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MYSTERY AND CONFIDENCE:
_A TALE._
BY ELIZABETH PINCHARD.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,
PUBLIC LIBRARY, CONDUIT-STREET, HANOVER-SQUARE,
AND SOLD BY GEORGE GOLDIE, EDINBURGH,
AND JOHN CUMMING, DUBLIN.
1814.
B. CLARKE, Printer, Well-street, London.
MYSTERY
AND
CONFIDENCE.
CHAP. I.
----Infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
----A great perturbation in nature,
To receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effect of watching.
MACBETH.
Laura, St. Aubyn, O'Brien, and Mordaunt, were seated on one side the
fire, with the sandwich tray before them; on the other side, thrown on a
sofa, Ellen saw a tall thin young man, who, deeply absorbed in thought,
noticed not her entrance. One pale, sickly looking hand hung motionless
by his side, the other shaded his eyes, and over his brow his black hair
fell in disordered curls; his dress, though that of a gentleman, was
evidently neglected, and his whole appearance was
"Drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn;
Or crazed by care, or cross'd by hopeless love!"
As Ellen entered, St. Aubyn rose, and with subdued emotion, said in a
low tone:
"My love, we waited for you;" then somewhat louder;--"My Lord De
Montfort, will you allow me to introduce you to...." he faltered, and
looked as if he dreaded to pronounce the name ... "to my wife ... to ...
Lady St. Aubyn?"
As he spoke, Lord De Montfort started from his reverie, shook back the
curls which shaded his face, and shewed a fine, but pale and emaciated
countenance. For an instant his bright black eyes flashed, and his
cheeks crimsoned with a sudden emotion. He hastily took two or three
steps forward, as if to greet some well-known friend; but seeing Ellen,
who, half alarmed, leaned upon St. Aubyn, he gazed upon her for a moment
with such an earnest yet melancholy expression as extremely affected
her. She courtesied, and he bent his head with the air of a perfect
gentleman, but spoke not, and then threw himself on his sofa again.
Ellen perceived that St. Aubyn's frame shook with subdued emotion, and
her own trembled with an indefinable sensation.
"Come, Lady St. Aubyn," said Laura, "sit here by the fire; you look pale
and cold; you should not indeed expose yourself to the night air in
crossing the hall and staircase."
Ellen gladly sat down, and while they were taking their little meal, she
glanced her eyes towards the youth, whose mysterious manner impressed
her with feelings of no very pleasing import: she saw that under the
shade of his bent brows he was attentively gazing upon her. The
portentous gloom of his countenance seemed to her troubled imagination
to forebode some direful event, and she grew so pale, that Laura
perceiving it, put a glass of wine into her hand, and begged her to
drink it. Before she would comply, St. Aubyn said:--
"Ellen, neither my entreaties, nor those of his former friend, Miss
Cecil, can prevail on Lord De Montfort to take the slightest
refreshment; try, my love, if you can induce him to take a glass of wine
with you."
Ellen with sudden effort conquering the agitation of her spirits, said:
"Indeed, my Lord, I shall be very happy if Lord De Montfort will do me
that honour. May I, my Lord," speaking to him, "make it my request that
you will do so?"
The soft persuasive tones of her voice seemed to touch him; he rose, and
with a voice deep, melancholy, and impressive, said:
"At _your_ request, Madam!"
He advanced, and took from Laura a glass of wine she offered to him; he
bowed to Ellen, and lifted the glass to his lips, but instantly
exclaimed, while his whole person shook with agitation:
"I _cannot_ drink it! In _this_ house! Oh, God!"
He let fall the glass, and covering his face with his hands, rushed out
of the room.
O'Brien instantly followed him, while the little party which remained
sat in silent dismay and astonishment. Yet St. Aubyn's emotion partook
more of vexation than surprize: he paced the room with hasty strides for
a few minutes, and then approaching Ellen, said, clasping her hand in
his, which trembled with agitation--"This scene has been too much for
you, my love: could I have imagined De Montfort's demeanor would have
been so wild, I would not have brought him hither; yet let us make
allowances for him--he doated on his sister." St. Aubyn's voice seemed
elevated with deep contending passions: for a moment he paused, then
added, "You had better go to your rest, my love, and you, Laura: I do
not suppose this young man will return to-night."
He rung, and inquired of the servant in waiting where the two gentlemen
then were. "They have been in the study, my Lord," said the man; "but
are now gone to their chambers, which Mrs. Bayfield sent to say were
ready for them."
The ladies rose to retire, just as Mr. O'Brien returned: he brought
apologies from his pupil to Lady St. Aubyn, saying that Lord de Montfort
regretted extremely his distress should have shewed itself so visibly,
and doubtless alarmed her. "Forgive him, Madam," said O'Brien: "this is
the first time he has been in this house, or even in England, since the
death of Lady St. Aubyn: and recollections of the sister he lost so
young, the sister he adored, have been too much for him."
"Surely," said Laura, "he must have been uncommonly attached to her,
since six years have not effaced her from his memory." She sighed--the
tear stood in her eye; for she thought--"It is scarcely as many months
since I lost the sweetest sister in the world, yet she is comparatively
forgotten."
"He cherishes every recollection of her," said O'Brien, "with officious
care: he constantly wears her portrait next his heart. Before we left
Spain, he insisted on visiting her grave, and was so deeply affected, I
feared for his reason. To you, my Lord St. Aubyn, I ought to apologize
for details which I see distress you, but I thought it was necessary to
account for my pupil's strange deportment."
St. Aubyn bowed; but traces of vexation were legible in his expressive
face. Mr. Mordaunt made some inquiries after the present state of Lord
de Montfort, to which Mr. O'Brien replied he had left him in bed, and
tolerably composed; that he had consented to breakfast with the family
the next morning, when he hoped personally to apologize to the Countess
for the alarm he had given her.
The ladles now retired, and each went to her respective apartment. Lady
St. Aubyn passed through her own room into that where the infant lay:
both the child and his nurse slept quietly. She knelt a moment by the
bed-side, and offered a fervent prayer to heaven for the health and
happiness of her infant, and for its father, who seemed menaced by some
mysterious disturbance. The contrast presented by the soft sleep, the
placid innocence of the baby's face, to the scene of anxiety and
confusion she had left, deeply affected her. Tears stole down her
cheeks, and wetted the little hands she held pressed to her lips. At
length, rousing herself, she returned to her bed-chamber, where Jane
waited to undress her: "Make haste, Jane," she said, "I am weary." Jane
obeyed in silence; for her Lady's pensive looks had power to quiet even
her loquacious propensities.
In a few minutes Ellen was laid on her pillow, and the tumultuous
throbbing of her heart began to subside. In about half an hour she heard
St. Aubyn go to the room he occupied at present, and fancied, after his
valet left him, she could distinctly hear him pacing the apartment, and
sighing heavily: but this perhaps was chiefly fancy; for the wind still
howled and sobbed round the Castle, and through its large hall and long
galleries. Sometimes it sounded like the low moans of one in grief or
pain: then in shriller gusts it shook the lofty battlements, or swept
over the tops of the high trees, which bent and rustled beneath its
power.
Ellen, restless, uneasy, impressed with the melancholy countenance and
strange conduct of their mysterious guest, vainly endeavoured to sleep,
and turned from side to side, soothed only in the intervals of the storm
by hearing the soft breathings of her infant, whose couch (the door
being open between the rooms) was so near her, that she could accurately
distinguish every breath he drew. Two or three times she was inclined to
rise, and steal him from his nurse's side to partake her bed; for she
felt how glad she should be in that unquiet hour to feel his little
cheek pressing against hers, and hold him to her anxious heart; but
fearing to disturb, or give him cold, she relinquished her purpose, and
endeavoured to compose herself to rest.
At length, just after the Castle clock had struck two, she felt as if
sleep were stealing over her fatigued senses; but starting from a
momentary forgetfulness, she heard a light footstep, yet sounding as if
the person walking wore no shoes, approaching her bed-room door. It was
she knew unfastened; for lest the child should be ill, or want
additional assistance, it was always left so. Starting, she listened:
her breath grew short, and her heart beat audibly, as the steps
approached nearer and nearer; yet not losing her presence of mind she
drew aside her curtain, and fixing her eyes on the door, prepared to fly
into the inner room, should, as she now began to expect, a midnight
robber meet her view.
Slowly, slowly, opened the door, and a tall thin figure, wrapped in a
loose night-gown, just appeared within it. "Sister! sister!" said a
voice, low, tremulous, and impressive: "sister, are you awake? You bade
me call you early."
The figure! the voice!--Oh, what became of Ellen, when in both she
recognized the wild, the mysterious, De Montfort! In his pale hand he
bore a lamp, the flashing light of which fell at intervals on his gloomy
countenance: while his bright black eyes were indeed open, but, oh!
"their sense was shut."
Again, as he advanced into the room, he repeated in the same low
mournful tone, "Sister _Rosolia_! What, sleeping still? You said you
would rise early, and walk with me." Then pausing, he seemed to stand as
if listening for an answer; but suddenly, with a start of recollection
and a heavy sigh, he exclaimed, "Oh yes, I remember! too well I
remember! You cannot rise: you will never rise again!--_You are dead!
you are dead! you are dead!_"
Again a solemn pause ensued, and sighs, which seemed to rend his bosom,
alone broke the terrific silence of the moment.
Again he spoke with an energy of action, as if his sleeping agitations
were breaking into frenzy, addressing himself as in answer to one who
had spoken to him.
"But did he murder you? Was it St. Aubyn? Tell me, I conjure you, and
answer _truly_. Condemn not your own soul, and O, Rosolia, involve not
mine in condemnation by a lie!--A lie!--_Can the dead lie?_--And you are
come to me _here_--aye, _here_, in this very chamber, where in our
innocent school-days you used to sleep--to tell me the truth--the
_truth_, Rosolia."
And now with quicker steps he paced the chamber, as if pursuing one who
fled before him, yet, with that wonderful instinctive power which often
attends the sleep-walker, avoiding every obstacle.
"Nay, fly me not!" he exclaimed: "deceive me not; for I have seen an
angel in _thy place_ to-night; and if thou art not a false and lying
spirit, thou wilt not lead me to injure her." Then pausing again, as if
listening to some one who spoke, he said, with quickness--
"I know it! I know it! That _pistol_--that _ring_! Yes, yes, yes, yes!
Those indeed were direful evidences of his guilt!--Years, years, I have
passed in thinking of them!--Yet he says, he swears, he is
innocent--that it was _De Sylva_--that _thou_ wert guilty! Oh, tell me,
Rosolia, was it--was it so?--But I will pray for thy soul."
He knelt, and placing the lamp before him on the floor, its dismal light
fell on his sad countenance, and shewed his eyes upturned, and his lips
moving as in fervent prayer, while at intervals he crossed himself, and
bowed his forehead to the earth. Then rising with a sudden start, he
exclaimed--
"Hark, O'Brien calls! He will hear me--he shall not know my thoughts. It
might not be St. Aubyn who shed thy blood: yet, oh, Rosolia--oh, my
sister, it _was_ thy blood I saw! And here is some of it on my hand."
He shook his hand violently, and appearing to look at it earnestly, he
uttered a low, mournful, and distracted cry of terror, and rushed out of
the room.
Alarm and horror had kept Ellen silent--she fainted not; yet scarcely
could she be said to live. But as soon as his receding footsteps
convinced her he was really gone, she hastily threw on some of her
clothes, and flew, scarcely in her senses, to St. Aubyn's room. His door
was fast, but with repeated knockings she aroused him, and great indeed
was his consternation to see her so pale, so almost convulsed with fear
and agitation.
"My dearest life!" he exclaimed: "what, for heaven's sake, is the matter
with the child?"
"Oh! I have left him! I have forsaken him!" said she in terror, "all the
doors open too, and that poor distracted youth may perhaps return, and
who knows what injury he may do him! Oh! let us fly to the child," and
she made some hasty steps towards the door.
"Recollect yourself, my Ellen," said the astonished St. Aubyn: "you are
dreaming--sit down in this chair by the fire, and compose your spirits."
"Oh! no, it was no dream," said the shuddering Ellen, "I saw him as I
see you now! he came to my room and said such dreadful things!"--
"Who came to your room?" exclaimed St. Aubyn: "who dared to intrude, to
disturb and alarm you thus?"
"Oh! he was sleeping, I believe! but in his sleep--Oh heavens! he talked
so dreadfully--of such horrid things--and called upon his sister in such
tones! Oh! I never, never shall forget them!"
"Was it De Montfort?" asked the dismayed St. Aubyn.
"Oh yes, oh yes--De Montfort! Oh, his eyes, his face, his voice! I
never, never, shall forget them!" she repeated with renewed agitation.
"Unhappy young man!" said St. Aubyn, with a sigh. "Would to God thou
had'st never come hither! Affright not yourself, my Ellen, with his wild
wanderings. By this time, I had hoped the wretch, who caused this
dreadful mischief, might have been found, and all might have been
cleared. Years have I sought in vain. Still, still, he evades my
search--perhaps exists no longer.
"It is, however, time to reveal the past to you; but now you are too
much alarmed to hear the long and melancholy tale: return to your bed,
my Ellen; try to rest for my sake, for your babe's, who must suffer,
should his tender nurse be ill: go to repose, and I will watch by you
till morning; then, dear, and for ever dear creature, all shall be
revealed; but remember your promise, in spite of all appearances--still
to believe me innocent!"
Prevailed on at length to return to her own chamber, yet Ellen entreated
St. Aubyn to examine the gallery, and see if De Montfort might not be
again returned to visit the room he seemed to know so well; and even
when assured he was not there, she still shuddered and turned pale, as
fancy pictured him standing with his lamp in the door-way, or pacing
with disordered steps the chamber floor.
After obtaining a few hours rest, which somewhat restored her, Ellen, by
appointment, joined St. Aubyn in his study at a very early hour, where
he had promised to explain, as far as he could, the strange and
vexatious events which had so long involved him in the greatest
uneasiness.
Sad was St. Aubyn's countenance, and the cheek of Ellen was yet pale
from her recent agitation when they met. St. Aubyn, tenderly taking her
hand, said, "I half regret, my Ellen, that my selfish love withdrew you
from that sweet content and cheerfulness which surrounded your peaceful
abode when first we met, to partake with me cares and alarms which
otherwise you never would have known."
"My dear St. Aubyn, do not talk so," said Ellen, with a tender tear:
"all the cares, all the alarms you speak of, were they ten times
doubled, could not outweigh, in my estimation, the happiness of being
one hour your wife. Oh believe, my beloved Lord, _that_ fate I would
have chosen, even though I had been sure the next would have brought my
death."
"Matchless creature!" said St. Aubyn, clasping her to his bosom: "in
such love, such tenderness, I am overpaid for all the griefs which
former events have brought upon me, for all the anxiety with which the
present hour surrounds me!--Repeat to me, dearest, as well as you can
remember, what you heard from the unfortunate Edmund in his nocturnal
visit to your apartment."
Ellen, while her cheek was blanched by the fearful recollection, and her
whole frame trembled as she called to mind that terrific visit,
endeavoured to obey, yet she feared to shock him, by repeating those
words which seemed to connect his name with the idea of guilt and
murder; but contrary to her expectation, he heard her without surprize,
and with calm, though sorrowful composure: he sighed heavily indeed, but
no alarm or perturbation appeared in either his countenance or gesture.
As she ended, he said, "All this I knew; but too well knew what horrible
suspicions this unhappy youth has formed, nay own he had great reason to
conceive them. Poor Edmund! these dismal thoughts, working in his mind,
and, as it appears, concealed from all others, have preyed upon it till
reason seems shaken, and his troubled spirit wakes even while his bodily
organs are locked in sleep! No wonder in this dreadful tumult of his
imagination he came to your room, for that room used to be his sister's
when she visited my mother before our unfortunate marriage was even
thought of; and often, doubtless, in the days of his childhood, he has
gone to her door to waken her at her request, and chid her for sleeping
so late when he wanted her to walk with him: for dearly did he love her;
and in those days she was innocent, and she was happy! Alas! poor
Rosolia, whatever were thy faults, thy fate was dreadful!"
He sighed, and was a moment silent.
CHAP. II.
Such an act,
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,
Calls virtue, hypocrite; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And plants a blister there--makes marriage vows
As false as divers oaths.
HAMLET.
O ye gods,
Render me worthy of this noble wife,
The secrets of my heart thy bosom shall partake.
JULIUS CAESAR.
"I need not," said St. Aubyn, "say much on the subject of my first
acquaintance with Lady Rosolia de Montfort. You have heard, I believe,
that _her_ father was a near relation of _mine_, and that her mother was
a Spanish Lady of a high noble family, and were Roman Catholics. The
lady's friends were exceedingly averse to the match, and at length
consented only on condition that the sons of the marriage should be bred
Roman Catholics; and after the father's death, should he die during
their minority, be placed under the care of the mother's relations.
Rosolia would probably also have been a Catholic, but her mother died
young, and she was placed in the care of my mother and Lady Juliana
Mordaunt. In the vacations she was generally here, where my mother
constantly, and my aunt frequently, resided; and here also Edmund almost
always spent the time of his school recesses, though twice they went to
Spain with their father, and spent a few months amongst their mother's
connections.
"Rosolia grew up very handsome, but the character of her beauty was not
such as suited my taste: there was too much hauteur in her countenance;
too much pride in the mind which informed it to please me; yet from our
early youth the friends on both sides were anxious to unite us. I had at
that time no particular predilection for any of her sex, nor could I
object any thing against her, though certainly not exactly the sort of
woman I should have chosen; her partiality in my favour, however,
appeared evident, and was too flattering to be resisted by a young man
like me, from a young woman who had crowds of admirers, most of them my
superiors in fortune and quality.
"We were married, therefore, when I was about five-and-twenty, and
Rosolia six years my junior. For two years that my mother lived, we
remained a great deal with her, and in the country, under her eye and
that of Lady Juliana. Rosolia did not discover those unpleasant traits,
which, though they lay dormant, were not conquered.
"On my mother's death, we removed for a time to London, and there
Rosolia lay in of a son, the only child we ever had. But, ah! how
different a mother was Rosolia from you, my Ellen! No care for her
infant subdued the excessive vivacity she now began to display, no
maternal tenderness subjugated, or even softened, the levity of conduct
which now became manifest, and ultimately was her bane. The society of
every idle coxcomb was preferred to mine: my remonstrances, and those of
my respectable aunt, nay, even of her own father, were unheeded. My
disposition, naturally inclined to jealousy, took fire at the lightness
of her carriage; but she held me in contempt, often in derision; and as
the tongue of slander had not yet fixed on the name of any particular
person to connect with her, I was obliged to submit to see her
_flirting_, as it is called, first with one admirer, then another, _and
the last fool as welcome as the former_. My aunt, wearied and vexed at
our domestic unhappiness, in a great measure forsook us, and contracted
a dislike of Lady St. Aubyn, which, in some degree, extended to all her
family. Edmund was still our frequent guest, but his partiality for his
sister would not allow him to see a fault in her, and indeed his extreme
youth made me conceal from him, as much as possible, the uneasy terms on
which we lived together. We had been married about three years, and our
little boy was six months old when Rosolia's father died: by his will,
he appointed me the guardian of Edmund's estates, till he should attain
the age of twenty-four, and requested that I would see him placed under
the care of the Duke de Castel Nuovo, in agreement with the terms of his
own marriage-contract with the daughter of that nobleman.
"This request I could not refuse, yet knew not how to leave my wife in
England; for if her conduct were so reproachable while we were together,
what had I to expect if I left her solely to her own guidance? Yet such
was the perversity of her temper, I doubted whether she would accompany
me abroad: to that, however, she consented, prompted, I believe, more by
a wish to be as much as possible with her brother, than to oblige me.
But nothing could induce her to leave the child behind, though my aunt
offered to take it solely under her own care during our absence,
although Rosolia herself never saw it, except for about five minutes,
once or twice in the day.
"This singular obstinacy inspired my aunt with an idea (which I confess
I partly shared) that Rosolia's intention was to leave the babe with her
paternal relations; for though she called herself a protestant, she
certainly had much inclination towards the ceremonies of the Catholic
Church, and, I grieve to say, held all religious principles so lightly,
that to distress me and vex my aunt, she was but too capable of placing
her child in the hands of Catholics, that it might be bred up in a
religion she knew my aunt abhorred, and I had no good opinion of. To
counteract this, or any other scheme which might be formed to take the
child from me, as well as to ensure its being well taken care of, Lady
Juliana insisted that our good Bayfield should accompany us, and made
her promise never to let the child be absent from her sight. But these
precautions, in the event, proved useless; for the poor babe caught the
small-pox soon after we landed at Cadiz, where we remained a short time,
and died in my arms, attended with undeviating care by the worthy
Bayfield: for, oh, my Ellen, your tender nature will recoil when I tell
you its unfeeling mother refused to see it from the time the disorder
came to its height, though she herself had had it, because its
appearance was too shocking to her delicacy! Every care, however, that
could be obtained, was lavished on it, but in vain.
"Poor Edmund grieved sincerely at this event, and shared my lonely and
sorrowful hours; for he had been attached to the infant with excessive
affection, and always felt for me the sincerest regard, while I
considered him as my own brother, and thought no attention too much to
serve or please him.
"Soon after the death of the child we proceeded to Seville, and, in the
gaiety of that city, the attentions she received from her mother's
relations, and the flattering compliments paid to her beauty by the
crowds of gentlemen who now surrounded her, Rosolia soon lost whatever
traces of sorrow remained for the loss of her infant. She was handsomer
than ever, and shone in all the elegance of dress and the blaze of
unnumbered jewels, with which my lavish fondness, in the early part of
our marriage, and the liberality of her Spanish relations, had profusely
supplied her. Her grandfather, the Duke de Castel Nuovo, at whose palace
in Seville Edmund was to be placed, happened to be absent, having been
suddenly called to Madrid on some important state business, and wrote to
beg I would remain a month or two at his palace, when he hoped he should
return thither to receive his grandson from my hands, to see his
granddaughter, and thank me for the kindness with which I had taken so
long a journey. Having nothing immediately to recall me to England, I
was not sorry to see more of this interesting country; and hearing of a
beautiful villa to be let on the bank of Guadalaxara, I removed thither
with my family, preferring it to a residence in the Duke's palace.
"Nothing could exceed the beauty of our little domain, or the rich
luxuriance of the country in which it stood. This villa was only two
miles from Seville, where at that time several regiments were stationed,
and all the officers of rank eagerly sought an introduction to me and
the beautiful Rosolia. Amongst them was a man of the name of De Sylva."
At this name Ellen started, for she had heard it from Edmund, in his
wild wanderings the night before; though, till that instant, she could
not recollect it.
"Why do you start, my love?" said St. Aubyn; "does some intuitive
emotion whisper to you that this was the wretch whose villainy involved
me in so much misery?"
"It was the name," said Ellen, "which I could not recollect just now;
the name I heard from Edmund."
"No doubt," replied St. Aubyn, "it dwelt upon his mind; for but last
night I again endeavoured to convince him of that villain's guilt. But
to proceed.
"This De Sylva was a young man of a very fine person and elegant
manners; one, in short, exactly fitted to win the favour of any woman,
who looked more to exterior appearance than intrinsic merit. He was, I
afterwards learned, a determined gamester, of broken, if not ruined
fortunes, without principles, and stained with many vices; yet this man
I too soon perceived the light Rosolia had selected as her chief
favourite. If she danced, he was her partner; and often was her lovely
person exhibited in the fascinating but immoral dances of her country:
an exhibition, oh, how unfit for an English matron!--how hateful to the
delicacy of my sentiments. I am perhaps too fastidious; but I again
repeat, such a display, even of grace and beauty, in a married woman, is
displeasing, but carried to the excess Rosolia did, detestable. How can
we wonder at the alarming strides vice has made in this country, when we
see even wives and mothers, in the slightest drapery, and with an almost
unlimited freedom of manners, courting the notice of men whom they know
to be characters which neither honour, nor even the ties of friendship,
can restrain from the gratification of their passions.
"Forgive, my Ellen, this digression, by you so little needed; but I
linger and dwell on any subject which can a moment detain me from those
dreadful scenes I must soon describe. I was speaking of the intimacy
which now took place between this De Sylva and Lady St. Aubyn. In
dancing, walking, or riding, he was her constant attendant; and in the
last exercise she excited the admiration of all who beheld her. Her
English side-saddle and riding-dress, and the ease with which she
managed her spirited Arabian, drew the most flattering plaudits from the
gay military admirers who constantly surrounded her; and most of all
from De Sylva, whose manners at last became so particular and presuming,
I could not avoid noticing it, and telling Rosolia if he altered not his
conduct, I should be under the necessity of forbidding him my house.
"At first she only laughed at my threats, and turned every thing I said
into ridicule, but still persisted in the same manner of living, till I
perceived, that even in that gay country her conduct was disapproved by
all who witnessed it, and who had not lost all sense of decorum; even
two or three of the older officers, men of rank and consequence, began
to look gravely upon her, and with a sort of displeasure at me, as if
they thought me too supine in not more warmly asserting my own honour. I
now determined, therefore, to remove her from the place where she had so
many opportunities of meeting this young man, which, without an _eclat_
I wished to avoid, I could not prevent, as I believed her innocent
though imprudent, and to visit some of the most interesting scenes in
that part of the country where we now were, hoping that a tour, which I
knew she had never made, would give a new turn to the sentiments of
Rosolia: we removed, therefore, with our suite, from the beautiful villa
we had lately occupied, and travelled the first day to Cormona, where we
visited its castle, of immense extent, but now wholly in ruins; from
thence we went by excellent, but very ancient roads, to Cordova, where
we also saw every thing worth notice, and spent a few days very
agreeably; at least they would have been agreeable, had Rosolia seemed
in the least inclined to enjoy the new scenes presented to her, or the
civilities of the inhabitants of this ancient town, where our rank and
relationship to the Duke de Castel Nuovo ensured us a hospitable
reception from all the noble families whose manner of life is cheerful
and pleasant.
"After leaving Cordova, we travelled through the delightful vale of the
Guadalaxara, which runs between the ridges of hills embellished with
hanging woods and olive-yards. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the
scene through which we now for two days travelled. No mind, which had
not entirely lost all power of enjoying the charms of nature, could have
been dead to the enchanting scenes which the banks of the lovely
Guadalaxara now presented in ever-varying succession. Extensive plains,
beautifully tinted by rows of olive-trees, towers and ancient castles
rising at intervals on the side of the stream, afforded a variety of
charming and picturesque views, from which Edmund and myself derived the
warmest pleasure. Alas! the heart of Rosolia was shut to them all. At
length we reached a small but pretty villa at the foot of the Sierra
Morena, which I had learned some time before was unoccupied, and had
hired, and caused to be prepared for our reception. Edmund's health had
appeared to be somewhat shaken by the very warm climate of our abode
near Seville, and it was thought the cool air from those mountains would
brace and invigorate his drooping frame. Here, then, we rested in this
quiet retreat, whence I made occasional excursions, sometimes on foot,
sometimes on horseback, in the picturesque environs of our new abode.
Sometimes I extended them to the northern side of the Sierra, and
visited the romantic country of La Mancha, which Cervantes has
immortalized.
"It is impossible to describe the various beauties these mountains
present; the clear torrent of the Rio de las Pedras, falling over beds
of rocks, through glens of beautiful woods; the wild and unfrequented
solitudes, covered with a rich variety of flowering and sweet-scented
shrubs, and the interesting new colony of La Corolina, of which I hope,
some day, to give you a fuller account; all rendered these excursions
delightful to me; the more so, as they occupied my thoughts, and carried
me from a woman whose capricious humours and inconsistent conduct
rendered my home irksome and distasteful.
"Rosolia, angry at being withdrawn from the society she so much prized,
and still more so at being deprived of De Sylva's company, now assumed
manners the most aggravating, and caprices the most extraordinary.
Sometimes, for a day or two together, the sound of her voice never
reached the ear of any human being; but sunk, in affected apathy, she
pretended scarcely to see or hear any thing that was passing. Then she
would suddenly assume the gayest air, and for hours would scarcely cease
speaking; following me incessantly; never allowing me to read or reflect
a moment; singing, playing on her harp, or with castenets in her hands,
dancing with a gaiety that was as unpleasing as it appeared unnatural,
till her forced spirits being quite exhausted, she would fall into
violent hysterics, and be conveyed to bed, whence she would not rise
again in many days.
"Think only, my dear Ellen, what a life this was for me. With no other
companion (for Edmund was still a mere boy), and dreading every hour to
what the caprices of the next might lead. At length, all at once, she
affected a new humour, and was continually rambling alone, even so late
in the evening, that in the neighbourhood of those wild mountains, I
feared some evil would befall her; but vain were my representations,
vain my entreaties. She told me, she thought it hard to be denied the
only pleasure my jealous temper had left her, and that I had better
revive the old Spanish customs of lattices and duennas, and lock her up
altogether. These, and many such provoking speeches, silenced me; but I
saw that our good Bayfield was suffering from some unknown cause. She
was frequently in tears, and betrayed, at times, a degree of agitation
which astonished me; for in general her composure was remarkable. I
conjectured, that, dissatisfied with her lady, as indeed she had but too
much reason to be, the worthy woman pined to revisit England; but on my
pressing her on this subject, she assured me, that wherever I was, there
she was best pleased to be; and only wished she _knew how best to shew
her devotion to my interests_.
"These last words seemed spoken with particular meaning, but she evaded
any explanation. A new vexation now assailed both her and me: several of
Lady St. Aubyn's valuable jewels were from time to time missing, and
vainly sought.
"Rosolia affected the most perfect indifference about them, saying,
since she had no one to wear them, she cared nothing for jewels: but
Bayfield, who was the only person, who, except her lady, had access to
the place where the jewels were kept, was excessively disturbed at their
frequent losses. At last, a very fine and remarkable ring of mine,
composed of an antique cameo, set with brilliants of great value, was
also gone. I began to suspect my valet of these repeated thefts, though
I had obtained of him the most excellent character; and he had been
three or four years in my service without the slightest suspicion of
dishonesty in any respect.
"Determined, however, to watch this man, I said nothing of the loss of
my ring, thinking if I appeared to have no suspicion I should the easier
detect him.
"About a week after this circumstance, being restless, and unable to
sleep, I rose from my bed at midnight, and sat for some time at my
window, watching the bright moon, which in that clear climate gave a
light scarcely inferior to that of day: but judge of my surprize, when I
saw the figure of a man emerge slowly from a grove of cork trees, at
some little distance; and after looking cautiously around, pass close
under my windows, and approach those of Lady St. Aubyn's apartment. We
had for some time inhabited separate rooms, as she complained of
restless nights, and chose to have her chamber to herself. I fancied
that I had now detected the robber, who, by some means, having gained
access to those chambers, had, from time to time, stolen the jewels I
mentioned; but in a moment I saw Rosolia's window open, and herself
appear at it. She spoke a few words to this man, on whom the moonlight
falling more clearly, I distinctly perceived the height, figure, and I
fancied the features of De Sylva.
"Rosolia instantly threw down a light rope ladder, and the man, whoever
he was, began to mount it; but on a sudden she turned from the window,
as if disturbed by the entrance of some one to her room; and making a
sign to him with a hurried air, he hastily descended: she immediately
closed the window, and the man ran to the grove from which he had first
appeared.
"All this scene passed so quickly, I had scarcely time to recollect
myself, or determine what I ought to do--but hastily seizing my pistols,
which lay always loaded in my room, I descended a private staircase
leading to the garden, and with quicksteps, followed the man, who lay
concealed in the grove. I walked with as little noise as I could,
fearing, lest, if he heard me, he might make his escape, and I should be
deprived of the satisfaction I expected, so that I was close to him
before he perceived me, and seizing him with a powerful grasp, I dragged
him into the moonlight, and there saw it was indeed De Sylva."
CHAP. III.
Ou suis-je? O Ciel ou suis je? ou porte je mes voeux?
Zayre, Nerestan--couple ingrat, couple affreux,
Traitres arracher moi ce jour que je respire,
Ce jour souille par vous.
----Ah que vois-je? Ah ma soeur
Zayre!... Elle n'est plus.--Ah monstre ah jour horrible!
ZAYRE PAR VOLTAIRE.
"Rage almost choked me as I exclaimed:--'Villain! you here, and lurking
under my windows at this hour!' He shook with cowardly apprehension, and
attempted some excuse, which, however, his terror rendered inarticulate:
still the momentary pause gave me time for recollection, and disdaining
to assault an unarmed man, I threw him one of my pistols, and bade him
defend himself: again in faltering tones he murmured some assurances
that he merely came to see Lady St. Aubyn's favourite servant, a Spanish
girl named Theresa; but this hacknied excuse was too shallow to obtain a
moment's credit, and I still pressed him to an instant decision of this
affair. He now, somewhat more firmly, requested me to recollect, that if
we fought, and he fell, what would be the appearance of a man found in
my grounds murdered, as it would seem; and on the other hand he appealed
to my generosity, what would be his situation should I be killed, and
above all, what a slur would be cast on the reputation of Lady St. Aubyn
by such a business. Calmed by these representations, which certainly had
some justice in them, I finally consented to wait till the next evening:
the time between, he told me, he should pass at a little Posada in the
neighbourhood, where, he said, he had a friend waiting for him, who
would come with him to a spot I mentioned near the mountains; and during
the same space I said I would ride to Almana (the next small town),
where a gentleman resided with whom I had some acquaintance, and on whom
I would prevail to be my second in this affair: then bidding him retain
the pistol, and bring it prepared, as I should do its fellow, to the
place of meeting, I sternly told him, that should I see him again
lurking beneath my walls, I would not wait the event of the next
evening, but treat him as a midnight robber deserved to be treated. I
then left him and returned to the house: a faint light yet gleamed from
the windows of Rosolia's room, but the rope ladder was withdrawn, and
the curtains closed, so that I concluded she had given up all
expectation of seeing De Sylva again that night. I watched, however,
till morning, but all was still, and I then threw myself on my bed to
obtain one hour's repose; after which I rose, and spent some time in
settling my affairs, and writing some letters, to be delivered in case I
should fall in the duel with De Sylva.
"After this I went to Lady St. Aubyn's room: at the door I met Bayfield,
who, pale, and with her eyes swollen with weeping, looked as if she had,
like myself, watched all night.
"My good Bayfield,' said I, 'where is your Lady, and why do you look
thus alarmed and haggard?'
"She answered me, but with some confusion, that her Lady was just
dressed, and that she had been induced to watch in the chamber next Lady
St. Aubyn's almost all night, having heard some noises which had induced
her to _rise at midnight_, and go to her Lady's apartment, whom she
found also much agitated, and therefore had remained there till morning.
I made no doubt, and I afterwards found this conjecture was just, that
my faithful old servant's suspicions having been excited, she had gone
to her room, and by interrupting her, had caused the sudden dismissal of
De Sylva, and had since passed the night in bewailing Rosolia's evil
propensities. Without staying for any explanation, however, I left her,
and passed into the Countess's apartment: she started at the sight of
me, for of late we had seldom met but at meals, and her guilty
conscience taught her to consider my visit as extraordinary. I told her
sternly to be seated and hear me, and I then related to her the events
of the preceding night: at first she trembled and turned pale, but soon
recovering her effrontery, she attempted, as usual, to make a jest of
what she affected to term my ridiculous jealousy.
"Mark me, Rosolia!" cried I rising, and eagerly grasping her arm, for,
with affected scorn, she attempted to rush past me. 'Mark me! I am no
longer thus to be deceived. _This evening, this evening shall revenge my
too long endured injuries_--the _wretch_ who has so deeply wronged me,
_this arm shall punish_.'
"At that moment, while my angry looks were fixed upon her countenance,
where rage and disdain contended with shame and fear, Edmund entered the
room, and must, I knew, have heard the threats I uttered: he started and
looked amazed, for frequent as were our altercations, they had never
before risen to a height so alarming.
"I left them together, and taking my horse, rode to Almana, where, most
unfortunately, I did not find my friend at home; and after waiting his
return till I feared I should not arrive at my villa in time enough to
keep my appointment, I left the place alone, and merely going into the
house to take my pistol, I hastened to the appointed spot. There I
waited, vainly waited, for nearly two hours: no De Sylva arrived; and
concluding that he then meant not to keep his appointment, and some
vague fears pressing on my mind that possibly Rosolia might be the
partner of his flight, I hurried back to the villa. It was almost dark
when I arrived, and just as I entered the hall, heated, disordered, not
having changed my dress since the night before, and in the confusion of
my thoughts not even concealing the pistol I had carried in my hand, I
met Edmund, who eagerly asked me where his sister was.
"I know not,' said I; but a thousand suspicions darted into my bosom,
and gave to my countenance and manner an agitation which must have
appeared to him extraordinary. 'Is she not in her own apartment? I have
been out all day and have not seen her since I left her with you this
morning.'
"Nor I,' said Edmund, 'since half an hour before I saw you return on
horseback; she then complained of a violent head-ache, and said she
would try if the evening air would remove it: I offered to walk with
her, but she said she would rather be alone, for she had enough to
occupy her thoughts: she kissed me too,' added Edmund, 'and bade me
farewell, sighing bitterly, and saying her heart was heavy and full of
terror: why then,' said I, 'will you go alone, sister? why not let me
walk with you? I really think there _is_ danger in being out late so
near the mountains.' She forced a smile, and replied, she feared nothing
from the mountains: all her misery and terrors arose at home.'
"Ungrateful Rosolia,' I replied, as Edmund told me this; to which he
answered:--
"Ah, my Lord, it grieves me to see you both so unhappy; I hope my
grandfather's return will soon restore in some degree your domestic
comfort; he will persuade Rosolia to be more accommodating to your
wishes.'
"I sighed, and asked him which way his sister had gone.
"Through the cork grove,' he replied, 'and towards the Hermitage, which
is I know her favourite retreat.'
"'Surely,' said I, 'she would not remain in that lonely place till this
late hour; yet, so strange for sometime has been her conduct, I know not
what to suppose: call the servants, my dear Edmund, to bring lights, for
in that gloomy retreat it will be quite dark, and let us go in search of
her.'
"We set out accordingly, attended by two men servants and my good
Bayfield, who, fearing, as she said, her Lady might be ill, insisted on
accompanying us. The place to which we directed our steps was a quarter
of a mile from the villa, and, as I had said, by the time we had reached
it the darkness of night had come on.
"This gloomy cell stood at the foot of a rock deep embowered in thick
groves: a mountain stream fell from a considerable height near it, and
the dash of its waters alone broke the silence of this secluded retreat,
which was called the Hermitage, from the peculiar style in which it was
fitted up. For some time before we reached it we made the surrounding
thickets resound with Rosolia's name: but all was silent, save the
murmuring breeze and the dashing of the waterfall. I concluded that my
wife was gone off with the infamous De Sylva, and my whole frame shook
with rage and agitation.
"Why do you tremble so, my Lord?' said the affrighted Edmund, who hung
upon my arm: 'do you think any harm has happened to my sister?'
"I know not,' I replied, 'but I fear it, greatly fear it!'
"Just then we entered the gloomy Hermitage: all was dark and still; the
echo of our steps alone broke the awful silence. The men who accompanied
us lifted their torches to throw a fuller light into the cell; and--ah!
my Ellen, I dread to shock your tender nature by describing the horrid
scene which met our view.--Imagine our sensations when we saw the
unfortunate Rosolia extended on the earth! her white garments dyed in
_blood_! in that blood which some hand, either accidentally or by
design, had shed! for on raising the body, by this time stiff and cold,
a wound was discovered in the back of her head, which was evidently the
effect of a pistol-ball, and had caused her death. You tremble and turn
pale, my love: it grieves me to distress you, but think what was _my_
distress, when Edmund, who, in frantic despair, had thrown himself by
his murdered sister, found the fatal weapon which had done this deed of
horror, and I saw at once it was the fellow pistol to that I had in my
hand when he met me in the hall, remarkable for its peculiar
construction and workmanship; the very one, in short, which I had given
to De Sylva. Never, never shall I forget the glance of his dark eyes at
that moment: I saw the direful suspicions he, at that instant,
conceived, and which were still more fatally confirmed by what
immediately followed.
"My poor Bayfield, full of grief and horror, was arranging, with all the
care circumstances would admit, the removal of the body to the house,
when seeing something glitter amidst the horrible darkness which
surrounded us, and our fading torches scarcely broke, she stooped and
picked up _my ring_, that well-known ring, which I indeed had lost, but
had not said so; and which she, from some impulsive feeling, perhaps
fearing the sight of it in that place might implicate me in the late sad
event, attempted to conceal in her bosom.
"What is that?" exclaimed the half-frantic Edmund, darting towards her
and seizing her hand. '_Your ring_, my Lord, _your ring_! at this
time--in this place. The pistol too--those dreadful threatenings of
revenge.--Ah God! Ah God!--what horrible conviction flashes on
me.--Rosolia! poor dear sister!--Ah, basely, basely murdered!' and he
fell senseless on the ground.
"The domestics who attended us were Spaniards, and did not understand a
word he said: but Bayfield stood the image of dismay.
"Ah, my Lord,' said she, 'fly, if indeed your hand by accident has done
this deed, for think what will become of you amidst the bigotted
Catholics, who will seek to revenge it.'