decently interred if we can obtain them.

I would we could trace Caroline Lennox, and he who took her away. We shall have enough to do, first here and then in England, for thither I must go; we shall have work for the Crown lawyers."

"I' faith I hardly like to go home through that horrid valley; what if they cut us up too?"

"No fears, I have a pa.s.s for all Italy; no brigand would harm us were he to see this paper."

The Earl produced a small paper, on which were inscribed some hieroglyphical marks, on which the Marquis looked with some interest.

"This is a queer country after all," he said, "but we are got to talking again. Good night, I shall be glad to sleep off my thoughts."

"And I too," said the Earl; "but sleep will not chase mine away. Good night, I must see how Ellen is."

With these words they parted and sought their different rooms. The Earl found his wife calmly sleeping, and kissing her white forehead, prepared to follow her example. Whilst the whole house are bathed in forgetfulness we shall trespa.s.s on our readers' time a little longer, and account for the Earl's mysterious absence for so many hours. But as it is a long story we must leave it for the few next chapters, and we hope they will be sufficiently interesting to reward the reader's careful perusal of their strange contents.

CHAPTER XV.

"Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I'll go no further."

_Hamlet._

The Earl had been engaged, as we have before stated, on some business connected with the Government that was then in power and the Neapolitan interests; so busily was he engaged in his occupation that his mind was thoroughly abstracted from everything else, and he neither saw nor heard anything that was going on around him. His study was immediately beneath the verandah on which the Countess and his daughter were then sitting.

The balcony formed a sort of roof over a tessellated pavement that led to the lawn; up the pillars and trellised work that supported this verandah were twined vines and other creepers: these pillars, with their festoons, extended the whole length of the villa, and opened into a dark avenue of poplar trees. The windows of his room led to this walk, and being in Italian form, opened like a gla.s.s door, thus serving the part of window and door at once. They were open at the time we speak of, and the west wind blew lightly into the chamber, bearing on its wings the aromatic perfume of the orange groves. We have purposely been minute in this description, and why the reader will judge best by-and-by. The escritoire, where the Earl pursued his avocation, was placed about a couple of yards from the open window, and he sat with his back to the western hills glowing in the departing beams of the setting sun; perhaps he chose this position lest the beauties of nature should call him from his duties, and tempt him to neglect his important studies. Several law books in English and Italian lay round him, and these he from time to time consulted, as he wrote. Once he thought a shadow, as of a person crossing between him and the sun, pa.s.sed over the sheet he inscribed--it was perhaps the Countess, or Augusta, so he thought, and without even turning round he again wrote rapidly.

Had there been a third person in the room (for there were two there) he would have seen this intruder noiselessly enter by the inviting window; fearful of disturbing the writer, the figure crept on past him, till it stood exactly opposite, treading as if on velvet, so lightly fell each footstep. The intruder, an Italian maiden thirteen years of age--though the precocity of her climate gave her the appearance of a girl of sixteen at least--was dressed in the picturesque costume of the mountains. She had almost attained her full height, which was above the average, and revelled in all the freshness of a beauty, which, if it might prove short-lived, was radiant as the flower which fades first, owing to its surpa.s.sing bloom. The hot sun of her native hills had wooed, but not marred, the soft cheek; all its warmth seemed brightly received into it, as in a mirror! large l.u.s.trous eyes, gloriously black, fringed by long lashes, full lips of carmine hue, and a nose so slightly arched as to seem almost, but not altogether Grecian, completed this damsel's charms. Her dress was well calculated to set off without detracting from a face which needed no foil, and a form which required no art to enhance. Her long hair, dark as night, was braided in broad plaits which fell down her back through the folds of a scarlet silk kerchief, that confined her tresses and contrasted well with their raven hue, throwing a warmth of colour over all. A tight boddice of black silk velvet, laced with gold braid, developed the bold outlines of her gently heaving breast. A dark-blue skirt descended nearly to her sandals--but not low enough to hide her well-shaped ankles; a narrow ap.r.o.n of various bright colours in thin stripes, fringed with gold lace at the hem, completed her costume. She wore a few ornaments all of costly workmanship, pendants of gold dropped from her tiny ears, a chain of pearls encircled her neck; from the end of this string hung a black cross set with diamonds of great value, and on her fingers sparkled several rings. Folding her arms across her bosom she watched the Earl, so occupied in his labours he knew not who watched him. The expression of the young girl's face was peculiar, and to have seen how earnestly and lovingly she fixed her gaze on the Earl, a stranger would have thought she knew him and loved him (and yet though she knew him she had never before been in his house), or would have imagined she was more to him than she seemed--in this surmise he would perhaps be nearer the mark.

Lord Wentworth was a true lover of nature, besides possessing a considerable amount of scientific knowledge. Botany was one of his favourite pursuits, and often he was accustomed to take long rides amongst the hills to pursue his attractive study. Whenever he had bent his course to the Val di Bovino he had been met by a young Italian girl, who, for some unaccountable reason, seemed to have the greatest affection for him. Whenever she heard the sound of his horse's feet, as if by instinct she was at his side, and with the sweet manners of southern countries used to proffer a bouquet of the most rare and beautiful wild flowers. He used to talk to her, and often she was his guide to secluded grots, or dark dells where modest flowers sprung.

There was something so innocent in this affection, so charming in the young creature who gave it, that she quite won his heart, and far oftener than he would otherwise have done he bent his horse's course to the Val, and experienced a sort of delight in the company of this child of the South. It was not love--it was a nameless, but pure affection--more of the affection of a father to his child. He had never once missed his little mountain maiden. Unable to devise wherefore she had so set her fancy on him, he nevertheless felt all the pleasurable sensations of the feelings he inspired. There was another reason why he felt a peculiar interest in her,--this was the wonderful resemblance she bore to one with whom he had once played so sad a part; she was the image of Juana Ferraras, as he had known her many years since. So struck was he with this similitude that he had used every endeavour to try and induce the little girl to come and visit him, in order that the Countess might see her--but all his endeavours had proved vain; and though he had prevailed on the Countess several times to accompany him to the Val in order to show her his little Leonora--such was the name he knew her by--yet either by a provoking mischance, or well-laid scheme, she was never to be seen excepting when he was quite alone; and the Countess used to twit him about her, declaring she must either be a fairy, or an Egeria of his brain. He had given her some rings, and other slight souvenirs, but she seemed above any pecuniary help--so he had never offered her money; he had vainly striven to find out who she was, and where she lived; after a period of three months' almost daily communication with his mysterious and romantic acquaintance, he had yet failed in every inquiry, and he began almost to fancy she was some being unearthly, and perchance a lingering _dryad_ of old, who still haunted her woodland dell! We have made this digression, as without it the meeting of the Earl and this maiden, for it was she who stood before him, would seem unaccountable at the least. A breath more deeply drawn than her usual respirations attracted at last the attention of the Earl to his visitor. He gazed up from his letter, and was not a little astonished when he saw his friend there.

"Leonora, my little Egeria--you here? And how did you come, and what brings you here?"

"My Lord, I have been here some time; you were so engrossed you did not see nor hear me enter. I hope I do not intrude."

"Oh! no--such an intrusion does not deserve the name: and what does my Egeria want? Is she come at last to see my lady, and little girl?"