"From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding-night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in _her_ shroud of snow."--_Longfellow._
There is something peculiarly sad in the reflection that even the works
of man are longer lived than himself. The gray castle, the ancestral
residence of proud races, outlives its lords; the trees man plants shall
wave green long after he has mouldered in the tomb; the very picture
exists long after the original has ceased to be known in his place. But
it is this very fact that lends so much romance to the old castle--the
ancient tree, on whose trunk is carved many a long-forgotten name--the
dusky portrait, which retains the likeness of old ancestors, and
snatches them from the oblivion of the dead! There is little interest in
the new mansion; we could well afford to dispense with all modern
luxuries, could we gain some old traditionary story of the house we
dwell in.
The Towers was the most ancient castle in all the neighbourhood; it had
been brought into the De Vere family through a Scotch heiress--her name
had long been joined with De Vere, but the custom had grown into
desuetude. The Towers had stood unchanged for many a century; its lords
had mouldered away, not so its battlements; its chieftains had died the
death, not so its buttresses; not so its four lofty towers, on one of
which floated the banner of the family, and in one of which slumbered
the mortal remains of many of its stout possessors and fair mistresses.
It had seen every vicissitude of its owners, but owned little change
itself. The bride and the bridegroom, the dead had been borne over, and
the mourners had trodden its halls. If its walls could have spoken they
could have divulged many a dark secret, related many a dark deed. It
seemed as if in silent night it mourned the departed, as if in sunny day
it rejoiced with the living. These thoughts have been suggested by the
lines that head the chapter, and the sequence will show they are not
wholly without their meaning.
The old castle was shortly to see some more of the vicissitudes of
life--marriage and death, which, like light and darkness, are perhaps
the most dissimilar events of life, yet often go hand in hand, indeed so
often that in Scotland it is a common saying, "A marriage and a death."
It is useless to inquire into the origin of any superstition, it is
enough to say without good cause it could hardly have attained the
universal belief it does. The author can testify that in his short
experience the truth of this proverb has too often been exemplified.
The winter which had set in with a rigour unusual at the early season of
November, had betaken itself to more northern latitudes, and a sort of
Indian summer had lasted during the two first weeks of December; so mild
indeed was the temperature that several trees were putting out an early
leaf to be blighted by coming frosts. The 18th of December, the day
fixed for the Earl's wedding, opened mild and fine; a good deal of cloud
was drifting across a sky of remarkable transparency, which is often the
case when the atmosphere is saturated with moisture. The sun was warm,
the grass shining in his beams as he lit up the raindrops of the
preceding night; a few swallows, which had not yet taken their
departure, darted at the gnats and other insects the unseasonable
weather had tempted out. Altogether there was nothing unusual in the
day, and whatever man might intend it seemed pretty certain nature would
roll her course unaltered, and heed little whether her rain or sunshine
fell on the festal day.
At an early hour Ellen Ravensworth awoke; it was hardly light when she
rose, and after repeating her morning orisons to God, began to realize
this was actually the last day she would rise as Ellen Ravensworth, and
really the day of her marriage. A crowd of differing thoughts hurried
through her brain. Her life had been like a dream since that morning
last year; long as the days had seemed passing, now it was like a watch
of the night. It seemed but yesterday she had risen in her own room at
Seaview, and not even known him who would that night be her husband. It
was but a year ago she had risen with her head full of the ball, and had
been marvelling whether she would be introduced to the Earl. Her castle
building had for once turned out true, her visions had been realized,
and here, on the selfsame day, one year after, she rose in the castle
which would be her own that evening. She was about to be united with him
she had so singularly met, and so long and dearly loved. It was but a
twelvemonth ago, but since that day how strange had been her life! Into
that short year how much had been crowded--her introduction to the Earl;
the accident of his cloak to protect her going home; the drive in the
sleigh; the evening at the Towers; and the memorable ring which still
gemmed her finger. Then had come the departure of her noble friends; the
fatal but lying news; the fever that had prostrated her on a bed of
suffering, and well-nigh extinguished the lamp of life; the journey in
foreign lands; the meeting with her best friend, Edith Arranmore; then
the Earl's first visit, and L'Estrange's last heartbroken appeal. And
here her thoughts partook of gloom, for she could not exculpate herself
of blame; she had certainly cast him off, and _her_ change of sentiments
had wrought his ruin; he had told her they would, and they had done so.
Her delightful visit to the Towers; the picnic; the false Italian; her
wooing in the cool grot; and then the disappearance of L'Estrange; her
awful abduction; the week of captivity; the miraculous intervention of
Providence in sending Juana; the dreadful combat and capture of her old
lover; his bold and unaccountable escape from prison; then the fearful
tragedy of Sir Richard Musgrave's death; the flight of the Captain; his
last words, and her secret knowledge of his guilt; her uncertainty of
the future; these and many other such thoughts were ample food for
contemplation while she dressed. Her joy was darkened with fears. Where
could he be? He would not be inactive; still she had the word of the
Captain she should be married, and she believed the dark mysterious man.
Her joining her fates with such a remarkable family was another cause of
anxiety. How soon might he whom she loved so well be cut off? how soon
her sisters be withered in their bloom? She could not doubt the Weird!
it was like a voice of death in the song of her nuptials. Then too
linking herself with such a man as the brother of the Captain, there was
horror in the very thought! There was sunshine still on the very clouds
of fear, one thought silvered the edge of that darkest cloud. She felt
that she might be the favoured instrument of doing much good to the
family. Already she saw a change for the better in her dear friend
Edith; she had often spoken to her on religious subjects, and at the
least she was an anxious inquirer after the truth. She had the greatest
hopes of Lady Florence too; and, best of all, what might her influence
do for the Earl? He was young, generous, hospitable, kind; his very
faults were virtues run wild. She determined, with the blessing of God,
her silent walk and secret influence should guide him,--the Christian
wife might do much for the unbelieving husband. Frank too was tractable,
and very young; and then there was the Captain, alas! it seemed the
despair of very hope to think of reforming him; but nothing was too hard
for One, nothing impossible, and she hoped!
From these meditations, and the glorious thoughts of leading a whole
family in the right way, she was disturbed by the entrance of Lady
Arranmore, who clasped her in her arms and wished her all joy on the
auspicious morning. The two friends then descended to the Earl's study,
where Lady Florence and Mr. Ravensworth were both present. They were
soon afterwards joined by the Marquis, Frank, Maude, and Johnny, making
a family party of love and unity. One only was absent,--the Captain.
This happy family circle soon joined the company assembled in the
parlour, where a merry breakfast party congratulated the bride elect on
the dawning of her wedding-day. The marriage was to take place in the
evening, according to olden custom, and a marriage supper instead of the
more modern dejeuner. Of course during the day all was bustle and
preparation for the coming event; Ellen, however, found time for a walk
in the garden with her bosom friend the Marchioness. Their friendship
was no common one, and it was the prospect of parting from Edith
Arranmore, though only for a short time, that cast the only shadow on
Ellen's sunshine of joy. Their conversation was melancholy--much on the
unhappy Edward L'Estrange, and from him they ran on to Sir Richard's
death, and then to the Weird and Lady Augusta.
"I am sure, dear Edith, it is unlucky to talk thus on my wedding-day;
let us talk of all the happiness of life, and leave its miseries for
another time."
"Ah! Ellen love, it is on these seasons of festivity that sometimes I
feel most low; before every ray there is a shadow, and it is often that
the most happy seasons engender the most unhappy thoughts."
"And why should you think so? this should be the happiest day to both of
us; do you remember at Geneva you told me I looked on the dark side, and
you looked on the sunny; methinks we are changed, and I now gaze on the
light, and you on the darkness."
"Ellen, I cannot deceive you, but I have a dread feeling there hangs
something sad over all this; in our family, presentiments are not
disregarded; you link your fortunes with ours, and must not smile at my
follies."
"Edith, darling, you alarm me; you know nothing, do you? surely you have
nothing to apprehend; tell me, love, hide nothing from your sister."
"I know nothing, but Ellen I dreamed last night my departed sister stood
by me; in her hand she held a miniature. I looked at it and saw an
infant's counterpart,--it was our lost Arthur's picture,--she beckoned
with her hand, and when I rose to follow she smiled, then gazing on the
miniature she looked so unhappy, and said: 'Lost--he is not there--he is
lost!' I woke--I am telling you no fancy--I saw some one glide from the
room. I am not easily frightened, Ellen, and I rose--I followed to the
door, and there distinctly saw a form like Augusta's glide down the long
corridor. I could not sleep again all night, and when I now think on it
I feel sure some evil lurks near; why she showed that baby form I know
not; God grant it may not affect my own Arthur; if my child died, I
should follow, Ellen,--Augusta need not beckon!"
"Edith, love, we should trust God before even presentiments; if we fear
Him all will work together for our good, and even from evil good will
spring forth."
"Ah! Ellen, if I had the trust you have; but I cannot overcome my fears;
God grant they may all be shadows! But here is Wentworth, he must not
see clouded faces, let us try and forget this."
The large ball-room at the Towers had been fitted up as a chapel for the
occasion, to the scandal of the prelate who was to perform the ceremony;
he considered it almost equal to fitting up the temple of Baal as the
house of God! About seven in the evening the chapel was full to the very
doors with guests in the most brilliant attire. The Bishop of Edinburgh
with his full lawn sleeves, attended by two clergymen, entered the
apartment from a side door, and walked up to the altar. Almost
immediately after from the right hand side Mr. Ravensworth, with the
bride leaning on his arm, appeared, and behind him two by two fourteen
bridesmaids, including nearly all the beauty of the neighbourhood. The
fairest perhaps of all was the bridegroom's sister, Lady Florence. At
the same moment the Earl entered from the opposite side with Lord
Dalkeith, who acted in the capacity of best man, or as our southern
cousins call it, bridegroom's man, and several other gentlemen,
including Frank and the Marquis. The two parties met before the altar,
when the solemn service of the Church of England was beautifully
performed. Every one allowed that they were the handsomest couple that
almost ever stood before the hymeneal altar. And when all was done, the
ring given, and the Earl took his young and lovely partner, all who
beheld his tall and stately figure, whilst on his arm leaned his
blushing bride, veiled in lace that enhanced the charms it could not
hide--unable to contain their joy shouted, "God save the noble pair."
The Earl and Ellen, now Countess of Wentworth, then led the way to the
drawing-room, where all her friends crowded round the young peeress, and
wished her every joy. In the fashion of the good old days the happy pair
graced the supper with their presence, and after the toasts were all
given, speeches made and returned, the Countess rose and left with Lady
Arranmore to attire herself in her travelling dress. In a short time she
again appeared, and the Earl offering his arm to his bride, hastened
down stairs to the hall door, before which stood a splendid carriage
with four greys, all adorned with ribbons. The Countess gave a last long
embrace to Edith, kissed Florence, her father, brother, and sister, and
then waving her hand to the other guests took her lord's arm, and
hurried into the carriage amid a storm of satin shoes, bouquets, and
blessings. The Earl's valet, and the Countess's lady's-maid leaped up
behind, crack went the postilions' whips, round went the wheels, and the
happy pair set off for Edinburgh, where they were to pass the first
night, and soon after to start for the Villa Reale, at Naples, where
they intended spending the honeymoon. When the Earl and his bride were
off the entertainment at the Towers was kept up with the utmost spirit.
The Earl had resigned his castle to the Marquis and Edith, and the
former was determined to end the day well, which he did with a
vengeance, and it is whispered the noble lord was helped up to his room
by old Andrew, who patted him on his back and told him he was the real
gentleman, and three other footmen. The Marquis kept up the feast during
the whole week following, when the Towers were, as on all such
occasions, open hall, "and while he feasted all the great," we must do
his lordship the justice to say, "he ne'er forgot the small." Still this
was a cheap charity, for all came out of the Earl's pocket, and while
_he_ would have felt hurt had it not been so, the Marquis had the
extreme delight of winning laurels on another's hospitality. He was
determined to end matters by a grand flare up, so he invited almost the
whole of the gentry of the surrounding country to the great ball, given
in honour of the Earl's marriage. All the rank, beauty, and fashion, not
only of Edinburgh but the north as well as the south borders of the
Tweed were to be there, and no expense spared to make it worthy of the
occasion. On the evening of the ball the Marquis was in high feather;
everything had gone on well so far, every one had accepted, the
ball-room was splendidly festooned with holly and mistletoe, through
whose dark leaves glittered a thousand tapers, giving almost the light
of day; the boards were chalked with elegant devices, the tables below
groaned with a magnificent supper, the castle was illuminated within and
without, and joy was on every face, and laughter on every tongue.
"Ha! Lennox, isn't this grand?" said the Marquis, as he and Mr. Lennox
entered the ball-room, in full evening costume. "The room is silent
enough now, how different it will look in a few hours, when hundreds are
tripping it on the light fantastic toe."
"Indeed, my lord, nothing befitting the auspicious event is wanting now,
except the guests; all is prepared, and all does justice to your
lordship's taste."
"By Jove, Arranmore, you have lights enough here; it reminds me of the
valley of a thousand fires," said Frank, entering in full uniform. "The
fun will soon begin now; why bless me, there went the bell,--some very
unfashionable arrival."
"Bedad," cried the Marquis, who sometimes used a true Irish expression,
"guests arriving and the Marchioness not here to receive them, I must go
and hurry her. Come, Lennox. Frank, stay here and do the polite." The
Marquis and Mr. Lennox proceeded along the corridor till they were near
the Marchioness's room when they heard a long, loud, harrowing scream,
and "Help--fire--fire! Oh, help."
"God of heavens!" shouted the Marquis, "what's the matter?"
This question was answered by the sudden bursting open of the door, and
the wild figure of the Marchioness, enveloped in flames, rushing madly
to seek aid. When she saw her husband, uttering another piercing scream,
she flung herself into his arms. All flaming as she was he sprang with
his fiery burden to her room, and tearing down the crimson curtains from
her bed wrapped his unhappy lady in their dense folds, while Mr. Lennox
tore a blanket off, with which he succeeded in extinguishing the flames.
Frank, and several others, startled by the scream, entered the room, and
every device to alleviate the unhappy lady's sufferings was resorted to.
Fortunately there was more than one door man in the house at the time
the accident happened, and all that medical skill could do was done
promptly and well. The flames had apparently but breathed upon her
tender form, but the shock was too much for the nervous system, and when
the fearful sufferings gave way to remedies, the harrowing screams grew
fainter, and at length ceased, giving the Marquis, who was wild with
grief, some hopes: the unfortunate young lady, however, gradually sunk,
and about midnight the dying lamp of life expired. Perhaps the most
melancholy part was the detailing of the fatal news to the carriages
full which arrived every minute with their inmates ready for the dance,
and sadly shocked at the awful catastrophe which had so unexpectedly
turned rejoicing into misery.
How sad was the chamber of death! Stretched lifeless, but beautiful in
death, the hope of age, the joy of her husband, the kind, the
generous--lay unheeding, but not unheeded. Kneeling at the couch's side,
the Marquis hid his agony on his lifeless partner's bosom, and wept in
uncontrolled grief. The fair Lady Florence, arrayed in her ball dress,
wrung her hands and wept in wild despair, with her golden tresses all
dishevelled, flowing over her lost sister. There were many other
mourners, and no sound but the suppressed sobs of man, or the unconfined
weeping of woman broke the gloom of the chamber of death.
How would _they_ hear the news? was often asked. Who shall tell the
bridal pair? How had laughter languished into groans! how had they
proved that in the midst of life we are in death! A week after this
event a very different ceremony was performed by the same prelate. The
same room, not adorned for the wedding but hung in funeral black, saw a
very different sight. In the centre of the chamber, on a table covered
with black, stood a gorgeous coffin of crimson velvet and gold, around
it in the garb of woe stood the eight pall-bearers. Behind it the chief
mourners--the Marquis and Frank de Vere.
The first part of the impressive and beautiful burial service was read
by the Bishop--then the coffin containing all that remained of youth and
beauty, was slowly and solemnly borne through the long passages hung in
crape, through the great hall to the doorway, where a hearse drawn by
six horses, with black drapings and nodding plumes, received its
lifeless burden; and the horses, tossing their plumed heads, paced
across the drawbridge, whilst the mourners walked in sad procession
behind. The white feathers on the hearse told that one young in this
world had early run her race.
They had not far to go--the west tower of the castle was soon reached,
and again the coffin was borne into the arched room over the family
vault, and was placed on the drop. For the last time the mourners
gathered round the narrow bed of the loved and departed one. The
chamber, or rather cloister, in which they stood, was well adapted for
the mournful spectacle. The windows were narrow, the roof low, and
supported by ribbed pillars; on either side were low benches, all robed
in funeral black; the floor was also covered with black cloth, the walls
draped with the same, and the pillars encircled with wreaths of cypress
and yew branches; along the walls, through the black squares cut in the
cloth, glimmered, ghostlike, the marble tablets recording the names and
ages of all the former departed members of the De Veres, whose bones
mouldered beneath. Everything was black and funeral-like. The only
exception was the coffin, whose crimson velvet lining, gold plates and
ornaments seemed almost strange in contrast.
The Bishop continued the service, and at the right place the bolt was
withdrawn, and the drop with the coffin began to sink silently to its
long last resting place. At this moment a young girl in deepest black
advanced, and placed a wreath of white roses on the coffin. Lady
Florence, for she it was, then turned away, buried her face in her
handkerchief, and gave utterance to her feelings in a paroxysm of tears;
her brother Frank supported her from the scene of woe, and seemed
himself hardly to be able to control his grief. Gradually the coffin
sank, till at last only the white circle of roses was visible; then it,
too, disappeared; a crimson reflection from the coffin flushed the black
drapings a moment as it sunk, and tinged with its hue the mourners'
faces as they bent over the narrow chasm to catch the last glimpse. Then
all darkly disappeared, and then first it seemed as if the last link was
broken. The Marquis and many others quite gave way, and sobbed aloud.
Then all departed save those whose duty it was to descend, and place the
coffin in its proper position.[A]
The vault was long and narrow; on either side were three rows of black
marble slabs, on which were placed many coffins, containing the ashes of
former generations. Between Lady Augusta's coffin, which was of white
velvet, with silver lace-work, on which, too, a wreath of the flower
l'immortelle was still as fresh as on the day when it had been placed
there, and the gorgeous coffin of the late Earl, they placed the newly
arrived burden. Immediately above the slab on which the Marchioness's
remains were placed was a singular spectacle--an empty coffin of an
infant! The lid was resting against the wall behind, inside was a soft
pillow and satin coverings, but on the pillow rested no infant head--it
was empty! This was the house of the dead, ready for Arthur Viscount de
Vere, whose remains were never found to fill it. By the narrow bed of
all that was dear to him stood the Marquis with folded arms; he then
clasped his hands together, leant over the head of the coffin, and for
some moments seemed as though he could never leave it. Then, summoning
all his resolution, he cried, "Farewell, Edith, farewell! my feet may
wander far from thee, but my heart lies buried here." He then rushed
away from the maddening scene, followed by the others who had descended
with him, and they left the departed alone amongst the ashes of the
former dead, till the last trump shall sound, and the mortal rise
immortal!
When the Marquis reached the castle, he gave himself up to unrestrained
grief, and refused to be comforted for many days. He then left for his
seat in Ireland, taking with him his infant son, the only pledge of
undying love! Frank and his sister left for their town residence, and
the castle was shut up, old Andrew and some of the servants only
remaining. The escutcheon was edged with black, and the old Towers
looked as if they shared their owner's grief, and mourned for the dead.
Young Wilton had started immediately for Naples, bearer of the dreadful
tidings to the Earl and Countess, who would long be in happy ignorance
of the sad event.
Thus was another instance of the early death of the family added to the
long and mournful category!