ALLWORTH ABBEY.
BY
MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
AUTHOR OF “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE DESERTED WIFE,”
“LOST HEIRESS,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “VIVIA,” “LADY
OF THE ISLE,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,”
“THREE BEAUTIES,” “CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “LOVE’S
LABOR WON,” “MISSING BRIDE,” “INDIA,” “BRIDAL EVE,” ETC.
“There is probation to decree,
Many and long must the trials be;
But she’ll victoriously endure,
For her love is true and her faith is sure.
“Sunrise will come next!
The shadow of the night will pass away!
The glory and the grandeur of each dream
And every prophecy shall be fulfilled.”—_Browning._
=Philadelphia:=
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Eastern
District of Pennsylvania.
TO
MRS. FANNIE M^CDONALD MEAD,
OF NEW YORK,
THIS WORK IS DEDICATED,
AS A SLIGHT TESTIMONIAL OF
THE HIGHEST ESTEEM AND WARMEST AFFECTION
OF
THE AUTHOR,
E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
PROSPECT COTTAGE.
_November 25th, 1865._
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
CHAPTER I.
THE FEARFUL WARNING, 25
CHAPTER II.
HORRIBLE SUSPICIONS, 34
CHAPTER III.
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN, 46
CHAPTER IV.
THE ACCUSATION, 57
CHAPTER V.
THE ARREST, 66
CHAPTER VI.
THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE, 81
CHAPTER VII.
THE FLIGHT, 90
CHAPTER VIII.
ANNELLA, 106
CHAPTER IX.
THE CHAMBER OF DEATH, 116
CHAPTER X.
THE STUBBORN WITNESS, 130
CHAPTER XI.
THE YOUNG RUNAWAY, 141
CHAPTER XII.
THE ANCHORAGE, 152
CHAPTER XIII.
AN APPARITION, 164
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FUGITIVE RETAKEN, 178
CHAPTER XV.
IN PRISON, 195
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MYSTERIES OF EDENLAWN, 207
CHAPTER XVII.
THE STRANGE INTERVIEW, 217
CHAPTER XVIII.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 230
CHAPTER XIX.
“TRUST IN HEAVEN,” 251
CHAPTER XX.
THE FEARFUL SECRET, 263
CHAPTER XXI.
THE TRIAL, 279
CHAPTER XXII.
THE CONVICTION, 291
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE CONDEMNED, 301
CHAPTER XXIV.
DESPAIR, 313
CHAPTER XXV.
THE APPEAL OF DESPAIR, 327
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE MYSTERIOUS PLAN OF ESCAPE, 340
CHAPTER XXVII.
A YOUNG HEROINE, 349
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE READING OF THE DEATH-WARRANT, 362
CHAPTER XXIX.
PREPARATION FOR DEATH, 375
CHAPTER XXX.
THE BURNING PRISON, 393
CHAPTER XXXI.
ANNELLA’S RETURN, 398
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE WRECK AND THE DISCLOSURE, 400
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE DENOUEMENT, 408
ALLWORTH ABBEY.
CHAPTER I.
THE FEARFUL WARNING.
“She stood once more in the halls of pride,
And the light of her beauty was deified,
And she seemed to the eyes of men a star,
Lovely but lonely—flashing but far.
“She fixed his gaze with her fearful spell,
And the book from his failing fingers fell;
While her low voice hissed in his shuddering ear,
‘We’ve met at last, slave! Dost thou fear?’”
A few years only have elapsed since the public mind was electrified by
the discovery of a strange tissue of crimes, through which had perished
within the space of twelve months every member of a noble family, and in
which was implicated the honor of one of England’s haughtiest peers and
the life of one of her loveliest daughters, and finally, which added a
recent and thrilling domestic drama to those ancient histories and
ghostly traditions that have long rendered ALLWORTH ABBEY the resort of
the curious, and the terror of the ignorant and the superstitious.
The principal circumstances were made sufficiently public at the time of
the discovery; some at least of the guilty parties were brought to
justice, and the effigy of the chief criminal may even now be seen in a
certain celebrated “Room of Horrors.” But much also remained enveloped
in mystery, for, underlying the bare facts that were openly proved,
there was a secret history, stranger, more atrocious and more appalling,
even, than those ruthless crimes for which the convicted felons
suffered.
The knowledge of this secret history came to me in a singular manner;
and with the purpose of showing over what fatal pitfalls the most
innocent feet may sometimes stray, I proceed to relate the story,
entreating my readers to remember, amidst its strangest revelations,
that “nothing is so strange as reality,” and nothing more incredible
than truth:—
ALLWORTH ABBEY, the scene of these events, is one of the most ancient
monuments of monastic history left standing in the United Kingdom. The
precise date of its foundation is lost in the dimness of far-distant
ages, and remains to this day a disputed point among learned
antiquarians.
It is a vast and gloomy pile of Gothic architecture, situated at the
bottom of a deep and thickly-wooded glen, surrounded by high hills, that
even at noonday cast a sombre shadow over the whole scene, which is one
of the wildest, loneliest, and most picturesque to be found on the
northwest coast of England. The surrounding country may be called
mountainous, from the imposing height of the hills, and the profound
depth of the vales.
Nothing can be more secluded, solitary, and sombre than the aspect of
this place. The grim old Abbey, lurking at the bottom of its deep dell,
reflected dimly in its dark lake, overshadowed by its tall trees, and
closely shut in by high hills, is just the object to depress and awe the
beholder, even though he never may have heard the fearful stories
connected with the place.
Allworth Abbey is rich in historical associations and traditional lore.
Its cloisters have sheltered kings; its walls have withstood sieges; it
possesses its haunted cell, its spectre monk and phantom maiden.
In the reign of Henry the Church-burner and Wife-killer, Allworth Abbey
was the home of a rich fraternity of Benedictine monks. And at the time
of that tremendous visitation of wrath which overswept the land, when
“The ire of an infuriate king
Rode forth upon destruction’s wing,”
Allworth Abbey was besieged and sacked by a party of soldiers under Lord
Leaton, a baron of ancient lineage in the North of England, and of great
merit in the estimation of King Henry Bluebeard. The abbot was slain at
the altar, the brethren were put to the sword, the Abbey was given to
the flames, and the lands conferred by the King upon the conqueror.
Lord Leaton rebuilt the ruined portions of the Abbey, adapted it as a
family residence, and constituted it the principal seat of his race, in
whose possession it remained from that time until the date of those
strange household mysteries that I am about to disclose.
The last male representative of the Leatons of Allworth was Henry, Lord
Leaton, whose name has since become so painfully memorable. With an
ancient title, an ample fortune, a handsome person, well-cultivated
mind, and amiable disposition, he married, early in life, a fair woman,
every way worthy of his affections. Their union was blest by one child,
Agatha, “sole daughter of his house,” who, at the opening of this story,
had just attained her eighteenth year.
It is scarcely possible for a human being to be happier than was Lord
Leaton at this time. In the prime of his manly life, blessed with a fair
wife in the maturity of her matronly beauty, and a lovely daughter, just
budding into womanhood, endowed with an ancient title, an immense
fortune, and a wide popularity, Lord Leaton was the most contented man
in England.
It was not even a drawback to his happiness that there was no male heir
to his titles and estates, for in Malcolm Montrose, the betrothed of his
daughter, he had found a son after his own heart.
Malcolm Montrose, and Norham, his younger brother, were the sons of Lord
Leaton’s half sister, who had married a poor but proud Scotch laird.
Their parents were now both dead. From their father they had inherited
little more than an ancient name, a ruined tower, and a blasted heath.
It was therefore only by the assistance of Lord Leaton, that Malcolm was
enabled to enter the University of Oxford, and Norham to obtain a
commission in the army.
It was the high character of Malcolm Montrose that commended him so
favorably to the esteem of Lord Leaton, and induced his lordship to
promote the betrothal between that young gentleman and the young heiress
of Allworth; for be it known that the engagement was rather of Lord
Leaton’s making than of the young pair’s seeking.
They loved each other as brother and sister, nor dreamed of the
possibility of a stronger affection. They had naturally and easily
glided into the views of Lord and Lady Leaton, and had at length
plighted their hands, in perfect good faith, if not with the passionate
love of which neither young heart had as yet any experience. One of the
conditions of the betrothal was, that upon his marriage with the
heiress, Malcolm Montrose should assume the name and arms of Leaton. It
was also hoped that, in the event of the death of Lord Leaton, his
son-in-law might obtain the reversion of the title.
It was soon after this solemn betrothal, that took place in the spring
of 185–, that Malcolm Montrose took leave of his friends, and left
England for an extended tour of the Continent.
Up to this time the life of Lord Leaton and his family had been one of
unbroken sunshine. From this time the clouds began to darken around
them.
On the day succeeding the departure of Malcolm, Lord Leaton received a
letter from India, informing him of the death of his younger brother,
who had left England many years previous to seek his fortune under the
burning sun of Hindostan. The large fortune he had apparently found was
the love of a beautiful native girl, whom he had secretly married, and
who, in ten months after, in the same hour, made him a widower and the
father of a female infant—the little Eudora, who, under her father’s
care, had managed to grow up even in that deadly climate. But now that
father had fallen a victim to the fatal fever of the country, and his
daughter Eudora was left destitute.
Lord Leaton had been too long separated from his brother to feel keenly
his death; his fraternal affection took a more practical turn than
grief; he lost no time in procuring a proper messenger to send out to
India for the purpose of bringing back his niece, who, as the only child
of his sole brother, was, after Agatha, the heiress-presumptive of his
estates.
As soon as Lord Leaton had despatched his messenger, he set out with his
family to visit Paris. They took the first floor of a handsome house in
a fashionable quarter of the city; but the circumstance of their being
in mourning for Lord Leaton’s brother caused them to live in great
retirement.
This was about the time that the concerted revolution in the Papal
States had been discovered and suppressed, and when some of the noblest
Romans had fallen on the scaffold, and others had been driven into
exile. Among those whose fate excited the liveliest sympathy were the
Prince and Princess Pezzilini. The prince fell gloriously in the cause
of civil and religious liberty, and the princess was said to have
perished in the flames when the Palace Pezzilini was burned by the mob.
This was the common talk of Paris when Lord Leaton and his family
arrived there.
It was within a few days after their settlement in their apartments,
that the attention of Lord and Lady Leaton was attracted by a lady who
frequently passed them on the grand staircase. She was a tall,
fine-formed, fair woman, of great beauty, clothed in mourning, and
wearing the aspect of the profoundest sorrow. No one could have seen her
without becoming interested—no one could have passed her without a
backward glance. She was sometimes attended by a stout,
dark-complexioned, middle-aged man, whose manner towards her seemed half
way between that of a good uncle and a faithful and trusted domestic.
The feminine curiosity of Lady Leaton had been so much excited by this
mysterious lady and her strange attendant, that she had at length
inquired about her of the old portress of the house. And it was from
that garrulous personage Lady Leaton learned to her astonishment that
the beautiful stranger was no other than the Princess Pezzilini, who had
_not_ perished in the burning Palace of Pezzilini, but who had made her
escape with the assistance of a faithful servant, Antonio Mario, who,
for her better security, had circulated the report of her death, while
he bore her off to France. She was now living on the fourth floor of
that house, in great poverty and seclusion, attended only by her
faithful servant, Antonio Mario.
So much Lady Leaton learned from the portress; but she lost no time in
delicately seeking the acquaintance of the beautiful and unfortunate
exile.
She found the Princess Pezzilini very accessible to respectful sympathy.
She learned from her some further particulars of her history—among other
matters, that she had succeeded in securing from the burning palace a
box of valuable family documents and a casket of costly family jewels.
As, however, these jewels were heirlooms, she was unwilling to part with
the least one of them until extreme want should actually compel her to
do so; hence with almost boundless wealth at her command, she chose to
live in poverty and privation. This was her story.
The lively imagination of Lady Leaton was affected by her beauty,
sensibility and accomplishments. The good and benevolent heart of Lord
Leaton was touched by her misfortunes, her courage, and her resignation.
And the end of it was that they invited her to return with them to
England, and make Allworth Abbey her home until the clouds that lowered
over her House should be dispersed, and the sun should shine forth
again.
They spent the autumn in Paris, and returned to Allworth Abbey just in
time to prepare for Christmas.
And it was on Christmas-eve that the messenger to India returned,
bringing with him Eudora Leaton. It was evening, and the family circle
of Allworth Abbey, consisting of Lord and Lady Leaton, Miss Leaton, and
the Princess Pezzilini, were assembled in the drawing-room, when Eudora
was announced.
She entered, and her extreme beauty at once impressed the whole company.
It was a beauty that owed nothing to external circumstances, for she had
arrived weary, sorrowful, and travel-stained; yet it was a beauty that
sank at once into the very soul of the beholder, filling him with a
strange delight. She was of medium height, and slender yet well-rounded
form. Her graceful little head was covered with shining, jet-black
ringlets, that fell around a face lovely as ever haunted the dream of
poet or painter. Her features were regular; her complexion was a pure,
clear olive, deepening into a rich bloom upon the oval cheeks, and a
richer still upon the small full lips; her eyebrows were perfect arches
of jet, tapering off to the finest points at the extremities; her eyes
were large, dark and liquid, and fringed by the longest and thickest
black lashes; her nose was small and straight; her mouth and chin
faultlessly carved; her throat, neck and bust were rounded in the
perfect contour of beauty; the whole outline of her form was ineffably
beautiful. A poet would have said that her most ordinary motions might
have been set to music, but to no music more melodious than the tones of
her voice.
Such was the beautiful young Asiatic that stood trembling before her
strange English relatives in the drawing-room of Allworth Abbey on
Christmas-eve.
Lord Leaton was the first to arise and greet her.
“Welcome to England, my dearest Eudora,” he said, embracing her fondly;
“think that you have come to your own home, and to your own father and
mother, for after our daughter Agatha we shall love you best of all the
world, as after her, you know, you are the next heiress of our name and
estates.”
“Dear uncle, give me but a place in your heart next to my cousin Agatha,
and—let the rest go,” said Eudora, in a voice vibrating with emotion.
Lord Leaton then formally presented his niece to her aunt and cousin,
and to the Princess Pezzilini, all of whom received the beautiful young
stranger with the utmost kindness and courtesy.
Agatha, in particular, seemed delighted with the acquisition of a
congenial companion in her charming Indian cousin.
The evening passed delightfully; but for the sake of the weary
traveller, the family party supped and separated at an unusually early
hour.
It was soon after Lady Leaton had retired to her dressing-room that she
heard a light tap at her door, and to her surprised exclamation of “Come
in,” entered the Princess Pezzilini.
“You will pardon me for intruding upon you at this hour, but you know
what great reason I have to be devoted to your service, Lady Leaton, and
you know the force of my faith in presentiments. It is a presentiment
that forces me to your presence to-night,” said the princess in a
mournful voice.
“Madame, I thank you earnestly for the interest you deign to take in my
welfare; but—I do not understand you,” said Lady Leaton, in surprise.
“And I do not understand myself; but I must speak, for the power of
prophecy is upon me! Lady Leaton, _beware of that Asiatic girl_!”
“Madame!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in extreme surprise.
“Yes, I know what you would say: she is your niece, the daughter of your
husband’s brother. But I tell you that she is of the treacherous, cruel,
and deadly Indian blood! I have watched her thoughts through this
evening. I noted her look when Lord Leaton told her that she was the
next heiress after Agatha. And I tell you that the gaze of the deadly
cobra-di-capella of her native jungles is not more fatal than the glance
of that Indian girl!”
“Madame, in the name of Heaven, what mean you?” exclaimed Lady Leaton,
in vague alarm.
The voice of the princess sank to its deepest tones, as she answered:
“The deadly upas-tree of the Indies suffers nothing to live in its dread
neighborhood. If you could transplant such a tree from an Indian plain
to a fair English park, as it should grow and thrive, all beautiful life
would wither under its poisonous breath, until nothing should remain but
a blasted desert, and the deadly upas-tree should be all in all! Lady
Leaton, beware of the young Indian sapling transplanted to your fair
English park!”
“Madame, you frighten me!” exclaimed Lady Leaton.
“No; I only mean to warn you! I spoke from an irresistible impulse. And
having spoken, I have no more to say but to bid you good-night,” said
the Italian, lifting the hand of Lady Leaton to her lips, and then
withdrawing, and leaving her ladyship plunged in deep thought.