THE DENOUEMENT.
“And well my folly’s meed you gave,
Who forfeited, to be your slave,
All here and all beyond the grave!
You saw another’s face more fair,
You knew her of broad lands the heir,
Forgot your vows, your faith forswore.
And I was then beloved no more.”
The whole conversation at Abbeytown turned upon the subject of the
accident at the prison. It was well ascertained that the fire had
originated in the clothes-room. But the flames had been extinguished
before any very material damage was done to the building. No one was
injured, and no one was missing, except Eudora Leaton, who was supposed
to have perished in the flames or to have escaped in the confusion.
Annella Wilder, on her fevered bed, raved of conflagrations and
tempests, and deadly perils by fire or flood. And the two old ladies
scolded all the women for mentioning the burning prison in her presence.
“For how could she have known anything about it but for their gabbling
in the sick room?” inquired Mrs. Stilton.
The admiral was divided between anxiety for the recovery of his
grand-daughter and aspiration for the love of the Princess Pezzilini!
Yes, despite his own bitter matrimonial reminiscences, his threescore
years, and the constant supervision of the two sybils, “that boy” had
become the bond-slave of the Italian princess. In addition to the
beauty, accomplishments, and fascination of the woman, there were other
strong reasons for this infatuation. The admiral, like most self-made
men, had a profound veneration for hereditary greatness. And her assumed
title of “princess,” even though it only represented the ill-defined
rank of an _Italian_ princess, threw a halo over the Pezzilini that
enhanced her value a hundred-fold.
Then the admiral was of an heroic temper, and her perilous adventures
charmed his mind. He was also excessively benevolent, and her
misfortunes melted his heart.
Thus it happened that the admiral was kneeling at the feet of the
“princess,” in the recess of the bay window, when the officers arrived
with the warrant for her “highness’s” arrest.
The “princess” was calmly incredulous; the household were astonished;
the admiral was furious! It was a mistake, an absurdity, an outrage; but
the persecuted princess was in England, the land of civil and religious
liberty, thank Heaven! and should have justice done her, so he said.
He ordered out his own carriage to take her before the magistrate, and
insisted on escorting her. The officers made no objection to these
arrangements, stipulating only that they should occupy the remaining two
seats in the carriage, so as to keep their charge in view. In this
manner the _soi-disant_ princess was taken to the town-hall, where the
magistrates were then sitting. The examination occupied a very long
time, yet the case was so clearly made out against the adventuress that
she was fully committed for trial. And the same day a report of the
proceedings was dispatched to the Home Secretary, with a petition in
behalf of Eudora Leaton, falsely convicted of poisoning her uncle’s
family, and reported missing since the fire. This was met by a respite
of the sentence until after the trial of Madame Pezzilini should either
confirm or refute the testimony upon which the latter had been indicted.
The assizes was still in session, and the trial was fixed for an early
day.
Antony More, to the surprise of every one, survived his great injuries,
and was able to appear in the court as a witness against her. His
testimony was clear, conclusive, and corroborated by certain facts
produced in evidence. The trial occupied three days, at the end of which
the self-styled princess was convicted and sentenced. She received her
doom with the cool self-possession she had displayed throughout the
whole proceedings. Only once she betrayed a momentary emotion.
Throughout her short imprisonment she had been frequently visited by an
elderly woman, whose relations to her were unknown. Soon after being
placed in the condemned cell, she was visited by this woman, upon whose
bosom she threw herself in a transient burst of feeling.
“Do nothing rash, my mother—my most injured mother. Keep your own
counsel, for I will never betray you!”
The next instant she was as calm and self-possessed as ever, but the
wardress had overheard her words.
When the visitor had departed, the prisoner was carefully searched by
the women, but no instrument of self-destruction was found upon her, and
she was permitted at last to lie down and rest, guarded by the wardress.
On the night succeeding the conviction of the strange adventuress, the
Lord Chief Baron Elverton was seated alone in his apartment at the
Leaton Arms, pondering over the subject of the most inexplicable
criminal trial at which he had ever presided; for though the guilt of
the accused had been established to the satisfaction of the Jury, yet
her motive for the deed was still a deep mystery.
Jealousy, revenge, avarice, ambition, the usual incentives to such
crimes, seemed totally wanting in this case, and why she had
exterminated her benefactor’s family was still a secret.
While the baron pondered over this subject, the door was opened and a
visitor announced.
It was a woman of majestic appearance, clothed in deep mourning and
closely veiled.
She advanced to the table, at which he was seated, and threw aside her
veil. And oh, what a countenance was there revealed!
It was a fine face, still bearing the vestiges of magnificent beauty,
but it was the thunder-blasted beauty of the ruined archangel!
“Again!” cried the baron, with a shudder of horror, as he met her dark,
splendid eyes, now blazing with the fires of insanity.
“Ay, again! for the third and last time since your sin, I stand before
you, Baron Elverton!” replied the stranger.
“In the name of Heaven, what is your will with me?”
“To sum up—_just judge!_”
“I know not what you mean beyond this, that it must be some new
diabolism!”
“Do you know who you have condemned to death to-day?”
“No, beyond the fact that she was an adventuress with a half dozen
aliases, a murderess, who merited breaking upon the wheel rather than
any milder form of death!”
“Ah, she was very wicked, was she not?”
“A double-dyed, diabolical traitor to destroy her benefactors, and
without even any apparent motive for the deed!”
“But perhaps she could not help it. Treachery and ingratitude were
hereditary with her, were in her blood, were given to her at her birth.”
“What dark meaning now lurks under your words?”
“Listen, Baron Elverton, while I tell you. More years ago than I care to
count, the sinful woman who confronts you now for the last time was a
sinless child—the only child of a poor old widowed country curate. She
became, at seventeen years of age, the nursery governess of your little
sisters. You saw and admired her beauty. You made her your wife by a
secret marriage.”
“Woman! why do you recall these follies after all these years?”
“To lead to the end! You made Harriette Newton your wife by a
clandestine marriage, but you were a few months under age, and the
marriage was not binding unless you should choose to make it so after
your majority. Alas! before that time arrived you had repented of your
‘low’ marriage, and grown tired of the humble woman whose peace you had
destroyed. When your secret was discovered you humbled yourself to your
offended father; you promised never to see the ‘girl’ again; you
suffered her to be sent back with ignominy to break the heart of _her_
father, for the poor old curate never held up his head again; he died
before his daughter became a mother—”
“Harriette, I was a boy then—”
“A boy with the hardened heart of a veteran sinner! Your father died;
you came into your estates; and I, with my daughter in my arms, threw
myself at your feet, and entreated you to acknowledge us as your wife
and child—”
“And then I would have done it, Harriette.”
“Aye, for a moment nature made herself heard above the clamor of pride,
ambition, selfishness! You would have yielded, you would then and there
have restored us to our places in your heart and home, but you were
prevented!”
“Aye, I was prevented!”
“And who was it that hindered you in that act of justice? Your bosom
friend and confidant, _Henry Lord Leaton_! He it was who, in that moment
of your better feelings, laid his hand upon your shoulder, and bade you
pause and reflect; told you that marriage with an inferior was always a
snare and a curse to both parties; that I was unfitted for the sphere of
life to which you would have raised me; that by such a marriage you
would be humiliated and wretched, and I misplaced and miserable; bade
you remember the fate of the ‘Ladye of Burleigh,’ and take warning, and
advised you to repudiate and provide for us! ‘Provide for us!’ I think
even _he_ saw that I would have seen my child slowly starve to death in
my arms rather than have taken one crumb from the father who refused to
acknowledge her as his legitimate daughter!” exclaimed the woman, with
her eyes suddenly kindling.
“He was a high-toned, honorable man; he meant well by you and me.”
“Especially by me and my child, whom he consigned to a life of misery,
dishonor and reproach!” said the woman, in withering scorn. “Enough! by
his advice and his assistance, you succeeded in annulling your juvenile
marriage and repudiating your wife and child! Once more we are turned
from your door. I had a long illness, during which, I think, my soul
must have left my body, and the spirit of a fiend entered it. For, a
loving, suffering, forgiving woman, I fell into that fever, but I arose
from it the avenger of my own sex, the destroyer of yours!”
He knew that her words were the ravings of insanity, and yet they seemed
to curdle his blood.
She continued:
“Were there not fallen angels enough in this pandemonium of a world that
you might have spared the poor old curate’s little daughter? What excuse
had you for her destruction? Love? Bah! Love does not destroy its
object! Passion? Passion is of the soul, and your soul was smothered in
selfishness even in your infancy! You feel a single glow of human love
or passion, who from boyhood have been a monster of egotism! But I did
not come here to deal in invective—I came to wind up accounts with you
for ever. Enough that I arose from that bed of illness a spirit prepared
for any work of evil! Every door was closed against me—every road barred
except that which leads down to death and perdition! I do not intend to
amuse you, baron, with the life of a lost spirit. I was not far from you
on that grand day when you led the Lady Elfrida Gaunt to the altar; and
my curse that arose to Heaven interrupted the marriage benediction. I
was near you also on that other proud day, when bonfires blazed and
bells were rung, and oxen roasted in honor of the christening of your
heir, and my curse neutralized the blessing of the babe. Then I pressed
my own discarded child to my heart, and recorded a vow of vengeance upon
two men and all their race, even though it should take me a long
lifetime to work it out. How long I pursued you secretly, how often I
failed, need not here be told. One day I found myself in Paris, among
congenial spirits, where a career opened before me; where evil is
organized into a perfect working system, having its constitution and
by-laws—its forms of government and schools of training—its lovely girls
and handsome boys, educated into accomplished women and men to become
the sirens and satyrs of society. Of this secret band I became a member.
Men called me beautiful and gifted. I went upon the stage, not from
necessity, but to facilitate my intercourse with a certain set of
wealthy dupes, for I still continued a bond member of the secret
society. Years passed and I became a celebrity. At last I met the aged
and decrepit General de la Compte. He offered me marriage and I accepted
him. He had a daughter but a few months younger than my own. He died in
the second year of our marriage, leaving me to bring up the two girls.
When these young women had reached a marriageable age, your son, grown
to manhood, appeared in Paris—”
Here the woman paused, and looked wistfully into the blanched face of
the old man; then, with a dreadful smile, she said:
“But you know the story—”
“Woman of Belial, yes!”
“But you do not know whom you have doomed to death to-day.”
“Ha! There is something more than meets the ear in this reiterated
question! Whom do you mean?”
“Your own daughter! She who, but for your black treachery, would now be
ruling in your halls, heiress of Elverton, instead of lying in a
prison-cell, a convicted felon!”
“Great Heaven! this is most horrible! But then—but then—if this story is
true, the communication that you made to my unhappy son, upon that fatal
night which drove him in madness from his home, a fugitive and a
wanderer over the face of the earth, and turned the fair home into a
Gehenna of remorse and despair was false—must have been utterly false!”
exclaimed the baron, in uncontrollable agitation between the horror he
felt at being told that the criminal he had just condemned to death was
his own discarded daughter, and the joy that rushed upon him with the
thought that another and a deeper curse was removed from his house.
His condition between these two excessive and antagonistic emotions
bordered upon insanity.
“Ah!” muttered the woman to herself, with an expression of perplexity
and pain traversing her fine features as she passed her hand over her
brow; “I did not mean to betray that fact; but my brain! my brain; I am
not well!”
“Harriette!” exclaimed the baron, excited beyond all measure, as he
arose and dropped his hand upon her shoulder, “Harriette, as you hope
for God’s pardon in your dying hour—”
“I do _not_ hope for his pardon!” interrupted the woman, gloomily.
“TELL ME, who is she that lies doomed to death in yonder cell?” demanded
the baron, without noticing her interruption.
“I have told you! your daughter and mine! the rightful heiress of
Elverton, if justice had been done!”
“And she whom my son married—”
“I have unwillingly betrayed that secret too I take it, since you have
it! Your son’s wife is the daughter of the late General de la Compte, by
his first wife, and was, therefore, _not_ within the prohibited degree
of kindred according to the marriage code. Our daughter never married;
she was destined to another doom; to work her mother’s will; to avenge
her mother’s wrongs. For this I kept her always near me; won her whole
heart; absorbed her will; mastered her spirit. Whatever she has done in
this world has been done for me, and often blindly by her. She had but
one human affection—filial love. To-day the daughter stood before the
father’s face to receive from him the doom of death. But the doom was
unmerited.”
“Woman! what do you tell me?”
“She was guiltless of the death of the Leatons!”
“Who, then, was the destroyer?”
“_I!_” shouted the monomaniac. “I, THE AVENGER! I, who, in the same hour
that I turned away from your triumphant wickedness, with my discarded
child pressed to my bleeding heart—I who, in the same hour that was
transformed from a woman to a fiend, vowed a vow of exterminating wrath
against two men, with all their race, and sold my soul to Satan for the
power of accomplishing the work! Had not Satan failed me at the last,
the race of Leaton would have been extinguished in blood and shame. That
of Elverton, would have lived in misery and dishonor—worse than death
and perdition.”
“Woman, you wildly rave! Come to your senses—collect yourself, explain;
you say that your daughter was guiltless; that _you_ were the criminal;
if this is not a mere trick to attempt to defeat the ends of justice,
how do you explain away the direct evidence of Antony More, who swore
that he was employed by the so-called Princess Pezzilini to procure the
drugs of which the Leatons died!” inquired Lord Elverton, who, amidst
all the violent emotion that shook the bosom of the man retained the
mental calmness of the judge.
“Antony More was a fool and a beast; the slave of a slave; the mere tool
of her who was but the tool of her mother. I put into the hands of my
daughter a card with the name of the drug I wanted written upon it. I
said to her, ‘Give this card to your dog, Antonio, and tell him to
procure the drug secretly and bring it to you; when you get it, pass it
secretly to me.’ This was done. Afterwards, she privately admitted me to
the house on various occasions by night; and so the work was
accomplished; and the last Leaton would have perished on the scaffold
for the murder of the others, but that Satan failed me at the very last!
It was necessary to get rid of Antony More; but I was not quick enough
about it. He took the alarm and fled, and you know the result—a
shipwreck, a confession, and the arrest, trial, and conviction of Agnes.
But Agnes is guiltless! guiltless even of purloining the jewels and
documents of the Princess Gentilescha Pezzilini, which were really given
into my hands for safe custody during the time of trouble; and only
after the burning of the palace and the death of the princess were they
used by me for the furtherance of our plans. For the rest, whatever
Agnes might have suspected, she never certainly knew why I wanted the
_Fabæ Sancta Ignatii_, or for what purpose I kept myself concealed in
the neighborhood and gained admittance to the abbey only in the dead of
night. That dolt, Antony More, complained that she never took him into
her confidence! How could she, when she had nothing to confide to him?
But she is guiltless, and must not perish! She was the only human
creature that was ever true to me; but she must not die for me! Baron
Elverton, I came here to denounce myself as the destroyer of the Leaton
family! You know your duty; do it!”
“Yes,” he said, “whether you are mad or sane, it is equally necessary
that you should be placed in custody; and to-morrow this affair shall be
investigated. If your unfortunate daughter should be proved really
guiltless, justice must be done her at any cost to myself or to you! And
you, wretched woman! must take your chance between the doom of death and
the living grave of Bedlam!” said the Baron, as he rang the bell and
summoned the proper officers.
And ten minutes afterwards the woman was in custody of the police.
Early the next morning inquiries were set on foot. They were too late to
avail the unhappy, blind instrument of a mother’s vengeance. The
_soi-disant_ Princess Pezzilini was found dead in her bed. A small
locket ring, that fitted tightly upon her finger, was open; but instead
of some minute likeness of a friend’s face, or small lock of a lover’s
hair, it contained only a tiny glass cavity, which being subjected to
scientific experiments, was supposed to have contained a certain deadly
poison, one drop of which was sufficient to have produced instantaneous
dissolution.
Yes, “like the scorpion girt with fire,” she had stung herself to death!
In due time the criminals were brought to justice and paid the penalty
of their crimes.
When the turbulent emotions excited by these later events had somewhat
subsided, Malcolm Montrose and Eudora Leaton were quietly married at the
village church.
Annella Wilder, who had recovered from her severe illness, attended as
bridesmaid. Norham Montrose officiated as best man. Admiral Sir Ira
Brunton gave the bride away.
After the ceremony they set out immediately for Southhampton, whence
they sailed for India, where Montrose had received a high official
appointment, and where, for the further restoration of Eudora’s peace of
mind, he had determined to fix their future residence.
Up to the hour of their departure one trouble had weighed upon the mind
of Malcolm. That grief remained unspoken, yet found its most eloquent
expression in the earnest gaze he sent into Annella’s eyes as he pressed
her hand in a last adieu. She understood, and replied to his look, by
saying:
“I know what it is that you would say if you dared! but you are widely
mistaken. _I did not set fire to the prison!_ Not even to have saved
Eudora’s precious life would I have endangered hundreds of other lives.
No, desperate as my plan of rescue was, it was not so criminal as that!
What the nature of my original project was it is needless now to say,
since it was forestalled by accident. It is enough for me to admit that
I had concealed myself in the building that night for the purpose of
carrying out my plan of rescue when the alarm of fire startled me as
well as others. My first thought was of Eudora and her safety, and I was
rushing through the black and suffocated lobby, in which her cell was
situated, when I was met by the governor, who, in the double darkness of
night and thick smoke, mistook me for the only person who had any
business there—Nally, the old turnkey of that ward. Thus I got
possession of the key of the cell, and was enabled to keep my word with
you. I did it without crime. Take that comfort to India with you.”
“God bless you, Annella!” exclaimed Malcolm drawing a deep inspiration
with a sense of infinite relief, as he pressed her hand and bade her
farewell.
The long-severed pair of Edenlawn—long-severed through the crudest
misrepresentation—were at length re-united. The world, who neither knew
the cause of their severance nor of their re-union, ascribed both to
caprice; but the contented family at Edenlawn cared little for its
misapprehension.
Strong suspicion of foul play on the part of the unfortunate and guilty
Madame de la Compte had brought Hollis Elverton again to England, but
her cunning had baffled his unaided attempts at investigation, while the
very nature of his wrongs prevented him from calling in the aid of the
detective police, and thus accident alone brought the guilty to justice.
With the full approbation of their mutual friends, Norham Montrose and
Alma Elverton were married, and, at the desire of all parties, fixed
their abode at Edenlawn, where Alma’s “hunger of the heart” is at length
fully satisfied, for in her the circle of human love is complete. She
lives in the rich enjoyment of father’s, mother’s, husband’s, and
children’s affection. She is the centre of their household, the darling
of all hearts and eyes, the consolation even of the grave old man, who,
retired from official life, passed his time in reading, prayer,
meditation, and deeds of mercy, and who is less proud of Alma as his
heiress, and the future Baroness of Elverton, than fond of her as a good
and lovely woman.
The last marriage that we have to record is that of Lieutenant Valerius
Brightwell, R. N., and Miss Annella Wilder, which took place quite
recently with great _eclat_. As the young couple were the joint heirs of
Admiral Brunton, and as the bride was very young, and the bridegroom on
the point of sailing on a distant service, it was arranged that they
should fix their permanent residence at the Anchorage; and so, should
old Mrs. Stilton be still unable “to conquer her chronic malady of
living,” we shrink from surmising how many degrees of descendants she
may have to look down upon.
Mrs. Corder and her thirteen children are made comfortable by the
liberality of Eudora. The worthy little widow owns the neatly-furnished
house and the well-stocked shop in which she lives happily and does a
flourishing business. Her elder children are apprenticed to profitable
trades, and the younger ones are put to good schools. Mrs. Corder was
always so happy, even in her adversity, that she could scarcely be said
to be more so now in her prosperity.
Allworth Abbey remains untenanted, closely shut up and in charge of the
housekeeper, Mrs. Vose, who prefers to live at the lodge, and who will
not even be bribed to show the inside of the building,—no, not even to
the most curious and importunate of tourists.
The Barony of Leaton remains in abeyance.
Malcolm Montrose, on the part of his wife, draws the large revenues of
the Abbey estates that are flourishing under the care of an able
steward.
Whether Mr. Montrose will ever advance his wife’s claim to the Barony of
Leaton, or whether Eudora will ever have nerve enough to return to the
scene of her terrible sorrows, remains an open question.
In the sunny land of her birth she is in the possession of all the
happiness she is capable of enjoying—the love of a devoted husband,
beautiful children, and faithful friends; an honorable position, an
ample fortune, and good health. As for the rest, the scars of those
early, deep wounds, they may possibly never be effaced in this world. As
long as she lives on earth, perhaps some subjects and some memories will
cause her cheek to blanch and her blood to curdle with a deadly
soul-sickness; but we commend her, with all the stricken in heart and
wounded in spirit to that Benignant Power, which being “almighty to
create,” is also ALMIGHTY TO RENEW.
THE END.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
Also retained Chapter XI, “Runaway” in the Contents; “Wanderer”
in the body text.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
5. Denoted superscripts by a caret before a single superscript
character.
6. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.