The Weird of the Wentworths: A Tale of George IV's Time, Vol. 2

by Johannes Scotus

  CHAPTER IV.

  "From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding-night; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in _her_ shroud of snow."--_Longfellow._

  There is something peculiarly sad in the reflection that even the worksof man are longer lived than himself. The gray castle, the ancestralresidence of proud races, outlives its lords; the trees man plants shallwave green long after he has mouldered in the tomb; the very pictureexists long after the original has ceased to be known in his place. Butit is this very fact that lends so much romance to the old castle--theancient tree, on whose trunk is carved many a long-forgotten name--thedusky portrait, which retains the likeness of old ancestors, andsnatches them from the oblivion of the dead! There is little interest inthe new mansion; we could well afford to dispense with all modernluxuries, could we gain some old traditionary story of the house wedwell in.

  The Towers was the most ancient castle in all the neighbourhood; it hadbeen brought into the De Vere family through a Scotch heiress--her namehad long been joined with De Vere, but the custom had grown intodesuetude. The Towers had stood unchanged for many a century; its lordshad mouldered away, not so its battlements; its chieftains had died thedeath, not so its buttresses; not so its four lofty towers, on one ofwhich floated the banner of the family, and in one of which slumberedthe mortal remains of many of its stout possessors and fair mistresses.It had seen every vicissitude of its owners, but owned little changeitself. The bride and the bridegroom, the dead had been borne over, andthe mourners had trodden its halls. If its walls could have spoken theycould have divulged many a dark secret, related many a dark deed. Itseemed as if in silent night it mourned the departed, as if in sunny dayit rejoiced with the living. These thoughts have been suggested by thelines that head the chapter, and the sequence will show they are notwholly without their meaning.

  The old castle was shortly to see some more of the vicissitudes oflife--marriage and death, which, like light and darkness, are perhapsthe most dissimilar events of life, yet often go hand in hand, indeed sooften that in Scotland it is a common saying, "A marriage and a death."It is useless to inquire into the origin of any superstition, it isenough to say without good cause it could hardly have attained theuniversal belief it does. The author can testify that in his shortexperience the truth of this proverb has too often been exemplified.

  The winter which had set in with a rigour unusual at the early season ofNovember, had betaken itself to more northern latitudes, and a sort ofIndian summer had lasted during the two first weeks of December; so mildindeed was the temperature that several trees were putting out an earlyleaf to be blighted by coming frosts. The 18th of December, the dayfixed for the Earl's wedding, opened mild and fine; a good deal of cloudwas drifting across a sky of remarkable transparency, which is often thecase when the atmosphere is saturated with moisture. The sun was warm,the grass shining in his beams as he lit up the raindrops of thepreceding night; a few swallows, which had not yet taken theirdeparture, darted at the gnats and other insects the unseasonableweather had tempted out. Altogether there was nothing unusual in theday, and whatever man might intend it seemed pretty certain nature wouldroll her course unaltered, and heed little whether her rain or sunshinefell on the festal day.

  At an early hour Ellen Ravensworth awoke; it was hardly light when sherose, and after repeating her morning orisons to God, began to realizethis was actually the last day she would rise as Ellen Ravensworth, andreally the day of her marriage. A crowd of differing thoughts hurriedthrough her brain. Her life had been like a dream since that morninglast year; long as the days had seemed passing, now it was like a watchof the night. It seemed but yesterday she had risen in her own room atSeaview, and not even known him who would that night be her husband. Itwas but a year ago she had risen with her head full of the ball, and hadbeen marvelling whether she would be introduced to the Earl. Her castlebuilding had for once turned out true, her visions had been realized,and here, on the selfsame day, one year after, she rose in the castlewhich would be her own that evening. She was about to be united with himshe had so singularly met, and so long and dearly loved. It was but atwelvemonth ago, but since that day how strange had been her life! Intothat short year how much had been crowded--her introduction to the Earl;the accident of his cloak to protect her going home; the drive in thesleigh; the evening at the Towers; and the memorable ring which stillgemmed her finger. Then had come the departure of her noble friends; thefatal but lying news; the fever that had prostrated her on a bed ofsuffering, and well-nigh extinguished the lamp of life; the journey inforeign lands; the meeting with her best friend, Edith Arranmore; thenthe Earl's first visit, and L'Estrange's last heartbroken appeal. Andhere her thoughts partook of gloom, for she could not exculpate herselfof blame; she had certainly cast him off, and _her_ change of sentimentshad wrought his ruin; he had told her they would, and they had done so.Her delightful visit to the Towers; the picnic; the false Italian; herwooing in the cool grot; and then the disappearance of L'Estrange; herawful abduction; the week of captivity; the miraculous intervention ofProvidence in sending Juana; the dreadful combat and capture of her oldlover; his bold and unaccountable escape from prison; then the fearfultragedy of Sir Richard Musgrave's death; the flight of the Captain; hislast words, and her secret knowledge of his guilt; her uncertainty ofthe future; these and many other such thoughts were ample food forcontemplation while she dressed. Her joy was darkened with fears. Wherecould he be? He would not be inactive; still she had the word of theCaptain she should be married, and she believed the dark mysterious man.Her joining her fates with such a remarkable family was another cause ofanxiety. How soon might he whom she loved so well be cut off? how soonher sisters be withered in their bloom? She could not doubt the Weird!it was like a voice of death in the song of her nuptials. Then toolinking herself with such a man as the brother of the Captain, there washorror in the very thought! There was sunshine still on the very cloudsof fear, one thought silvered the edge of that darkest cloud. She feltthat she might be the favoured instrument of doing much good to thefamily. Already she saw a change for the better in her dear friendEdith; she had often spoken to her on religious subjects, and at theleast she was an anxious inquirer after the truth. She had the greatesthopes of Lady Florence too; and, best of all, what might her influencedo for the Earl? He was young, generous, hospitable, kind; his veryfaults were virtues run wild. She determined, with the blessing of God,her silent walk and secret influence should guide him,--the Christianwife might do much for the unbelieving husband. Frank too was tractable,and very young; and then there was the Captain, alas! it seemed thedespair of very hope to think of reforming him; but nothing was too hardfor One, nothing impossible, and she hoped!

  From these meditations, and the glorious thoughts of leading a wholefamily in the right way, she was disturbed by the entrance of LadyArranmore, who clasped her in her arms and wished her all joy on theauspicious morning. The two friends then descended to the Earl's study,where Lady Florence and Mr. Ravensworth were both present. They weresoon afterwards joined by the Marquis, Frank, Maude, and Johnny, makinga family party of love and unity. One only was absent,--the Captain.

  This happy family circle soon joined the company assembled in theparlour, where a merry breakfast party congratulated the bride elect onthe dawning of her wedding-day. The marriage was to take place in theevening, according to olden custom, and a marriage supper instead of themore modern dejeuner. Of course during the day all was bustle andpreparation for the coming event; Ellen, however, found time for a walkin the garden with her bosom friend the Marchioness. Their friendshipwas no common one, and it was the prospect of parting from EdithArranmore, though only for a short time, that cast the only shadow onEllen's sunshine of joy. Their conversation was melancholy--much on theunhappy Edward L'Estrange, and from him they ran on to Sir Richard'sdeath, and then to the Weird and Lady Augusta.

  "I am sure, dear Edith, it is unlucky to talk thus on my wedding
-day;let us talk of all the happiness of life, and leave its miseries foranother time."

  "Ah! Ellen love, it is on these seasons of festivity that sometimes Ifeel most low; before every ray there is a shadow, and it is often thatthe most happy seasons engender the most unhappy thoughts."

  "And why should you think so? this should be the happiest day to both ofus; do you remember at Geneva you told me I looked on the dark side, andyou looked on the sunny; methinks we are changed, and I now gaze on thelight, and you on the darkness."

  "Ellen, I cannot deceive you, but I have a dread feeling there hangssomething sad over all this; in our family, presentiments are notdisregarded; you link your fortunes with ours, and must not smile at myfollies."

  "Edith, darling, you alarm me; you know nothing, do you? surely you havenothing to apprehend; tell me, love, hide nothing from your sister."

  "I know nothing, but Ellen I dreamed last night my departed sister stoodby me; in her hand she held a miniature. I looked at it and saw aninfant's counterpart,--it was our lost Arthur's picture,--she beckonedwith her hand, and when I rose to follow she smiled, then gazing on theminiature she looked so unhappy, and said: 'Lost--he is not there--he islost!' I woke--I am telling you no fancy--I saw some one glide from theroom. I am not easily frightened, Ellen, and I rose--I followed to thedoor, and there distinctly saw a form like Augusta's glide down the longcorridor. I could not sleep again all night, and when I now think on itI feel sure some evil lurks near; why she showed that baby form I knownot; God grant it may not affect my own Arthur; if my child died, Ishould follow, Ellen,--Augusta need not beckon!"

  "Edith, love, we should trust God before even presentiments; if we fearHim all will work together for our good, and even from evil good willspring forth."

  "Ah! Ellen, if I had the trust you have; but I cannot overcome my fears;God grant they may all be shadows! But here is Wentworth, he must notsee clouded faces, let us try and forget this."

  The large ball-room at the Towers had been fitted up as a chapel for theoccasion, to the scandal of the prelate who was to perform the ceremony;he considered it almost equal to fitting up the temple of Baal as thehouse of God! About seven in the evening the chapel was full to the verydoors with guests in the most brilliant attire. The Bishop of Edinburghwith his full lawn sleeves, attended by two clergymen, entered theapartment from a side door, and walked up to the altar. Almostimmediately after from the right hand side Mr. Ravensworth, with thebride leaning on his arm, appeared, and behind him two by two fourteenbridesmaids, including nearly all the beauty of the neighbourhood. Thefairest perhaps of all was the bridegroom's sister, Lady Florence. Atthe same moment the Earl entered from the opposite side with LordDalkeith, who acted in the capacity of best man, or as our southerncousins call it, bridegroom's man, and several other gentlemen,including Frank and the Marquis. The two parties met before the altar,when the solemn service of the Church of England was beautifullyperformed. Every one allowed that they were the handsomest couple thatalmost ever stood before the hymeneal altar. And when all was done, thering given, and the Earl took his young and lovely partner, all whobeheld his tall and stately figure, whilst on his arm leaned hisblushing bride, veiled in lace that enhanced the charms it could nothide--unable to contain their joy shouted, "God save the noble pair."

  The Earl and Ellen, now Countess of Wentworth, then led the way to thedrawing-room, where all her friends crowded round the young peeress, andwished her every joy. In the fashion of the good old days the happy pairgraced the supper with their presence, and after the toasts were allgiven, speeches made and returned, the Countess rose and left with LadyArranmore to attire herself in her travelling dress. In a short time sheagain appeared, and the Earl offering his arm to his bride, hasteneddown stairs to the hall door, before which stood a splendid carriagewith four greys, all adorned with ribbons. The Countess gave a last longembrace to Edith, kissed Florence, her father, brother, and sister, andthen waving her hand to the other guests took her lord's arm, andhurried into the carriage amid a storm of satin shoes, bouquets, andblessings. The Earl's valet, and the Countess's lady's-maid leaped upbehind, crack went the postilions' whips, round went the wheels, and thehappy pair set off for Edinburgh, where they were to pass the firstnight, and soon after to start for the Villa Reale, at Naples, wherethey intended spending the honeymoon. When the Earl and his bride wereoff the entertainment at the Towers was kept up with the utmost spirit.The Earl had resigned his castle to the Marquis and Edith, and theformer was determined to end the day well, which he did with avengeance, and it is whispered the noble lord was helped up to his roomby old Andrew, who patted him on his back and told him he was the realgentleman, and three other footmen. The Marquis kept up the feast duringthe whole week following, when the Towers were, as on all suchoccasions, open hall, "and while he feasted all the great," we must dohis lordship the justice to say, "he ne'er forgot the small." Still thiswas a cheap charity, for all came out of the Earl's pocket, and while_he_ would have felt hurt had it not been so, the Marquis had theextreme delight of winning laurels on another's hospitality. He wasdetermined to end matters by a grand flare up, so he invited almost thewhole of the gentry of the surrounding country to the great ball, givenin honour of the Earl's marriage. All the rank, beauty, and fashion, notonly of Edinburgh but the north as well as the south borders of theTweed were to be there, and no expense spared to make it worthy of theoccasion. On the evening of the ball the Marquis was in high feather;everything had gone on well so far, every one had accepted, theball-room was splendidly festooned with holly and mistletoe, throughwhose dark leaves glittered a thousand tapers, giving almost the lightof day; the boards were chalked with elegant devices, the tables belowgroaned with a magnificent supper, the castle was illuminated within andwithout, and joy was on every face, and laughter on every tongue.

  "Ha! Lennox, isn't this grand?" said the Marquis, as he and Mr. Lennoxentered the ball-room, in full evening costume. "The room is silentenough now, how different it will look in a few hours, when hundreds aretripping it on the light fantastic toe."

  "Indeed, my lord, nothing befitting the auspicious event is wanting now,except the guests; all is prepared, and all does justice to yourlordship's taste."

  "By Jove, Arranmore, you have lights enough here; it reminds me of thevalley of a thousand fires," said Frank, entering in full uniform. "Thefun will soon begin now; why bless me, there went the bell,--some veryunfashionable arrival."

  "Bedad," cried the Marquis, who sometimes used a true Irish expression,"guests arriving and the Marchioness not here to receive them, I must goand hurry her. Come, Lennox. Frank, stay here and do the polite." TheMarquis and Mr. Lennox proceeded along the corridor till they were nearthe Marchioness's room when they heard a long, loud, harrowing scream,and "Help--fire--fire! Oh, help."

  "God of heavens!" shouted the Marquis, "what's the matter?"

  This question was answered by the sudden bursting open of the door, andthe wild figure of the Marchioness, enveloped in flames, rushing madlyto seek aid. When she saw her husband, uttering another piercing scream,she flung herself into his arms. All flaming as she was he sprang withhis fiery burden to her room, and tearing down the crimson curtains fromher bed wrapped his unhappy lady in their dense folds, while Mr. Lennoxtore a blanket off, with which he succeeded in extinguishing the flames.Frank, and several others, startled by the scream, entered the room, andevery device to alleviate the unhappy lady's sufferings was resorted to.Fortunately there was more than one door man in the house at the timethe accident happened, and all that medical skill could do was donepromptly and well. The flames had apparently but breathed upon hertender form, but the shock was too much for the nervous system, and whenthe fearful sufferings gave way to remedies, the harrowing screams grewfainter, and at length ceased, giving the Marquis, who was wild withgrief, some hopes: the unfortunate young lady, however, gradually sunk,and about midnight the dying lamp of life expired. Perhaps the mostmelancholy part was the detailing of the fatal new
s to the carriagesfull which arrived every minute with their inmates ready for the dance,and sadly shocked at the awful catastrophe which had so unexpectedlyturned rejoicing into misery.

  How sad was the chamber of death! Stretched lifeless, but beautiful indeath, the hope of age, the joy of her husband, the kind, thegenerous--lay unheeding, but not unheeded. Kneeling at the couch's side,the Marquis hid his agony on his lifeless partner's bosom, and wept inuncontrolled grief. The fair Lady Florence, arrayed in her ball dress,wrung her hands and wept in wild despair, with her golden tresses alldishevelled, flowing over her lost sister. There were many othermourners, and no sound but the suppressed sobs of man, or the unconfinedweeping of woman broke the gloom of the chamber of death.

  How would _they_ hear the news? was often asked. Who shall tell thebridal pair? How had laughter languished into groans! how had theyproved that in the midst of life we are in death! A week after thisevent a very different ceremony was performed by the same prelate. Thesame room, not adorned for the wedding but hung in funeral black, saw avery different sight. In the centre of the chamber, on a table coveredwith black, stood a gorgeous coffin of crimson velvet and gold, aroundit in the garb of woe stood the eight pall-bearers. Behind it the chiefmourners--the Marquis and Frank de Vere.

  The first part of the impressive and beautiful burial service was readby the Bishop--then the coffin containing all that remained of youth andbeauty, was slowly and solemnly borne through the long passages hung incrape, through the great hall to the doorway, where a hearse drawn bysix horses, with black drapings and nodding plumes, received itslifeless burden; and the horses, tossing their plumed heads, pacedacross the drawbridge, whilst the mourners walked in sad processionbehind. The white feathers on the hearse told that one young in thisworld 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 familyvault, and was placed on the drop. For the last time the mournersgathered round the narrow bed of the loved and departed one. Thechamber, or rather cloister, in which they stood, was well adapted forthe mournful spectacle. The windows were narrow, the roof low, andsupported by ribbed pillars; on either side were low benches, all robedin funeral black; the floor was also covered with black cloth, the wallsdraped with the same, and the pillars encircled with wreaths of cypressand yew branches; along the walls, through the black squares cut in thecloth, glimmered, ghostlike, the marble tablets recording the names andages of all the former departed members of the De Veres, whose bonesmouldered beneath. Everything was black and funeral-like. The onlyexception was the coffin, whose crimson velvet lining, gold plates andornaments seemed almost strange in contrast.

  The Bishop continued the service, and at the right place the bolt waswithdrawn, and the drop with the coffin began to sink silently to itslong last resting place. At this moment a young girl in deepest blackadvanced, and placed a wreath of white roses on the coffin. LadyFlorence, for she it was, then turned away, buried her face in herhandkerchief, and gave utterance to her feelings in a paroxysm of tears;her brother Frank supported her from the scene of woe, and seemedhimself hardly to be able to control his grief. Gradually the coffinsank, till at last only the white circle of roses was visible; then it,too, disappeared; a crimson reflection from the coffin flushed the blackdrapings 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. Thenall darkly disappeared, and then first it seemed as if the last link wasbroken. The Marquis and many others quite gave way, and sobbed aloud.Then all departed save those whose duty it was to descend, and place thecoffin in its proper position.[A]

  The vault was long and narrow; on either side were three rows of blackmarble slabs, on which were placed many coffins, containing the ashes offormer generations. Between Lady Augusta's coffin, which was of whitevelvet, with silver lace-work, on which, too, a wreath of the flowerl'immortelle was still as fresh as on the day when it had been placedthere, and the gorgeous coffin of the late Earl, they placed the newlyarrived burden. Immediately above the slab on which the Marchioness'sremains were placed was a singular spectacle--an empty coffin of aninfant! The lid was resting against the wall behind, inside was a softpillow and satin coverings, but on the pillow rested no infant head--itwas empty! This was the house of the dead, ready for Arthur Viscount deVere, whose remains were never found to fill it. By the narrow bed ofall that was dear to him stood the Marquis with folded arms; he thenclasped his hands together, leant over the head of the coffin, and forsome moments seemed as though he could never leave it. Then, summoningall his resolution, he cried, "Farewell, Edith, farewell! my feet maywander far from thee, but my heart lies buried here." He then rushedaway from the maddening scene, followed by the others who had descendedwith him, and they left the departed alone amongst the ashes of theformer dead, till the last trump shall sound, and the mortal riseimmortal!

  When the Marquis reached the castle, he gave himself up to unrestrainedgrief, and refused to be comforted for many days. He then left for hisseat in Ireland, taking with him his infant son, the only pledge ofundying love! Frank and his sister left for their town residence, andthe castle was shut up, old Andrew and some of the servants onlyremaining. The escutcheon was edged with black, and the old Towerslooked as if they shared their owner's grief, and mourned for the dead.Young Wilton had started immediately for Naples, bearer of the dreadfultidings to the Earl and Countess, who would long be in happy ignoranceof the sad event.

  Thus was another instance of the early death of the family added to thelong and mournful category!