The Weird Of The Wentworths Volume Ii Part 26

The Earl stood silent too, then Viscount de Vere spoke:

"Wentworth, whatever are my rights I have forfeited them. Will you grant my dying wish, and that is never while I live mention this. When by my death I have atoned for my crimes record my unhappy fate on my tomb stone. Keep your name--use your wealth as you ever have done, shine the star you have ever shone, and leave your poor misguided brother to end the short time he may yet have to live in prison."

"I have no right to do so if you have any family;--tell me, had you ever son or daughter?"

"Never that I knew of; it is true I did marry, but I left my wife very shortly after our union, and since have never heard of her."

"At present," said the Earl, "all I can do for you is to try and have you removed to a more comfortable place than this damp dungeon, and supplied with bed and proper food. I shall, I think, have influence with the government to enable you to pa.s.s the remainder of your life in seclusion, with every comfort that money can bring; of course you must remain abroad, and let me beseech you to devote your time to religion, and seek to enjoy endless happiness above! You need not think it is too late--greater sinners than you have found pardon and peace; and then if your life here has been a sad one, it will all be forgotten there!"

"It is useless--there is no hope for me in this world, nor the next.

There is one thing I ask, and you will grant it I am sure; it is this, that the Countess would come and see me. Oh! if I could only see her once more, and know she forgave me I could die happy."

"I am sure I may promise you that request. I shall see you again to-morrow; till then adieu, for I hear them at the door. Is there anything you would like that I could procure?"

"Nothing but rest, and I am not likely to get that."

"Adieu, then, and G.o.d in his mercy grant the reigning powers may give a favourable hearing to your case; at the worst I can appeal to the House of Lords, but even then there would be little hope."

The brothers then parted, and the Earl left with the Count. In conclusion we need only say nothing could be done for the prisoner without an interview with the King, which the Earl solicited for the following day; but he obtained leave for the Countess to pay a visit to the unhappy man, and then bidding the Count good evening, and placing a purse of gold in the guard's hand to procure any comfort his brother might wish, he drove home, and recounted the adventure to his wife.

"Will you go and see him there?" said the Earl.

"It will be a great trial, but I must nerve myself to it. How impossible it seems to believe that he is your brother and mine too!"

"I shall crave an audience of the King to-morrow after leaving you there, and whilst I am away you can converse with him. If I procure his freedom we must try and get a residence either in Sicily, or some of the neighbouring islands, where he can lead a retired life, and occasionally see his friends. There is one thing sure, and that is his life is now a short one,--he has already reached an age few De Veres ever attained, but I only hope your influence may yet do something to lead his mind to better things. I wish I could have seen in him repentance rather than remorse for his life of crimes."

CHAPTER XXI.

"Oh! had I met thee then, when life was bright, Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light; But now thou com'st, like sunny skies, Too late to cheer the seaman's eyes, When wrecked and lost his bark before him lies!

No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may, Since youth, and love, and hope have pa.s.sed away."

_Moore._

We return to Viscount de Vere. When the Earl had left him, the guards had departed, the door been bolted and barred, and lights fled, he felt indeed alone. The dungeon in which he was confined was cold and dark, but scarcely so cold as the past seemed to him, and scarcely so dark as the future. Seldom, perhaps, has such an adverse fate ever followed mortal,--seldom has one seen an instance in which one who might have graced the rank to which he was born, has been, as it were, crushed to be a disgrace! We can afford to look harshly on the character of Captain de Vere; but pity must mingle with our frown when we look fairly on his victim. In the expressive words of the poet we have before quoted,--

"His heart was formed for softness--warped to wrong."

He had no right to become what he did. Had he had ordinary advantages, he might have lived to be an ornament to his profession, and an example instead of a beacon to warn others from the shoals on which he had wrecked his bark. We have only to glance over a few of the turning points in his life to see this. An innocent child,--not for his own fault but his father's,--is carried off by a wronged and desperate man.

Had this not occurred, in all probability he would have grown up in his right position, and this tale would never have been written. This child, bred as a young pirate, nurtured among the wildest scenes of vice and bloodshed, was by a happy incident, rescued from this odious life; and had the action that delivered him destroyed his evil angel, Stacy, he would have still, in all likelihood, reflected honour on his rescuer. In the changes of life this young man and his destroyer are again thrown together, and an evil acquaintance begun. His greatest friend is cut off by yellow fever, and bearer of his sword, he makes his first acquaintance with her, his wild pa.s.sion for whom sealed his woe. Once more he is thrown amongst his own family as a stranger, and as a guest enters his paternal hall.

His brother, in a high position at his expense, sues for and obtains the love of his adored one. No marvel the fiend of jealousy burned within him. He seeks Stacy as a counsellor, and by another strange mischance, meets his brother the Captain. From that fatal night we may date the first move downwards; like the train on the incline he began slowly,--his descent became swifter and swifter,--till at last, unable to arrest his dread pace, with fearful rapidity he rushed down the steep of sin and misery to the gulf of everlasting woe! He tried, first by deception, then by pa.s.sionate entreaty, to regain the heart he had lost.

Then came the second lost opportunity,--the night at the Towers, when a little firmness would have stayed his decline. He was of a wavering mind, an unfixed will, and the stern, strong-minded Captain outflanked him, and the second stage of infamy began.

We need not recapitulate the abduction of Ellen Ravensworth, the relief, his rescue from prison, subsequent disgraceful life, and attempted outrage on his old flame. Attachment had lost its pureness, all its hallowed light was shadowed, dimmed, departed; yet who could read of the last wrest from his native land, or see the hopeless pa.s.sion in his black heart, when he felt himself wrung away from love and virtue, yet hating the life of crime he was drifting to, without feeling pity for the lost, erring man against whom the stars seemed to fight in their courses! After that fatal night the scene grows darker; we pa.s.s over the slave dealer and bloodthirsty brigand; the fearful quarrel, where brother mixed with brother in mortal fray; the escape, and the surrender; and we are now gazing on the actor of so many dreadful scenes lying a chained convict in a Neapolitan gaol.

We last saw him flying with his blood-won prize;--what has become of her--of Caroline Lennox? Often in a heart black as night there lingers something human,--something which, if it be not virtue, is so like it that it is attractive the more so for being alone amid a host of evil pa.s.sions,--an Abdiel among innumerable false ones! Such a glimpse of better days shone in Adrian's mind, when he first resolved to save Caroline, and for her sake perpetrated the dark crime. At the first town he arrived at, Ariano, he left the young lady at the inn, giving also full directions that everything should be placed at her command which money could buy; for this he gave the host a purse of gold, at the same time threatening him with Adrian Vardarelli's vengeance if he failed to give an account of it. That name was sufficient to instil terror into the man's heart; and Caroline lacked no good thing till she was rescued from her sad position and sent to Scotland. Here (at Ariano) we leave her for the present, and follow Adrian, who, by forced marches, reached Naples, and at once gave himself up to the authorities; he was flung into the gaol where we found him, loaded with chains, till the merciful authorities chose to end his sufferings by beheadal or hanging.

He was a man then more sinned against than sinning,--led by worse advisers to perpetrate deeds which, left to himself, he would never even have thought of. Since the Earl's visit to him, and the discovery of his real position, his mind had grown darker and darker; so miserable did he become that death would have been a friend! It had been better he had never known it. One thing alone shed a ray, not of hope, but comfort in his night of sorrow: this was the thought he should ere long see her for whom he still entertained the liveliest affection. Strange it should have been so!--she whose broken plight had brought him to his present low estate, was yet dearer than all else; she was the only being he yet desired to live for. He felt he must have forfeited her love, her regard,--but not her pity. To hear her say, "I forgive;" to press the hand he had once pressed, when sincere and faithful; to hear the voice he loved and had heard in better hours; this would be the last joy he should rejoice in; and then, having bid farewell to her, having feasted his eyes once more, welcome darkness, welcome death! He was roused from such thoughts by the re-entrance of his keeper; this was unusual, and he began to wonder what it might mean. It was the Earl's gratuity to his guard which occasioned the surprise; in his eyes his prisoner was now a very different person; one who enjoyed the protection of the great English lord was very different from the friendless captive; and anxious to make reparation for the past, the Italian soldier, Giacomo, was bearer of a good repast, whilst two other men brought a mattress, on which the outlaw might lie more comfortably, as well as a sheepskin to cover him.

"Is there anything else Signore would like?" asked the guard of his astonished prisoner.

"Yes," replied Viscount de Vere. He then whispered something in the man's ear; a gesture told him he understood his meaning. The man then unbound his hands and feet, left a lantern and his supper, saying he would bring what he asked for early next day, and consigned him once more to solitude and his dark thoughts.

When the doors were barred the unhappy man rose, stretched his limbs, ate a few morsels of bread, drank a deep draught of spirits, and then began to pace his cell, backwards and forwards, as long as the light befriended him. Ere long the lamp began to flicker, the wick was burned to the socket, and it lit up, and darkened the prison with spasmodic convulsions, till it went out and left him in total darkness. Groping his way to the miserable bed, he stretched himself on it, drew the sheepskin over him, and actually slept.

He was awoke by the noise of the door being unbolted; soon afterwards Giacomo appeared with his breakfast,--the first one he had seen,--thanks to the purse! he also received from his keeper a small parcel, from which he tore the paper, and produced a gla.s.s phial full of a liquid as clear as water; he drew the cork, placed the bottle beneath his nose, and then, as if satisfied it was what he wanted, recorked it, and hid it under his vest.

"An English donna is going to visit Signore," said Giacomo.

"At what hour?"

"Afternoon, I think."

"Oh, my G.o.d!" exclaimed Viscount de Vere, clasping his hands together.

"Leave me now;--no,--stay,--bring paper, pen, and ink."

In a short time these were brought, and the Viscount began to write.

Several times he tore up what he had written; at last, as if satisfied with the contents, he folded the sheet, and addressed it to--

"_The Right Honourable, the Countess of Wentworth._" He also placed it beneath his vest. He then walked again hurriedly up and down his cell, often marking a ray of sunshine which crept along the damp ground--this was his timepiece. So accurately had he noticed its travels, he seemed to know the very minutes of its onward march. Hours rolled on. The beam had reached the allotted distance. "'Tis noon," he involuntarily exclaimed, drawing a long, deep sigh.

A few minutes, and he heard a footstep approaching the door, the key grated in the wards--he shuddered, and staggering rather than walking to his couch, threw himself on his breast, and buried his face in his hands. He heard the door open, and soon afterwards a light step approaching him--it ceased--she stood beside him. With a sudden exertion he sprung up and threw himself on his knees; for a few seconds he dared not look up; at last he raised his eyes--yes, there she stood, the lady of his love; long years had pa.s.sed since he last saw her, but she was the same Ellen, her beauty matured, but unimpaired; she stood like his good angel, weeping over her lost charge; tear after tear gathered and fell from those large, blue eyes. This was his third strange interview with the adored idol of his heart. Once he had kneeled at her feet and from those lips heard the fatal words that sealed his doom; once he had stood the brutal oppressor over the weeping suppliant; now he kneeled at her feet, the convict prisoner; each had been a darker shade. On former occasions twice had Ellen opened the conversation, this time she was unable to speak, and it devolved on him to break silence.

"Ellen," he said, "unworthy as I feel to take your pure name on my defiled lips, do you forgive me? Oh! say so, and I die happy."

"Edward, I have nothing to forgive; I have forgiven long ago; it is I who should ask forgiveness of you."

"Thanks, lady, I can now die happy."

"Ah, Edward--for so I must still call you--to die happy there is need of forgiveness of sins; but why do you talk of death? I do hope and believe Wentworth will be able to procure your freedom, and then let your remaining years try and make up for the past, of which we will speak no more."

"No. I shall never leave this dungeon: it is too late now. Mine has been a wayward fate, it will soon be over. I have been too black a criminal; I have long bade adieu to hope."

"Ah! say not so: you little know the power of grace. Sinners greater far than you have been washed and made clean; why should you despair?"

"Ellen, it is useless to speak thus; I tell you I am lost, eternally lost. Had my life been different, had you been what you might have been to me, it would have been far otherwise; but regrets are useless, you have come too late to save me from the reward of my crimes."

"Oh, Edward! I know I have been deeply to blame, I know it was my change of sentiments to you that worked your ruin; to my dying hour I shall never cease to mourn over my fault. Oh, if I was the first to lead you astray, let me be the first to guide you back, and if in this world we have been severed, in that which is to come we shall meet to part never more. I speak as a sister now, as I am; dear brother, say not it is too late."

"Ellen, do not blame yourself thus. How was it possible you should love me? your heart was free, and because denied to me, I strove by mad violence to regain it, and lost all, deservedly."

"But you have it now, not as it was, but in a new light, a sister's love; and as a sister I have mourned over you; and often, often have I remembered in my prayers my erring friend. Oh! let them be granted by my seeing you put away the old man and be renewed in spirit."

"Alas! it is all to no purpose. I am lost, lost."

"You mistake the Gospel, it saves to the _uttermost_; the veriest outcast can find peace, for every sin there is forgiveness."