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

by Johannes Scotus

  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 passed away." _Moore._

  We return to Viscount de Vere. When the Earl had left him, the guardshad departed, the door been bolted and barred, and lights fled, he feltindeed 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 asthe future. Seldom, perhaps, has such an adverse fate ever followedmortal,--seldom has one seen an instance in which one who might havegraced the rank to which he was born, has been, as it were, crushed tobe a disgrace! We can afford to look harshly on the character of Captainde Vere; but pity must mingle with our frown when we look fairly on hisvictim. 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 exampleinstead of a beacon to warn others from the shoals on which he hadwrecked his bark. We have only to glance over a few of the turningpoints in his life to see this. An innocent child,--not for his ownfault 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 hisright position, and this tale would never have been written. This child,bred as a young pirate, nurtured among the wildest scenes of vice andbloodshed, was by a happy incident, rescued from this odious life; andhad the action that delivered him destroyed his evil angel, Stacy, hewould have still, in all likelihood, reflected honour on his rescuer. Inthe changes of life this young man and his destroyer are again throwntogether, and an evil acquaintance begun. His greatest friend is cut offby yellow fever, and bearer of his sword, he makes his firstacquaintance with her, his wild passion for whom sealed his woe. Oncemore he is thrown amongst his own family as a stranger, and as a guestenters his paternal hall.

  His brother, in a high position at his expense, sues for and obtains thelove of his adored one. No marvel the fiend of jealousy burned withinhim. He seeks Stacy as a counsellor, and by another strange mischance,meets his brother the Captain. From that fatal night we may date thefirst move downwards; like the train on the incline he beganslowly,--his descent became swifter and swifter,--till at last, unableto arrest his dread pace, with fearful rapidity he rushed down the steepof sin and misery to the gulf of everlasting woe! He tried, first bydeception, then by passionate entreaty, to regain the heart he had lost.Then came the second lost opportunity,--the night at the Towers, when alittle firmness would have stayed his decline. He was of a waveringmind, an unfixed will, and the stern, strong-minded Captain outflankedhim, 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 attemptedoutrage on his old flame. Attachment had lost its pureness, all itshallowed light was shadowed, dimmed, departed; yet who could read of thelast wrest from his native land, or see the hopeless passion in hisblack heart, when he felt himself wrung away from love and virtue, yethating the life of crime he was drifting to, without feeling pity forthe lost, erring man against whom the stars seemed to fight in theircourses! After that fatal night the scene grows darker; we pass over theslave dealer and bloodthirsty brigand; the fearful quarrel, wherebrother mixed with brother in mortal fray; the escape, and thesurrender; and we are now gazing on the actor of so many dreadful sceneslying a chained convict in a Neapolitan gaol.

  We last saw him flying with his blood-won prize;--what has become ofher--of Caroline Lennox? Often in a heart black as night there lingerssomething human,--something which, if it be not virtue, is so like itthat it is attractive the more so for being alone amid a host of evilpassions,--an Abdiel among innumerable false ones! Such a glimpse ofbetter days shone in Adrian's mind, when he first resolved to saveCaroline, and for her sake perpetrated the dark crime. At the first townhe arrived at, Ariano, he left the young lady at the inn, giving alsofull directions that everything should be placed at her command whichmoney could buy; for this he gave the host a purse of gold, at the sametime threatening him with Adrian Vardarelli's vengeance if he failed togive an account of it. That name was sufficient to instil terror intothe man's heart; and Caroline lacked no good thing till she was rescuedfrom her sad position and sent to Scotland. Here (at Ariano) we leaveher for the present, and follow Adrian, who, by forced marches, reachedNaples, and at once gave himself up to the authorities; he was flunginto the gaol where we found him, loaded with chains, till the mercifulauthorities chose to end his sufferings by beheadal or hanging.

  He was a man then more sinned against than sinning,--led by worseadvisers to perpetrate deeds which, left to himself, he would never evenhave thought of. Since the Earl's visit to him, and the discovery of hisreal position, his mind had grown darker and darker; so miserable did hebecome that death would have been a friend! It had been better he hadnever known it. One thing alone shed a ray, not of hope, but comfort inhis night of sorrow: this was the thought he should ere long see her forwhom he still entertained the liveliest affection. Strange it shouldhave been so!--she whose broken plight had brought him to his presentlow estate, was yet dearer than all else; she was the only being he yetdesired to live for. He felt he must have forfeited her love, herregard,--but not her pity. To hear her say, "I forgive;" to press thehand he had once pressed, when sincere and faithful; to hear the voicehe loved and had heard in better hours; this would be the last joy heshould rejoice in; and then, having bid farewell to her, having feastedhis eyes once more, welcome darkness, welcome death! He was roused fromsuch thoughts by the re-entrance of his keeper; this was unusual, and hebegan to wonder what it might mean. It was the Earl's gratuity to hisguard which occasioned the surprise; in his eyes his prisoner was now avery different person; one who enjoyed the protection of the greatEnglish lord was very different from the friendless captive; and anxiousto make reparation for the past, the Italian soldier, Giacomo, wasbearer of a good repast, whilst two other men brought a mattress, onwhich the outlaw might lie more comfortably, as well as a sheepskin tocover him.

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

  "Yes," replied Viscount de Vere. He then whispered something in theman's ear; a gesture told him he understood his meaning. The man thenunbound his hands and feet, left a lantern and his supper, saying hewould bring what he asked for early next day, and consigned him oncemore 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 thenbegan to pace his cell, backwards and forwards, as long as the lightbefriended him. Ere long the lamp began to flicker, the wick was burnedto the socket, and it lit up, and darkened the prison with spasmodicconvulsions, till it went out and left him in total darkness. Gropinghis way to the miserable bed, he stretched himself on it, drew thesheepskin over him, and actually slept.

  He was awoke by the noise of the door being unbolted; soon afterwardsGiacomo appeared with his breakfast,--the first one he had seen,--thanksto the purse! he also received from his keeper a small parcel, fromwhich he tore the paper, and produced a glass phial full of a liquid asclear 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 itunder his vest.

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

  "At what hour?"

  "Afternoon, I think."

  "Oh, my God!" 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 satisfiedwith the contents, he folded the sheet, and addressed it to--

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

  A few minutes, and he heard a footstep approaching the door, the keygrated in the wards--he shuddered, and staggering rather than walking tohis couch, threw himself on his breast, and buried his face in hishands. He heard the door open, and soon afterwards a light stepapproaching him--it ceased--she stood beside him. With a sudden exertionhe sprung up and threw himself on his knees; for a few seconds he darednot look up; at last he raised his eyes--yes, there she stood, the ladyof his love; long years had passed since he last saw her, but she wasthe same Ellen, her beauty matured, but unimpaired; she stood like hisgood angel, weeping over her lost charge; tear after tear gathered andfell from those large, blue eyes. This was his third strange interviewwith the adored idol of his heart. Once he had kneeled at her feet andfrom those lips heard the fatal words that sealed his doom; once he hadstood the brutal oppressor over the weeping suppliant; now he kneeled ather feet, the convict prisoner; each had been a darker shade. On formeroccasions twice had Ellen opened the conversation, this time she wasunable to speak, and it devolved on him to break silence.

  "Ellen," he said, "unworthy as I feel to take your pure name on mydefiled 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 Iwho 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 offorgiveness of sins; but why do you talk of death? I do hope and believeWentworth will be able to procure your freedom, and then let yourremaining years try and make up for the past, of which we will speak nomore."

  "No. I shall never leave this dungeon: it is too late now. Mine has beena 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 farthan you have been washed and made clean; why should you despair?"

  "Ellen, it is useless to speak thus; I tell you I am lost, eternallylost. Had my life been different, had you been what you might have beento me, it would have been far otherwise; but regrets are useless, youhave 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 changeof sentiments to you that worked your ruin; to my dying hour I shallnever cease to mourn over my fault. Oh, if I was the first to lead youastray, let me be the first to guide you back, and if in this world wehave been severed, in that which is to come we shall meet to part nevermore. I speak as a sister now, as I am; dear brother, say not it is toolate."

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

  "But you have it now, not as it was, but in a new light, a sister'slove; and as a sister I have mourned over you; and often, often have Iremembered in my prayers my erring friend. Oh! let them be granted by myseeing 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 veriestoutcast can find peace, for every sin there is forgiveness."

  "Save one--you forget the verse, 'There is a sin unto death.'"

  "But we know not what that is, and while life lasts the greatest sinnermay return; the prayer of the dying thief was heard, so will yours beheard and answered."

  "Vain, vain, I tell you, Ellen; I cannot pray; the Spirit left me longago. I know the very night--the very hour--he left; that night I soldmyself to the devil, the night I agreed to the diabolic plot againstyou, Ellen. Since then I have never felt aught save remorse, no desireto be better; prayer has frozen on my lips, I am a reprobate."

  "You think too darkly. Oh! try and pray with me; resist the evil spirit,and he will flee from you."

  The Countess knelt down beside the wretched man, and offered up afervent prayer to heaven for him. He heard it with a cold, gloomyexpression, and when she ceased, only said, "I cannot say amen; I tried,but it is impossible; believe me, Ellen, I am lost,--and, what is more,I mourn not my lost heaven. I want not paradise, but rest. Could I restfor ever in the dark grave 'twill be enough. I have seen you, I haveheard you forgive me; the voice I loved in better days to hear hasthrilled through me; I have had all I want, leave me to finish life as Ideserve. Why should you or my brother trouble yourselves more?"

  Tears of sorrow again coursed the Countess's cheek, as she bent over herold lover, and, taking his hand, said, "Do you love me, Edward?"

  "Love you? yes; beyond all things earthly and divine. Ellen, you are theonly being I love," answered the Viscount, with wild emotion.

  "Then, if you love me, you will try and prepare for that place where Ihumbly hope--nay, believe--after death I shall live; you would not wishto be parted both in time and in eternity?"

  "Ellen, you ask an impossibility. Ask anything else. No, it is not mywish, but so it must be. In this life I have seen you afar off, in thelife that is to come I must see you afar off too. Oh! that we had nevermet. Do you recollect what I said when on my knees, which were neverbent to man or to God since that moment? did I not say your refusalwould drive me to desperation? see what it has done. I do not blame you;I have myself to blame: but ours was an ill-starred acquaintance--anill-starred love. No, no, you will mourn for me here; you will sometimesgive a passing thought to one who adored you so, for never was needletruer to the north than in weal and woe my heart has been to you. Thisis all I ask; and for me, I am not worthy to love you,--you are like astar I may look up to and worship, but which is at once shrined farabove my affection or my hate."

  For a long while after the Viscount ceased no word was uttered byeither. The scene was at once a striking and a sad one. The prisoner hadsunk back on his side, and, resting on his left elbow, gazed on thelovely being who knelt beside him with her hands clasped, and her eyesturned heavenwards. Her lips moved as though she were breathing afervent petition for her brother. How marked was the contrast betweenthe expression of those two!--vice had sullied the handsome features ofone; virtue had lent a purer radiance to the sweet face of the other.How strange the contrast of their hearts!--one like the glacier, cold,dead, unmelting; the other like the warm sunbeam, which, alas! throwsits brightness, but thaws not the icy mass it shines on. How differentwere their thoughts!--one was thinking with remorse on his wretched pastlife, without hope of a future; the other, whilst mourning over thefalsehood which had worked such a ruin, was still ardent with hope thatin due time her prayers would be answered; and as the mastless,rudderless vessel, tossed and well nigh wrecked on the tumultuousbillows, can yet be refitted, and with a wise captain and pilot steerher way to the haven she was bound for, so would this erring man forget,in that plenitude of rest, peace, and happiness, the storms andtempests, shoals and rocks, of the voyages that had brought him thither.

  This silence might have lasted still longer had not the entrance ofGiacomo broken it.

  "My lady," said he, "Milord wishes to see you; would you follow me?"

  The Countess rose. "Adieu, then, for the present, Edward; I shall prayfor you, and you will show your love to me by thinking more calmly. Iwill come and see you again soon, and I hope in another place thanthis."

  She held her hand out with a mournful smile; the Viscount seized it andpressed it to his lips, his heart was too full to allow him to fra
me theword "adieu." The lady turned away; he watched her till the dark doorshut her out from his view, then, sitting up, took the small phial fromhis breast, laid the letter on the bed beside him, drew the cork, andtossed it from him. "I have nothing more to live for since I have seenher; there is no spot on earth I could live at, and feel she wasanother's wife," thought the hapless man. "Farewell, Ellen! a longfarewell."

  He then emptied the contents of the bottle over his throat: it wasprussic acid, and with fearful rapidity did its fatal work! he felt thehand of death on him whilst he was even swallowing it, sank back,uttered a faint cry of distress, and ceased to live, in less than aminute after swallowing the dreadful draught! So died he, poor erringman! So died he who should have been a peer of England, and yet endedhis life a prisoned brigand, a suicide!

  When the Earl sent for the Countess it was to inform her that he hadprocured the necessary pardon for his brother.

  "He is in an unhappy state of mind," said the Countess, "but I havehopes that the very fear of unworthiness he has is the first fruits ofrepentance, and the foretaste of better thoughts."

  "God grant it may be so," said the Earl; "but now let us go and tell himthe good tidings; it will doubtless have a favourable effect on him, forfreedom engenders far better thoughts than captivity."

  Together they sought the gaol once more, eager to bear the glad tidings.When they entered, the Countess hastened forward: the fixed features,the glassy eye and clenched hands, the empty phial beside him, told thedread truth, and with a cry of terror, she sank in a dead swoon at theside of the hapless victim. The Earl, terrified at the dangerous effectit might produce on his wife, and shocked at the catastrophe, called forassistance, himself bore the senseless lady from the terrible scene, andattended to her first. It was long ere she recovered the dreadful shockshe had sustained, and even when her consciousness returned she wept insuch an hysterical manner, as to alarm her husband not a little. Whenshe reached the villa she became calmer, but it was many days ere sheagain left her room.

  The Earl, after seeing his wife in safety, returned to the prison, andlong gazed in silence on the remains of the wretched suicide: he foundtoo the letter addressed to the Countess; it was a very sad one.

  "December 25. Castel Capuano.

  "When you read this I shall have ceased to breathe: life has to me been a weary load, and I am glad to shake it off. It might have been far different, and 'tis the thought of what might have been makes the present hour so bitter. You might have been mine, and I might have been great, and good! but what matters what might have been, I have to do with what _is_. No joy to look back on, no heaven to look forward to, I am a heartbroken man. I have been the dupe of others,--my crimes have been my misfortune rather than fault. I have no redeeming trait save love to you; can the guilty love the guiltless--the vile love the pure? my passion answers all, 'I loved the right, the wrong pursued.' I have been a bane to my family, I might have been a blessing! You forgive me, Ellen: it is all I want! Forget such a one as I ever lived. I ask the tribute of one tear at my sad fate; you will not deny my last request. Oh! Ellen, it gives the sting to death, this separation from you, but it must be so. Farewell!

  "Sometimes in quiet hours think of his luckless fate, who loved you too well,

  "Ever your deeply attached,

  "ARTHUR DE VERE."

  "P.S. This is the first, and will be the last time I ever signed my real name. Ask my brother, to whom I have been so unworthy a brother, to see that my remains are decently interred. Tell my story on my tombstone, then bury me out of sight and out of mind. This last act of my wretched career may be the worst, life has lost its charm--pardon me the pain this crime may give you."

  When the Earl read this letter to his wife it was with bitter grief sheheard his last, worst deed--and we need not say she often thought ofthat misguided man, shed not one but many, many a tear, and thusfulfilled his last petition. Ah, what an end had her young lover cometo!

  The remains of Viscount de Vere were interred in the grounds of theVilla Reale, and over his tomb rose a marble fane with the followinginscription--

  Here lies ARTHUR PLANTAGENET VERE DE VERE-- Viscount De Vere, EARL OF WENTWORTH, a title to which he never succeeded! By an unaccountable fate--stolen in his infancy; misguided in his manhood. He died by his own hand on the 25th of December, MDCCXXIX. Aged XXXIX.

  "Oh breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid."

  A few days after the funeral, which took place at the dead hour ofmidnight, the Earl and Countess with their daughter left Naples by theiryacht, and sailed for Leith, where they arrived safely after a long andstormy passage. They then started for the Towers, where they lived indeep seclusion.

  Mr. Scroop had meanwhile started for Italy to bring home the unfortunatedaughter of his murdered father-in-law, and make arrangements with theauthorities for bringing his murderers to justice, a point, however, inwhich they entirely failed to succeed.