"His heart was formed for softness--warped to wrong;
Betrayed too early, and beguiled too long;
Each feeling pure--as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot--like that had hardened too;
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed,
But sunk, and chilled, and petrified at last."--_Corsair._
On the morning following these events the Earl and Countess, with the
Marquis of Arranmore, deliberated over the strange tale at their
breakfast table. Lord Wentworth had told everything to his wife during
the early watches of the morning; and if she was even more surprised
than he had been, she yet bore the trial with still greater calmness and
patience. Lord Arranmore, perhaps of the three, seemed most affected;
but their different ideas will best be exemplified by part of the
conversation across the table.
"If you do wisely, Wentworth," said the Marquis, "you will keep this
story precious quiet; if it gets about it will kick up a desperate
row!--excuse the word, Countess, but least said soonest mended; and to
try the case can do no possible good to unfortunate L'Estrange, and will
certainly do you plenty of harm."
"But still, Arranmore, right is right; and if I am aware I am an
usurper, I have no longer any right to remain so."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow; look quietly at it. Here is a fellow, a
cut-throat, an assassin, a murderer,--and you, without any flattery, an
ornament to our peerage; and because another old villain tells you he is
your brother,--_ergo_, my Italian cut-throat becomes an English Earl,
and my Lord of Wentworth sinks into a plain gentleman!"
"You forget, he is rightful heir, and only by an adverse fate was kept
from his own. Surely, Arranmore, if you were proved to be spending
another's fortune by misapprehension, your duty is to restore it, as
well as all you have spent."
"It might be my duty, but I should certainly never stoop to it; besides,
the case is different. Suppose the cleverest lawyer in the kingdom
proved to a demonstration a convict murderer was the rightful Marquis of
Arranmore, d'you think I would give up name, title, and possessions to
him?"
"I did not say so; but if this convict had a son how would it be?"
"You have no proof L'Estrange ever had a son. Take my advice,--burn the
papers, and never trouble your brains about it again. I grant it maybe
very romantic, and there may be a degree of likelihood in the story; but
for romance I would never let solid reality slip away. Think of your
wife and Augusta;--as a father you are not bound, on mere report, to
bring them to ruin!"
"I hope," said the Countess, "as I have shared my husband's prosperity,
I shall be enabled to share his adversity, if it is God's pleasure; and
I do hope Wentworth will be ruled by right; and whatever may happen, at
least I will not add to his trials by impatience or complainings."
"I am quite sure you will always be faithful for better for worse," said
the Earl, with earnestness. "No, Arranmore, depend on it, whatever
course justice points to, I will go; and though it would be a trial--a
heavy trial--to lose rank, wealth, and authority, still the hand that
gave them takes away, and we have no right to murmur. At least it will
not be for long; but, however protracted the trial may be, I trust I
shall have grace to bear it."
"That's right, dearest; I am so glad to hear you speak thus," said the
Countess.
The Marquis did not appear at all of the same opinion; but with a slight
toss of his head,--as much as to say, "You're a precious fool to lose
all for justice,"--asked, "What do you mean to do first, if you are
resolved to run such an absurd course?"
"First," answered the Earl, "I shall leave for Naples, and by all
possible means try and find out this brother of mine, and then frankly
tell him the truth, and leave him to decide what is to be done. The case
will go before the House of Lords, and he will, I am sure, see the
impossibility of his establishing any claim for possession; but if he
has a family, the title must descend to them I fancy. However, the first
lawyers will decide."
"And we shall lose our title either way, I suppose," said the Countess.
"Poor little Augusta! I feel most for her. It will be a dark hour; but
we must try by the sunshine within us to lighten its gloom."
"On my faith it is too hard! Certainly heaven doesn't seem to favour her
children; for if anybody living should have been free from trouble, it
was you, Countess! It's hard lines, I swear; and to think it's all in
your own power. I call it a kind of tempting of Providence."
"You forget, Marquis, we are nowhere exempted from the common trials
mankind is heir to; at the best we are all unprofitable servants; and as
we have so long enjoyed the beams of fortune, we are least excusable if
we faint before the first cloud. It is not I, but my husband, that is to
be most pitied,--for I merely return to my former position in life,
whilst he sinks to unaccustomed trials! But one thing I will promise
him, and that is, he shall never know any difference in me,--except that
by fonder love I will try my best to ameliorate his troubles."
"God bless you, Ellen!" said the Earl; "you have ever been my better
angel."
"Oh, do not say so, Wentworth; after all I only do what it is my duty to
do. Think you, when I took the solemn vows at my marriage they were
empty words? I have loved you in health, and wealth, and happiness; and
if a few dark days have occasionally interrupted the long career of
pleasures, they have been few and far between. Really, I am almost
impatient to show you how well I can fulfil that part of my vows which
speaks of sickness and sorrow! We have tried the better
together,--perhaps," said the Countess, with a winning smile, "we are to
try the worse."
The Earl looked lovingly at his beautiful partner, thinking he had
indeed found a good thing when he gained such a wife. The Marquis
shrugged his shoulders, as if not much liking the turn of the
conversation. The Countess arose, and left the room. When she was gone
he again addressed the Earl:
"I say, Wentworth, it's uncommon rum to think, if that yarn is true,
that L'Estrange was so much at his own house without knowing it! that
you and he should have been after the same girl; and what made you the
happiest of men, made him the most miserable."
"It is more than strange; now that all is laid open I sometimes wonder
the idea never struck me. His age, likeness to poor John, extraordinary
early career,--so many points of resemblance! It is hard still to fancy
him, not only my brother, but eldest brother; his associations too with
Ellen are so curious! I see it is a painful subject to her; so I may
give you the hint now to say little about it."
"Yes, by Jove! for though she was free to love whom she liked best, and
was very wise to make choice of you, there is no possible doubt but that
her refusal drove him distracted. After all, she got hold of the wrong
man!"
The Marquis laughed; but Lord Wentworth was apparently little inclined
for humour, and did not join in the joke.
"Let's have a squint at these papers," said the former. "I only just
glanced at them last night; we shall see at once if they are forgeries
or not. I wish, i' faith, they would turn out so, as you are determined
to act like a fool."
Without replying, the Earl led the way to his study. The window was
open,--the desk, unfinished letter, everything exactly as he had left
it. There was, however, something present which excited his surprise,
and this was a large case of mahogany left on his table, and a letter on
the lid.
"By Saint Patrick, the Countess's jewel-box!" exclaimed the Marquis.
"This grows stranger and stranger," said the Earl, as he found his
bureau burst open, and the papers gone.
"Are you sure you put them there?" asked the Marquis.
"Sure as death! There is some vile conspiracy yet! If they break faith
with me our contract is ended; but let us read this letter."
"A d--d cramped piece of penmanship,' as the poet says," remarked Lord
Arranmore; "can you read it, Wentworth? I am not very clever at
decyphering these hieroglyphics."
"I will try; let us see,--it runs something like this:--'My Lord: The
jewels are turfed again, but the papers was gave in a hurry, and are
taken away. Think no more on last night, but forget you ever ran foul of
Bill Stacy!"
"The villain is too clever by half," said the Marquis, "but really I am
uncommonly well pleased it has turned out so; now you can have no
possible excuse for making a noise. Take the writer's advice if you are
wise, for whoever he be his advice is sound and good."
"I am really perplexed what I should do: I must go and talk it over with
the Countess; meantime we must inform the authorities here about the
savage murder last night, but I will not let out a word about my
midnight adventure. If you will take a weed, I will go and see Ellen,
and join you again presently."
The Marquis, conformably to advice, lighted his havanna and poured out a
tumbler of light wine, anathematizing the country that produced no beer,
and calmly enjoyed his "_otium cum dignitate_," whilst the Countess and
her husband were busy talking over the case, and deciding what the next
move should be. In about half an hour the Earl again entered the study.
"Well, Arranmore, we are at last come to a decision: we leave this
immediately, first for Naples, and then England. In London I shall
privately obtain the best legal advice as to the course I should pursue,
and we shall then quietly await the _denouement_. I think I need not in
any way be the prime mover, but time must elapse before the excitement
of the case is passed away, and we are able dispassionately to consider
its _pros_ and _cons_."
"Well, I congratulate you, my dear fellow! I for one shall be glad to
leave for the old country, for I have paid you a long visit, and am
anxious to be back at Claremont, and see my boy--at the Easter holidays;
he is getting on capitally at Eton; I heard from him to-day."
"Oh did you? you generally hear pretty regularly, I think; he is a fine
fellow, and we must have him up to Scotland in the summer. Dear me,
Arranmore, if he and Augusta took a fancy to each other what a nice
thing it would be!"
"Ha! I have long thought of that as a likely match; I hope I shall live
to see them married. Faith! broadlands, and fair owners would meet.
Augusta promises to grow a rare prize, and Arthur, dear fellow, he is
getting up to me in height, though only twelve last October," said the
Marquis, considerably overrating the young Anak's height.
A week after this conversation a travelling carriage drew up at the
Villa Reale with the Earl, his wife, and daughter, and the Marquis, who
was in high spirits at the thoughts of being homeward bound; he was to
leave on the succeeding day, the rest following in a fortnight, as the
Earl's yacht was then undergoing some slight repairs, and would not be
ready before. On the next day Lord Arranmore left for Ireland, _via_
Marseilles. After seeing his friend off, the Earl called on the Count
d'Azalia, prefect of police, to inquire if the whereabouts of Adrian
Vardarelli were known, intending, if he could gain the information, to
try and obtain an interview. Here he learned a piece of intelligence he
was least prepared for. Scarcely had he named his brother than the
Count, rubbing his hands together with joy, exclaimed--
"Ah, Signore, do I know where he is? Santa Maria, do I not! safe at last
in prison!"
"In prison? impossible! in prison? how did you capture him?" asked the
Earl, growing very pale.
"He gave himself up, the rascal; he will never more trouble the State
with his atrocious villanies. He has assassinated Luigi, his brother,
and now we are only waiting the king's pleasure, before he pays the
penalty of his crimes with his life. He will tell nothing about his
comrades, but the rack will find him a tongue. But my Lord, you are ill,
what is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing, a passing faintness; I'll thank you for a glass of
water."
The Earl drained the cooling beverage, and then asked, "Could I see this
prisoner? in what gaol is he confined?"
"My Lord! see the prisoner, and why? Santa Maria, he is in no place
suited for my Lord to enter, a felon in chains--ah! it is impossible, I
fear."
"I have reasons for wishing to see this man, he is connected with my
family in an extraordinary way."
"Well, my Lord, you are too well known here to incur suspicion, but you
must be accompanied with soldiers, and also with a padre acquainted with
the English language. There is no intention of prying into your
conversation; and any secrets, if not affecting the State, will remain
as safe with the holy man as if from the confessional. It is a form we
cannot depart from."
"This would be extremely unpleasant to me, Monsieur le Comte; if I give
my word of honour there is nothing to affect the prisoner's security,
could I not see him alone? I do not doubt the honour of your priests,
but not belonging myself to the Catholic persuasion I should be as well
satisfied without one; it is in a family matter only the prisoner is
useful to me."
"Well, Signore, as a friend, and as a great favour, I will give you a
permit to see him for an hour or two: as he voluntarily gave himself up
there is no fear of his trying to escape; if you will wait a few minutes
I will write a permission."
"Given himself up, in a dungeon heavily chained, tortures and death in
prospect, and he my brother! he the scion of a noble race, the true
possessor of lands, title, and riches! to what has he fallen!" thought
the Earl, as he watched the Count pen the permit.
"I think it right to inform you," said he, as he received the pass, "it
is likely I may ask the life of this Adrian Vardarelli; he is not what
he seems, Comte, he is not an Italian, and I have reason to believe that
more hangs on that man's life than you are aware, and possibly the
British Government may relieve you of the charge. I say I believe it
only, I am not quite certain, but my interview with him will tell me
all; meantime there is no chance of his immediate execution is there?"
"No, my Lord, it would not take place for months. There seems some
mystery about this man. I have heard before he is an Englishman."
"He is, and I have reason to believe he is a great Englishman,--a man of
rank and importance."
"Ah! that would be strange, but you will not be able to see him till the
evening; it is against usual regulations, and must be done under the
shadow of night; and, my Lord, you will tell no one of this permit."
"I will not, not even my wife. To-morrow I will come and see you again,
and if he turns out what I believe him to be, as I said, his life must
be spared until the Britannic minister has corresponded with his
Majesty's government. I wish you a good day, Monsieur le Comte, and am
much obliged for your kind services."
True to his promise, not even the Countess was made a confidante; she
observed there was something on her husband's mind, and even inquired if
all was right, but seeing his desire not to be interrogated, forbore
asking more. About eight at night he told the Countess he had an
engagement, and also bade her not to be alarmed if he was rather late in
returning. Soon after he left in a close carriage and drove to the
Castel Capuano, the ancient palace of the Swabian dynasty, now used as a
court for the different tribunals--the Court of the First Instance, the
Criminal Court, and Court of Appeal. Beneath the palace are dark
dungeons in which many a captive has pined,--justly in requital for his
crime, or unjustly, and that often, as the victim of injured innocence.
At the palace the Earl's carriage stopped; he descended and was met by
the Count, who to his surprise led him through the intricate passages,
and then descended to the deep vaults below. A soldier of the guard
carried a torch before them, and at last stopped before a heavily
iron-clamped door, and taking a huge bunch of keys fitted one into the
ponderous lock, and, turning it with difficulty, next unbarred and
unchained this portal of captivity, and allowed the huge door to swing
back on its rusty hinges with a grating, harsh creak. Two more soldiers
with lanterns and muskets joined them, and the Count and turnkey then
motioned the last mentioned to stand near the door, and the Earl also to
enter. He did so, the great gate was again closed, he heard the bars
drawn across, the chains coupled, the massive key turn in the wards of
the lock, and the footsteps of the Count and his attendant fade away. An
involuntary shudder passed through him as he felt himself actually
within the walls of one of those dread prisons, and in a cell that the
captive's voice vainly strives to pierce, whether innocent or guilty.
One of the guards then addressed him, warning him he had not too much
time, and had better not waste it; giving him also a lantern, and
pointing to the darkest corner of the dungeon as the spot where the
bandit lay. He received the lantern, and walked forward to the point
indicated; by its glimmering ray he saw that the floor was uneven, and
in many places so damp it resembled a marsh. The walls were old and
mouldy, the moisture glistening on the huge stones of which they were
built; near the floor were many bolts of mouldy iron, built into the
masonry, and from them depended rusty chains, dragging their long length
on the damp cold floor, or rather soil, beneath his feet. As he pursued
his way down the great dungeon he came on a dread relic--a skeleton
still bound by the gyves and fetters that held it a living prisoner long
years ago. A shudder again ran through him: who had that victim been?
was it man or woman? he was not anatomist enough to tell; had the victim
been guilty, or innocent, a noble or peasant? who should say. He passed
on; the opposing wall now appeared; in the corner, on a bed of
maize-straw, a chained prisoner was stretched; could that be his
brother? he turned the lantern's glare on his features; he almost
started back; it was as if the Captain lay before him; never had the
resemblance seemed so striking before. The light, blinding the captive,
caused him to pass his hand over his eyes. The Earl could see him, he
could not see who his visitor was, perhaps a messenger of death. Still
the Earl gazed on him, still he could hardly summon resolution to speak.
It was years since he had seen that face,--years of trouble, danger,
exposure, hardship; vices had left their trace behind, they had not
swept away old likenesses. Last time he had seen that man was, when,
tiger-like, he stood over Ellen Ravensworth, and shot the servant who
saved his (the Earl's) life. And here he lay, pale, dejected, hungry,
bound, with the sentence of death weighing on him, and his own dark
thoughts for a prison friend.
What a fall! what an end! The gay gallant young soldier, the ardent
lover, what had he come to? first abductor, then murderer, escaping from
prison and just doom--not to repent, not to reform, but to sink, step by
step, to descend bar by bar, the ladder of infamy till he was now on the
very ground, a condemned felon. And this is my brother still, and he is
cold, and in prison, and I have come to visit him, and must speak.
"L'Estrange," said he at last, "I grieve to find you here."
The convict started up to a sitting posture; his wild eyes dilated, his
hair seemed to stand, his whole frame shook, and as he clanked his gyves
together the Earl thought he had never seen anything so dreadful, or any
picture so like Apollyon bound.
"Ha!" cried the wretched man; "it only wanted this to complete the sum
of misery; you are come to glory over my fall, to reproach me for my
base attempts on Ellen, to throw my crimes in my teeth; but hear me
before God--the God I have scoffed at, and all my life offended--I
wished not to slay your brother, I knew not what I did; and yet it was
he who brought me here--he who led me on from folly to sin, from sin to
vice, from vice to crime--he who has destroyed me soul and body. Yes,
abuse me for abusing friendship, mock at my woe, I have deserved it
well."
"I have not come to reproach you, nor taunt you with crimes which, had
it not been for a restraining Providence, I might have done myself. I
came to tell you I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and to see
what I can do for you, to treat you as a brother, as you are."
"To treat me as a brother!" said the unhappy man, with a look of extreme
surprise. "No, no, no; do not treat me as a brother, that were worse
still. Taunt me with my crimes, I can bear it; with my ingratitude to
you,--to you who were ever a friend; crush the viper who stung his
benefactor beneath your feet, but treat me not as a brother, I cannot
bear that; leave me to perish as I deserve."
"Listen, Edward L'Estrange, I speak not allegorically, I speak plainly.
I come to treat you as a brother, because you _are_ my brother; you may
have striven to hurt me, but you have really done me no harm, I have no
cause for feeling angry. I regret your unhappy life, I mourn over your
many and deep crimes, I hate the sin, I can love the sinner: take my
hand, my brother, for I feel sure I shall prove you to be so--take it as
it is given."
"I cannot," replied the wretched man, "I cannot do so; you are the first
who has spoken a kind word for years; the first who has cared for the
outcast. I honour, I love you for it, but I cannot take your hand, it
would be defilement to you, agony to me; let light and darkness embrace
first."
"The sinless One--our great example and guide--ever sought sinners; take
my hand, I intreat you, and forgive me as I forgive you from my heart. I
know unintentionally I have been the prime cause of your stumbling, let
me be the first to recover you, and lead you back to virtue. Now listen
to me--I have much to say to you, and when you have heard all you will
take the hand you still refuse; first answer me a few questions--do you
know who was your father?"
"I never saw him,--my birth is wrapt in mystery. I have heard he was
some great man, and I was the unrecognized son of some one of rank in
England; my early life I have told you. One only clue, or what might be
a clue to the secret I have got, it is this." As he spoke he drew out a
small steel casket. "It is locked; when I received it I swore never to
open it till on my death bed. I am on my death bed now but I have not
yet opened it; there is the key, you may unlock it."
"I will then open it," said the Earl.
He did so, and produced a small vellum on which the truth was engraved
in the following words:
"This is to certify that he who was commonly known under the name of
Edward L'Estrange was first born son of Richard, 17th Earl of
Wentworth, Arthur Plantagenet Vere de Vere, Viscount de Vere, who
was reported to have been drowned, but was carried off by me,
William Hermiston, _alias_ Mad Helder, _alias_ Bill Stacy, and
brought up as a pirate till rescued by the captain of the Arethusa,
and afterwards adopted by him and named Edward L'Estrange. That this
is true can be sworn by me, by Farmer Forbes, Jeanet Forbes, his
wife, and many others if required.
"Signed, BILL STACY."
The Earl then handed it to the unfortunate man, who by the dim light
deciphered the writing.
"You will know now why I sought you,--why I called you my brother, and
why I asked your forgiveness?"
"Oh! this is awful news," exclaimed Viscount de Vere, as we shall now
call him, without giving him the title he was rightful possessor of, as
it would only make confusion. "And I have been a fratricide, and all my
life waged war against my family!"
He covered his face with his hands, and his thoughts were burning,
intense, horrible!
"That miscreant Bill! If I ever saw him again--and you think it is
reliable. Ha! how often have I heard about Arthur de Vere, and his
strange loss: little I thought it was I. And the Towers my own house,
and you all brothers and sisters, and I have made some wretched, and
slain my brother, and disgraced my race and name! Would God I had filled
that little empty coffin I have seen in the vaults at Dun Edin Towers!
Oh! if I had been drowned. Why did I live to become the monster of guilt
I am?"
"It is useless to sigh over what is done; you must try and reform and
make the future redeem the past. Yours has been a wayward fate,--born to
rank and honour which you never succeeded to, born with a mind meant for
better things, a rich soil on which not flowers, but weeds, have
luxuriated! The victim of bad men, you have sunk to infamy; but 'though
your sins be as scarlet' recollect they may be made 'white as snow!' the
greatest sinner may yet repent!"
"Too late--too late." They were the only words the hapless man could
utter, so overwhelmed was he at first by the intelligence.
The Earl stood silent too, then Viscount de Vere spoke:
"Wentworth, whatever are my rights I have forfeited them. Will you grant
my dying wish, and that is never while I live mention this. When by my
death I have atoned for my crimes record my unhappy fate on my tomb
stone. Keep your name--use your wealth as you ever have done, shine the
star you have ever shone, and leave your poor misguided brother to end
the short time he may yet have to live in prison."
"I have no right to do so if you have any family;--tell me, had you ever
son or daughter?"
"Never that I knew of; it is true I did marry, but I left my wife very
shortly after our union, and since have never heard of her."
"At present," said the Earl, "all I can do for you is to try and have
you removed to a more comfortable place than this damp dungeon, and
supplied with bed and proper food. I shall, I think, have influence with
the government to enable you to pass the remainder of your life in
seclusion, with every comfort that money can bring; of course you must
remain abroad, and let me beseech you to devote your time to religion,
and seek to enjoy endless happiness above! You need not think it is too
late--greater sinners than you have found pardon and peace; and then if
your life here has been a sad one, it will all be forgotten there!"
"It is useless--there is no hope for me in this world, nor the next.
There is one thing I ask, and you will grant it I am sure; it is this,
that the Countess would come and see me. Oh! if I could only see her
once more, and know she forgave me I could die happy."
"I am sure I may promise you that request. I shall see you again
to-morrow; till then adieu, for I hear them at the door. Is there
anything you would like that I could procure?"
"Nothing but rest, and I am not likely to get that."
"Adieu, then, and God in his mercy grant the reigning powers may give a
favourable hearing to your case; at the worst I can appeal to the House
of Lords, but even then there would be little hope."
The brothers then parted, and the Earl left with the Count. In
conclusion we need only say nothing could be done for the prisoner
without an interview with the King, which the Earl solicited for the
following day; but he obtained leave for the Countess to pay a visit to
the unhappy man, and then bidding the Count good evening, and placing a
purse of gold in the guard's hand to procure any comfort his brother
might wish, he drove home, and recounted the adventure to his wife.
"Will you go and see him there?" said the Earl.
"It will be a great trial, but I must nerve myself to it. How impossible
it seems to believe that he is your brother and mine too!"
"I shall crave an audience of the King to-morrow after leaving you
there, and whilst I am away you can converse with him. If I procure his
freedom we must try and get a residence either in Sicily, or some of the
neighbouring islands, where he can lead a retired life, and occasionally
see his friends. There is one thing sure, and that is his life is now a
short one,--he has already reached an age few De Veres ever attained,
but I only hope your influence may yet do something to lead his mind to
better things. I wish I could have seen in him repentance rather than
remorse for his life of crimes."