"Oh no, my dear Lord,' she replied, never, never! but think what these
unfortunate appearances will say against you to those who know you less
than I do.'
"Whatever they say, I will brave,' I exclaimed: 'nor care I much after
this dreadful moment what becomes of me; but never will I, by an
ignominious flight, tacitly avow myself guilty, when I know and surely
cannot fail to prove my innocence.'
"In a few minutes one of the men, who, on Edmund's falling into the
deathlike trance from which we yet vainly sought to recover him, had
fled towards the house for more assistance, returned with almost all the
domestics, who eagerly crowded to satisfy their curiosity, and whose
astonishment and impatient questions may be easily conceived. Between
them they conveyed into the house their murdered mistress, and the still
insensible Edmund, whose spirit we at one time imagined had really
followed hers. To paint the confusion which ensued would be impossible:
one express was instantly sent off to the Duke de Castel Nuovo, and
several men I sent into the mountains and round the neighbourhood to
seek for De Sylva, by whose hand I doubted not the fatal wound, either
by accident or design, had been given. I described his person and
appearance, saying that such a man had been seen lurking about the house
the night before.
"Some of the servants having remarked the capricious character, and, of
late, the melancholy manners of Rosolia, suggested an idea that she had
destroyed herself; but the situation of the wound prevented such a
possibility. Forgive me, my love, these shocking details: they are
indeed unsuited to the tenderness of your nature; but without a very
accurate account of this unfortunate event, it would be impossible for
you to judge what evidences there were of my apparent guilt, or real
innocence.
"Edmund slowly recovered from his deep swoon, but his reason for a time
was flown, and all the skill of the medical people about us failed for
weeks to recover it. Yet still he knew me--still with an expression of
the most vindictive hatred his eyes pursued me. His words frequently
pointed out the nature of his suspicions; but he raved so constantly,
that they remained unnoticed, save by me and Bayfield: too fatally,
alas! we understood them. To her I fully explained all that had passed,
and she told me she had no hesitation in believing that De Sylva was the
author of this direful tragedy. To find that villain appeared
impossible: my servants returned, after a week's search in every
direction, without having discovered the slightest trace of him. Indeed,
to track a fugitive in that wild romantic country is extremely
difficult: immense woods, deep caves, and the recesses of vast ruins,
might easily shelter such a one from pursuit.
"To the servants I held out an idea that some banditti from the
mountains had found their Lady in her lonely walk, as indeed they all
knew I often had feared would be the case, and had murdered her for the
sake of the money and jewels she had about her; and in truth many of
them had seen her go out with some rich ornaments, which she generally
wore, and which certainly were removed from the body.
"On searching the Hermitage the next morning, a parcel was found,
containing a complete Spanish habit for a boy, and a letter--at least a
part of one, for part was torn away, and the remainder contained only
these words:
_At the Hermitage this evening
we must fly directly
St. Aubyn will wait for
come alone_
"I easily imagined this was part of a letter from De Sylva, appointing
Rosolia to meet him at the Hermitage. 'St. Aubyn will wait for'
evidently alluded to my waiting for him at the place he had appointed to
meet me; yet even these words seemed fatally to implicate me in this
horrid transaction: whereas, if the whole had been preserved, it would
have entirely exculpated me from blame: so unfortunately did
circumstances combine to throw the appearance of guilt upon me.
"When my messenger returned from Madrid, I learned that the venerable
Duke de Castel Nuovo was too ill to travel: he left the whole management
of this melancholy affair in my hands, expressing himself convinced that
some of the banditti, who it was well known infested the Sierra Morena,
had been the murderers of his granddaughter. He entreated me to take the
greatest care of Edmund, and invited me, when he should be sufficiently
recovered, to accompany him to Madrid, or if I could not make that
convenient, to send him by some person in whom I could confide, and who
would see him placed safely under his own care; and concluded by very
kind expressions of regret that it had been so totally out of his power
to pay me those personal attentions during my stay in Spain, which he
had so anxiously wished to do.
"Thus then I found myself completely exonerated from all suspicion of
having had any share of the late dreadful event, except in the mind of
Edmund, who had by this time recovered his reason, and was by slow
degrees regaining his health, yet still looked on me with horror and
aversion, and was buried in the most profound and gloomy melancholy.
"Unable long to bear this state of estrangement and anxiety, I one day
went to his room, and sitting down by the couch on which he lay, 'I see,
Edmund,' said I, 'too plainly I see, the horrible suspicions you have
formed, and the gloomy hatred so unnatural to your character, which
preys upon your vitals. Neither can you long support a state so
wretched. St. Aubyn was not born to be the object of suspicions so
cruel, nor Edmund to endure them. Hear me then patiently; and though, in
tenderness to the memory of the unfortunate Rosolia, I would, if
possible, have concealed her misconduct from the whole world, and most
of all from you, yet circumstances call on me so imperatively to
disclose it, that I can no longer be silent.'
"I then, my Ellen, related to him every circumstance, as I have done to
you; and though he evidently wavered, yet so strong was the prejudice he
had conceived, that he was not wholly convinced.
"For the pistol," said he, 'you have in some measure accounted: it
might, if this story be true, have been placed there by De Sylva: his
accursed hand it might have been which shed that blood--that precious
blood, which yet in imagination I see flowing at my feet! But ah! St.
Aubyn, whence came that _ring_--that well known ring, which I so often
have heard you declare you valued more than all the jewels in your
possession?'
"Fully to account for that,' said I, 'is not in my power; but on my
honour, I assure you, I had missed it several days, though, in hopes of
discovering the thief, I did not mention it. You know several of
Rosolia's jewels have lately been lost; and many times, since we have
been here, she has asked me for sums of money, though here she could
have had no use for them; but willing to gratify her in even her
fancies, while they did not militate against my peace and honour, I
never denied her, or desired any explanation; yet, in searching her
escritoire and drawers, no money has been found. This leads me to
believe, nay, to be sure, that either the wretch, De Sylva, stole this
ring and the other valuable articles missing, or she gave them to him in
the meetings which Bayfield now owns she is convinced they _have of
late_ frequently had.'
"Impossible, impossible!' cried the noble but prejudiced youth: 'Rosolia
could not have condescended to favour, even with her friendship, so mean
a wretch as one who would have received money or jewels at her hands.
This story, my Lord, hangs ill together, and for it I have only your
word--the word of one to whom it is of the utmost importance that I
should believe it. But think, O think, what a chain of circumstances
appear in proof against you!--The threats _I_ heard you utter, that your
own hand should that very evening revenge your injuries! My meeting you,
heated and confused, after two hours absence, no one knew whither, with
one pistol in your hand--the fellow pistol found discharged by the dear
murdered Rosolia--and, more than all, your ring, which Bayfield,
impressed no doubt by similar suspicions, strove to conceal! Place all
these in array against you, and tell me, tell me yourself, what I must,
what I ought to believe.'
"'It is enough,' I replied: 'I yield myself then to your will. Take me,
if such is your desire, to a prison, to death: your evidence I well
perceive will be sufficient to convict me--to rob me of my honour and my
life. But do you reckon for nothing your former knowledge of my
character and disposition? Am I a man likely to have committed such a
deed?--to have invented such a tale to excuse it, if I had? I swear to
you, Edmund, by all that is most sacred, _I am innocent_--I will swear
it to the latest moment of my existence.'
"Moved by these words, by the remembrance of all my former friendship
for him--permit me to say, by the remembrance of years which I had so
spent as to impress him with a firm opinion of my virtue and veracity,
the generous youth paused awhile, and at length said--
"Well then, my Lord, since in this contrariety of assertion and evidence
it is impossible that I should know what to believe, I will for the
present, at least, act as if I thought you innocent. Seek this De
Sylva--seek him if you will throughout the world. I will breathe no
word, hint no suspicion, that may impede you in the search. Should you
be able to bring his confession in evidence of your integrity, I will
then entreat your pardon for my disbelief. If, on the contrary, any new
appearances of guilt arise against you--should any new discoveries
inimical to your innocence be made, I shall still know how to reach you.
"Here let us part! As soon as my weak state will permit, I leave this
fatal, this detested roof, and will join my grandfather at Madrid: from
his letters I learn what you have led him to believe on this shocking
subject. If, indeed, your tale be true, I ought most thankfully to
acknowledge the lenient tenderness with which you have treated my poor
sister's reputation.--But oh! could she, could she be so guilty?----At
all events, it is well the Duke should credit your statement. At his
age, the doubts which shake me thus would kill him!--Let us meet no more
at present--Should De Sylva be found, write to me: write in English, and
the people about me will not understand your letter. All farther search
into this matter I must postpone till the commencement of my majority
shall leave me my own master; then I must once more visit England, such
is my father's will, to take possession of my estates in that country,
and to receive the accounts from you. Then, my Lord, we will finally
consider all the proofs which shall then have been obtained of your
innocence or guilt; and I shall then either bewail the faults of
Rosolia, or revenge her death, either by my sword or the hand of the
law, as I may think most proper. I shall then be a man, and more able,
both by improved judgment and bodily strength, to assert my own
convictions. Most earnestly do I wish, long ere that period arrives,
your character may be cleared: yet, ah! how can I wish it, if by that
acquittal my poor Rosolia must be proved so guilty!'
"In a few days after this conversation, Edmund, under the care of a
person in whom I could confide, set out for Madrid; and I soon after
discharging all my servants, except Mrs. Bayfield and my valet, whom I
sent to England, left also this fatal spot. I hired a mule, and alone
passed through the Sierra into La Mancha; and at Civedad I engaged a
servant, not choosing to take one with me who had known any thing of the
late painful transactions. On mules we proceeded, making every inquiry
for De Sylva. Not even my servant knew my real name and rank; as I
thought by concealing these I might have a better chance of finding the
villain I sought: but still my search was vain. From Toledo, where I
rested a short time, I wrote to some of the officers of De Sylva's
regiment at Seville, to know if he had returned thither, though it
appeared most improbable he should have done so: but I was desirous of
trying every chance by which he might be discovered. In answer, I learnt
De Sylva had obtained leave of absence about two months before; but
though it had been some time expired, he was not yet returned: so that
the charge of desertion was now added to those others, which I doubted
not induced him to keep himself concealed. I travelled through Spain,
avoiding Madrid, where I knew my friend and correspondent, the Marquis
of Northington, who was resident there in a diplomatic capacity, would
make every search for De Sylva; and passing the Pyrenees, entered the
frontier of France, though with great risk and hazard, had I been known
to be English; but I passed everywhere for a Spaniard, speaking the
language as a native, having from my childhood been accustomed to speak
it with Rosolia and Edmund; and I fancied in those wild mountains I
might meet with De Sylva, who was likely to assort with the desperate
characters with which they at that time abounded. But vain was my
search, and at length I returned to England; and thinking that in
London, perhaps, I might find this wretch connected with gamesters, I
sought him at every house where such persons are likely to be found; but
still, still the search was fruitless.
"I then came hither for awhile, to rest my wearied spirits. Here,
vanquished by the constant harassings I had so long undergone, I fell
into a severe fit of illness, through which my good Bayfield nursed me
with the tenderest care; and as she alone knew all the griefs which
oppressed me, I could without restraint give vent to my sorrows in her
presence.
"Immediately after my recovery I had a letter from my friend Lord
Northington, who had at my request, by himself and his agents, made
every possible inquiry for De Sylva. He informed me that a person of
suspicious character had lately been arrested, and stood charged with
various crimes; and amongst the rest, of desertion; that from my
description of him, he fancied this man to be De Sylva. I instantly
wrote to Edmund, that I hoped the object of my long search was found;
that I should go to Spain immediately, and would see him as soon as any
thing was ascertained: but alas! after all my trouble and fatigue this
man proved to be totally unlike De Sylva, and in no way connected with
him.
"Mortified and disappointed, I yet went to Seville, where Edmund then
was. The Duke de Castel Nuovo had been dead a few months, and his
grandson, under the care of Mr. O'Brien, and some other ecclesiastics,
appointed by the Duke's will to be the guardians of his person and his
Spanish estates during his minority. It was not without difficulty that
I obtained a private conference with him; for these Catholics were
jealous of my supposed influence over his mind.
"I found him greatly altered in person, and evidently a prey to gloomy
and anxious thoughts, which the life he led amongst persons of severe
and superstitious habits did not tend to dissipate. His prejudices I
still found unconquerable, and that he was determined on coming to
England, should I be unable clearly to substantiate my innocence, either
to avenge his sister's death by the sword, or to impeach me as her
murderer--a dreadful alternative, and one from which I knew not how to
free myself: for to find De Sylva seemed impossible, and if found, I
knew not how to bring him to confession; and even of his having been at
my villa, near the Sierra Morena, I had no witness but Mrs. Bayfield,
whose evidence in my favour might, and most probably would, be deemed
partial.
"Thus, and with this shocking prospect constantly before me, the time
has passed since the fatal day of Rosolia's death. Anxious for your
peace and safety, I wrote to Edmund, who ought to have been here three
months ago, and entreated him to delay coming hither till this time,
stating my reasons, with which he complied, and arrived in England only
a week since. Hither he was obliged to come, as Mordaunt had all the
papers belonging to his estates in his possession. You know he has been
too ill lately to go from home, and his signature was absolutely
necessary.
"After O'Brien and Mordaunt went into the library last night, I again
endeavoured to convince Edmund of my innocence; and although I think now
his judgment is matured, and his passions have had time to cool, he is
more inclined to believe me, and to let the matter rest where it is, I
could by no means get him explicitly to acquit me; and this house
reviving the memory of his sister, and all the past events so forcibly,
no doubt was the cause of his nocturnal wandering.
"What will be the event of all this I know not; but if I find him still
inexorable in a conference I mean this day to hold with him, I think
appearances are so much against me, I must at least for a time withdraw
with you and our boy to some safe retreat.
"I have wearied you, my Ellen, and am myself weary with speaking so
long, on such an agitating subject: but tell me, my love, oh! tell me,
that you at least think me guiltless of this direful act!"
"Guiltless!" cried Ellen (whose many tender exclamations and agitated
interruptions had given frequent proof of the interest with which she
had heard this melancholy narrative). "Oh, heavens! the evidence of my
own senses would fail to make me think you otherwise. But in this case
all appears to me so clear, so easy to be traced, that I am astonished
the generous youth you have described can hesitate in his belief a
moment.--Ah! my dear St. Aubyn, let _me_ speak to him; let me tell him
of your virtues, of your gentle nature, of your tender and affectionate
disposition. Surely he will hear me: surely he must yield to the
conviction these must give, that you were not, could not have been
guilty of a deed so horrid!"
"Yes, my dearest, my beloved Ellen," replied St. Aubyn, "it shall be so.
Your soft, your persuasive words and looks will, I am sure, impress him
with conviction that the man you love cannot be a villain.
"Yet, Ellen, do not meanly compromise my honour or your own dignity;
argue, and even, if you can, persuade him to believe me innocent: but if
in this you fail, do not sue to him. I could not accept of life and
honour merely from his _forbearance_; yet for your sake, and that of our
child, I will in some measure set my proud spirit aside, and yield to
terms I would otherwise disdain."
Here they parted, and Ellen retired to her dressing-room, to refresh her
wearied spirits, to kiss and weep over her infant, and to offer up a
fervent prayer for every grace of speech, which might subdue and
convince the prejudiced but generous Edmund.
CHAP. IV.
We do not know
How he may soften at the sight o' the child.
The silence often of pure innocence
Persuades when speaking fails.
WINTER'S TALE.
With an air how different from the usual cheerful greetings of the
morning at St. Aubyn Castle, did the party now there assemble in the
breakfast-room.
The Earl and Countess, wearied with the alarm of the night and the late
agitating conversation, scarcely could assume spirits to smile upon
their guests and give them that hospitable reception which every one
generally felt assured of from them. Lady Juliana, stiff and severe of
countenance, scarcely deigned a bow to the salutations of Mr. O'Brien;
and the pale melancholy Edmund, who, constraining his feelings, advanced
towards Lady St. Aubyn, and attempted an apology for what had passed the
evening before, for of his nocturnal wanderings, and her consequent
alarm, he had not the least idea: from St. Aubyn he appeared to shrink
with less aversion than usual, but when seated at the breakfast-table,
his eyes and whole attention seemed fixed on Ellen, who, pale and
mournful as were her looks, yet spoke with such gentle sweetness, as
appeared instantly to attract him, while the soft and pensive character
her beauty had assumed was precisely formed to sooth and tranquillize
the too vehement emotions of this deeply feeling young man. Her power,
indeed, over the heart, of which all who saw her were sensible, arose
from the united charms of voice, person, and demeanor, all of which were
so sweetly harmonized with each other as to form one charming and
consistent whole, and that, so regulated by the most perfect purity of
manners, the most refined delicacy of sentiment, and the most
affectionate tenderness of heart, as ensured not only the admiration,
but the respect and love of all who knew her; yet more, of all she
sought to win or soften. No wonder then if the young and generous heart
of Edmund leaned towards her, and felt before the breakfast hour was
over that for worlds he could not have pained or wronged her.
Mr. Mordaunt had fixed one o'clock at noon to finish the settlement of
all legal concerns between Lord St. Aubyn and Lord De Montfort, the weak
state of his health not permitting him to come earlier to the Castle. As
soon as breakfast was over, therefore, St. Aubyn invited his guests to
walk or ride round the grounds. O'Brien gladly consented, and Laura said
she should like to ride with them; but Edmund coldly refused, saying if
he went out at all, he should merely stroll by himself a short distance,
as he felt languid and unwell. "To you then, my Ellen," said St. Aubyn,
"I recommend our noble guest. I need not I am sure request you to pay
him every attention; if possible, prevail on him to stay and dine with
us: he talks of going the instant his business is completed."
"I hope, my Lord," said Ellen to De Montfort, "you will not do so. The
evenings now close in abruptly, and it will be late before you reach the
end of the first stage from hence."
He bowed in silence.
The gentlemen and Miss Cecil went to prepare for their ride; and Ellen,
ringing the bell, desired Jane to bring her netting-box thither, for she
feared if she went as usual to the nursery, Edmund might escape her, and
no other opportunity offer for the conference on which her heart was
set.
Lady Juliana, as usual, went to her own room, where she always chose to
spend two or three hours of her morning alone.
Edmund had, by the time Ellen was seated at her work, thrown himself in
a meditating attitude on a sofa, and was apparently lost in a reverie;
yet his eyes were frequently fixed on her, and his countenance seemed to
soften as he gazed upon her. She soon saw the little party ride into the
park, and then feeling herself secure from interruption, she considered
how best to begin her intended conversation:--her heart fluttered, and
her fingers entangled her work so completely, that it was impossible to
proceed with it. Painful, indeed, was her situation; for to converse on
topics so deeply interesting with a young man so very lately an entire
stranger was indeed a severe task for the gentle, the timid Ellen.
Rousing her spirits, however, for she felt that time fled swiftly, she
with a tremulous voice said,
"My Lord, I fear you will think I take too great a liberty with one so
lately a stranger, if I venture to enter on a subject of the most
delicate nature, indeed; but one to me so deeply interesting, I cannot
consent to let this opportunity pass, since it may be the last I shall
ever have of speaking to your Lordship without witnesses."
From the moment she began to speak, De Montfort started from his
reverie, and fixed on her an earnest attention, which had, however, so
much softness in it, as emboldened her to proceed in a voice somewhat
firmer and more assured.
"You may believe, my Lord," she said, "that Lord St. Aubyn has not
withheld from me the real cause of the painful scene I last night
witnessed, and a decree of agitation in you, not to be accounted for,
but by a recital which out of tenderness he till this morning never
ventured to make to me."
"Has he then," said Edmund (in that low, solemn, impressive tone which
so deeply interested his hearers) "has he then ventured to reveal to you
that horrid event, that deed of blood, the guilt of which he has never
been able to throw from him?"