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THE

Weird of the Wentworths;

A TALE OF GEORGE IV.'S TIME.

BY

JOHANNES SCOTUS.

All nations have their omens drear.
Their legends wild of woe and fear.
Sir Walter Scott.

IN TWO VOLUMES.—VOL. II.

LONDON:
SAUNDERS, OTLEY, AND CO.,
66 BROOK STREET, HANOVER SQUARE
1862.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

THE WEIRD OF THE WENTWORTHS;

A TALE OF GEORGE IV.'s TIME.

CHAPTER I.

"Oh! Liberty, inspire me!
And eagle strength supply!
Thou, love almighty, fire me,
I'll burst my prison—or die!"
James Montgomery.

Perhaps the noble aspirations contained in the lines that head this chapter are misapplied to a murderer flying his just punishment, but even to the felon-convict liberty is sweet. L'Estrange, as soon as he was left alone, began to think what he should decide on,—whether to escape or remain. There lay the rope, and the file to burst open the prison bars! All was prepared for his flight. Why did he hesitate? Why did he linger? Between the peals he heard the clock strike twelve; he thought too he heard the clatter of horse-hoofs, probably the Captain on his way home. Why did he stay? he felt an irresistible inclination to await his doom. Why? Because he would see Ellen once more! If he went—if he escaped—he would perhaps never see her—he would have to fly his country. He would stay. Come what might—it was death at the worst! But alas! the Captain, what would he think? he cared not for that. But what would he do? He who had gained admission to his cell could again do so; he who had offered means of flight could also force him to fly; it was useless then, after all he must go! Oh, that he had never come! that man was his evil genius! "Farewell, then, to Scotland, farewell, Ellen, I must go and hide on a foreign strand." He then began to think how he was to manage his escape. After all it was not so very easy. What if he should fail? he had already lost precious time! Bill would only wait till three—he must be up and doing.

We must leave him a few moments in order to follow the Captain home. When he had brought L'Estrange to see escape was after all not to be trifled with, slipping a cheque for a large sum into the turnkey's hand he was let out by a side door. It was raining torrents, and his only light were the rapid flashes that lit the Welkin, and disclosed for an instant Arthur's Seat, and then swallowed all in the jaws of darkness again. He strode along whistling; if he met a watchman made some casual remark, or damned the night, then walked on again, taking his soaking with the utmost coolness, till he came opposite the High School. There he turned to the right, and descending a steep pathway dived into the north back of the Canongate, threading his way through the murky dirty habitations till Holyrood rose dimly before him. Here he was challenged by a sentry, but as he had possessed himself of the password and countersign, was readily admitted. Passing through the courtyard he again sallied forth, again gave the password, and was at last clear of all buildings in the Park now called the Queen's Park. He walked on a dozen paces, and then gave a shrill whistle: another, echo like, answered him, and he quickened his pace to where Archy stood holding a horse.

"A soaker, by G—, Archy."

"'Deed, sir, it is a soft night for being out by!"

"Go and rout up old Stacy—he is at the King's Tavern in High Street; tell him to watch for L'Estrange at Hunter's Bog from one to three. Have three horses, and ride to Prestonpans; there the smack is ready—don't let him stay behind, he must fly the country. It's no go about his sweetheart; he may perhaps carry her off a wedded dame—I never promised her he shouldn't—but I did promise she should get spliced. If he is obstinate shoot him, do you hear—tell Bill to shoot him, 'Dead dogs'—you know the rest, Archy. Now off, you young devil; you are as cunning as a fox; away—be sharp—quick march!"

With these words the Captain mounted, telling Archy to get a glass or two of grog to warm him, then putting spurs to his horse he rode homewards at a tremendous pace by a cross route for fear of being recognized. When he reached the Holly Walk, Archy's father met him, and took away the horse, which belonged to his own farm.

The Captain then walked to the east tower of the castle, crossed the bridge, and whistled an air beneath one of the windows. He had not long to wait; soon a window above was gently opened, and a rope-ladder lowered, up which the gallant officer swung, entered the room, and shook hands with Sir Richard. The window was shut, and no one in the castle aware the Captain had been absent, as he had retired earlier than usual from his toddy, having a natural dislike to Sunday evening.

"Is it managed?" said Sir Richard.

"Bravely—I had a d—d work to get round the old turnkey, whose brutal pigheadedness was only equalled by his gormandizing cupidity. Then L'Estrange was well nigh sobered by his solitary confinement, and then that accursed storm has soaked me through. Give me a glass of brandy for God's sake. He must be gnawing through his cage now—and he'll have a good shake when he drops, for the rope wasn't half long enough!"

"Ha ha! what a joke! I should like to see his face after it; but how will you know if he got through all right?"

"Archy comes with the news to-morrow morning. Now good night, I must get to bed; won't the judges look blue? Egad!"

When Edward L'Estrange had made up his mind for the attempt, he began to consider his best plan of effecting it easiest; the window of course was the path to liberty; but the window was at least twelve feet above the ground, how was it to be reached? L'Estrange was no fool, and soon hit on an expedient. He uncoiled the rope, and found it was about twenty feet in length, and made of silk, being both thin and strong; he then took up the file; it was a foot in length, and in the middle a smooth place, with the edges rounded off. Why was it thus? It had evidently been made so? There was a reason; the Captain told him he was no fool; he would find it out. He was not long in doing so. To establish a communication between the window and the dungeon floor was the first point; there were three stout bars, with iron points like teeth along their edges placed uprightly in the window; if he could get the rope round one of them, or in any way catch it, so as to bear his weight scaling the wall? The reason for the file's shape then struck him; so he tied the silk cord tightly round the centre of the file, and threw the rope lasso-fashion so as to fling the file through the bars, and drawing it back sharply fix the line. The first throw missed; the second time the file went through, but as he drew the rope back, it slipped through the knot and fell. A thrill of horror ran through him,—but fortunately it fell inside. He seized the file as if it was his last friend, and resolved not to hazard it again. What was to be done now? The knife—yes it would do; so he made it secure much in the same way, and he had a better hollow between the haft and the blade. Again he threw it; the light from the window was very slight, but after two more failures he succeeded, and, catching the rope, tried if it would bear his weight. It did, and he swarmed up, and was soon seated on the window sill. He tied the rope firmly round one of the bars, and then commenced filing. The rain dashed in upon him, and the vivid lightning once startled him so much he nearly fell back; but he worked on, and after an hour's labour filed through a bar; he forced it backwards and forwards till he loosened the upper end soldered into the stone; at last it fell out into his hand, and he then dropped it below in order to gain from the length of time it took in falling a rough estimate of the depth. He calculated it was at least thirty-five feet. He had twenty feet of rope; he would stretch nearly seven, leaving eight feet to drop,—nothing after all! He descended once more into his cell, secured his pistol, and climbed up again. He could not suppress a laugh as he thought how scared his gaolers would look when they found the bird flown. He then wound himself through the bars and the wall, getting somewhat torn and clawed by the spikes; but liberty was before him, and he recked not of the pain. After much squeezing and exertion he at last got on the outside. He looked once more to see if the rope was firmly knotted, waited for a faint flash of the waning storm, and then began his descent. It was not long ere he reached the Ultima Thule of his line; then with a beating heart, he let go. It was a horrid feeling, that letting go, and the fall in darkness! He had miscalculated the height; instead of thirty-five, the depth was forty-one or forty-two feet, and instead of dropping eight, he had fourteen or fifteen feet to fall. He fell with a heavy shock, bruising himself a good deal on the slippery rocks down which he rolled. He was, however, not materially injured, and when he looked back at the perilous height he had come from, and looked at his befouled garments dimly seen in the early dawning, he laughed heartily, and, losing no more time, dived into the Canongate, soon reaching the Hunter's Bog, where he found his comrades waiting. At first he hardly distinguished them from the rocks; then he saw the dark outlines of horses and men; by-and-by he distinguished Bill Stacy, Archy, and three horses. He quickened his pace.

"Hillo, you young dog, so you've run the blockade? A rascally time you have kept old Bill anchored in these d—d moorings."

"Bill, how are you? I was as quick as I could be. I thought I'd never saw through those d—d bars. How they will gape when they find me off!"

"I have no time for words now; get aboard your craft and away, or the bloodhounds will overhaul us."

"Away—where to? The old Peel."

"Not likely; away to the sea. You must give the old land a wide berth. The Peel! good God! That would be a wise caché to hit on."

"But I must not—will not leave this country. Can we not hide? What would happen?—they would be married!"

"I don't care what would happen, or what wouldn't happen. The ship has weighed anchor, and by it you go; and be d—d to the wench!"

"Stay, Bill,—what if I say I won't?"

"Then I say I will shoot you. I am in earnest. So you had better be led! What the devil makes you care about a gal that don't care a straw for you?"

"Bill, what should you know of love?"

"What should I, or what shouldn't I,—up, I say, and off. G—'s name, it is gettin' light!"

Finding there was no remedy, L'Estrange mounted, and the three rode along the shore till they got to Musselburgh, when Archy turned off to the right; Bill and L'Estrange kept on till they reached a barren stretch of sand and common, where three more men met them. The five walked to the beach, where a smuggler's craft was in readiness. Leaving one to take away the horses, the other four embarked, and set sail. A fresh breeze, which had sprung up after the storm, swelled the sails, and they soon rounded the bay, steering southward.

Leaving them, we now return to the Towers. Of course, the news of the escape was so unlooked for—so startling—that for some time it was hardly credited. The Earl, the Captain, and one or two others rode in to Edinburgh, and found everyone at the prison in a vast state of excitement. A more audacious escape had never been perpetrated. Moreover, the turnkey was also missing, and the detectives could gain no clue. Hundreds of visitors saw the cell, the bars filed through, the rope still hanging, and the tracks of the fall on the rocks. Here, as a matter of course, all traces were lost, and it was conjectured he might be hiding in some of the dens of the old town. The most vigilant inquiries ended, however, in nought. It was evident he had bold and powerful confederates. The Earl was not without anxiety about Ellen, and determined to take her from the spot for some time. The marriage was fixed for the first week in November, and meantime Lord and Lady Arranmore invited the Earl, Lady Florence, and Miss Ravensworth to spend a month or two at their residence, Claremont Castle, close to Killarney. The Captain left for Brighton, promising to be up at the marriage, and bring Sir Harry Maynard, Major Forbes, young Pringle, and others. The rest of the visitors left for their respective homes, receiving an invitation to come to Dun Edin Towers on the 8th of November, when the castle would be all decked out for the ceremony. A letter from Frank also announced he had got leave, and would come home from Corfu in time for his brother's marriage.

CHAPTER II.

"And ruder words will yet rush in
To spread the breach that words begin."—Moore.

We pass over the time spent at Claremont Castle, and again introduce our readers to the dining-room at the Towers, where a large party sat down to a very handsome repast. At the head of the table sat the Marchioness doing the honours of her brother's table with the greatest grace; she had but lately made the Marquis happy by the tribute of a son and heir to his titles. On the right of the Earl sat his bride elect in blushing loveliness, and down the long table we observe many old faces amongst a tribe of new. Talking to a pretty girl sat Sir Richard, about the middle of the table; directly opposite him was the Captain. Frank, lately returned from the Mediterranean, sat a few seats from the Marchioness. Then there was Scroop, Wilson, and Sir Harry Maynard, Major Forster, young Pringle, and numbers of ladies, amongst whom Lady Florence shone next Johnny, who was her devoted admirer; Mr. Lennox, Mr. Power, the clergyman, and Mr. Ravensworth made up a large company. The greatest merriment prevailed, and every one was speaking of the approaching marriage.

"How have you amused yourself to-day?" said the Earl, who had been in Edinburgh with Mr. Ravensworth and Ellen, as he cut into the fine haunch of venison that smoked on its massive silver plate; "it has been snowing so hard, I suppose it kept you in the house."

"Snow doesn't keep me in," said the Captain; "I and Pringle were riding, though most preferred the ladies' company to snowy roads."

"Ah! we had the best of it," said Sir Richard, "had we not, Sir Harry; knocking about the billiard balls with the fair occupants of the Castle?"

"What? Why you don't mean to say you played billiards all day, Sir Richard?"

"Oh, dear no, my Lord; we spent most of the afternoon in admiring your fine gallery of family pictures; there's a long line of De Veres."

"Did you observe any peculiarity in the pictures?"

"I can't say I did, my Lord," answered Sir Richard.

"I did though," said Sir Harry; "and that was—excuse me, Mr. Lennox, but you are taking white wine with the brown vein of the venison"—(Mr. L. rectified his error)—"that was—hock, if you please,"—(to the footman)—"yes,—what was I saying? Some jelly—I thank you,—yes, yes,—that your Lordship had placed all the old personages on the right side, and all the young on the left side of the fireplaces,—a curious crotchet—some beer,—I thank you."

The Colonel was a great bon vivant.

"It is no arrangement," said the Earl; "but since the time of Earl Hugh, or the Roundhead peer as we call him, none of the family ever became old."

"A most curious fancy indeed! Here, Andrew, some more hock; this venison is beyond all praise, my Lord, cooked to the nicety of a minute,—a singular fancy to prefer dying so early,—ha! ha! ha!"

"It is no fancy, Sir Harry; you have evidently not heard of the Weird of the Wentworths."

"Do, Lord Wentworth, tell it to us,—you have so often promised," said Ellen.

"Of course," said the Earl; "I must do whatever a lady asks,—especially what Miss Ravensworth wishes."

He then told the singular narrative of Augusta de Vere, which we shall not repeat, as our readers already are acquainted with it. Lord Wentworth had merely wished to tell Ellen; but as he told a story remarkably well, before he had finished he found the whole table listening to him.

"A most singular and interesting story, my Lord," said Mr. Lennox; "but I opine we must give it the same belief we give ghost stories in general."

"No, Mr. Lennox," said the Marchioness, "this is quite unlike all other stories, because its truth is proved by facts in the Peerage:—you will find no De Vere since Hugh, Earl Wentworth, ever lived to be old."

"Certainly a curious coincidence, Lady Arranmore; and possibly explained by the simple fact, the De Veres are a short-lived family."

"But," said Lady Florence, "they were very long-lived before, as the portraits show; you must never tell a De Vere you misbelieve The Weird."

"There's no doubt about the matter," said the Captain; "with everything to attest it, he must be a fool who does not credit it; you will see all of us will be knocked on the head soon enough,—girls first; but a short and merry life for me!"

"Indeed, John, I don't see why we should die before you," said Lady Arranmore. "I fear you will be the first, with your fights and duels."

"Devil a fear; come, I'll bet I outlive both of you!"

"Come, I don't like this jesting," said the Marquis; "it is a serious thing; and for my part I am like Lennox, and don't believe in such nonsense."

"Nor I," said Sir Harry; "you are all hale and well; why should you think you will die so early? What a splendid pine!—will you allow me to give you some, Lady Florence?"

"I should think it was enough to make you quite nervous, Lady Arranmore," said Ellen, still thinking on the Weird,—"it is such a dreadful thing."

"No, Miss Ravensworth, we have become so accustomed to it, and brought up in the belief, we are almost proud of our doom,—we have learned to love it almost. After all, I should not like to grow old and—"

"Hideous," said the Captain; "no, no,—whom the gods love die young!"

"I fear, then, you will be the first old man, John, in our family," said Lady Florence, laughing.

"A good one! How d'you like that, Captain?" said Sir Richard, filling his glass. "Your health, De Vere!"

Without replying the Captain drank wine.

"If this is really an established fact," said Mr. Power, "I think it should make you very serious; it is doubtless intended as a warning; and if your days are to be short on earth, do you ever think that, after death, there is an endless existence of bliss or misery?"

"After all," said the Earl, "you are no better than we are, Mr. Power;—none of us know our end."

"True, my Lord; but if, as you say, none of your family live long,—and you are now all grown up,—the time is short; and you should take the more earnest heed to these matters."

"That is not my theory, Power: 'Happy for the day, careless for the morrow,'—that's Scripture; at least it was when I was a boy," said the Captain, whose ideas of the Bible were not very correct.

"This is the very perversion of Scripture, my young friend; when it bids us not be careful of the morrow, it means we are to lay all our cares on One who has promised to carry them."

"Well, Power, I am not learned in divinity; you stick to your trade, and I will to mine; you be a soldier of God, and I will a soldier of the King, or the devil, if you like it!"

A suppressed murmur of disapprobation followed this, and the Earl changed the conversation by a totally irrelevant remark. Sir Richard, unfortunately for himself, as the story will show, brought back the conversation by saying they had found some striking resemblances to the present family in some of the portraits.

"Indeed!" said the Earl. "And in whom did you find my likeness?"

"In the seventh Earl,—Algernon, I think was his name,—a young man in a hunting suit. Then we found out a likeness for Lady Florence, in her grandaunt Guendolen; and for the Marchioness in the Abbess Augusta; but the best of all was—"

"Don't, please!" said Lady Florence, whispering across Johnny; "don't say it; John doesn't like it." (Whether he did not comprehend Lady Florence's meaning, or whether he wished to prove the truth of her assertion, we know not; but in an evil moment he finished his remark)—

"—was the likeness to the Captain."

"And to whom do you liken me?" said the Captain, in a gloomy voice.

"To whom? Why,—ha! ha! ha! I shall die with laughter,—it was so like,—the old Roundhead peer, Hugh. I'faith you might have been brothers!"

"I wish to God you would find likenesses to yourself, and leave me alone! I like that old murderer, egad!—I like that!"

"Come, there's no harm meant,—it's a mere joke."

"D—n joking," muttered the Captain,—"I like the old Roundhead, egad!"

Lady Arranmore, fearing there was something looming here, bowed to Ellen Ravensworth, and the ladies rose and left the room. The Captain looked gloomy, and appeared to have taken great umbrage at the unhappy resemblance; it was not a newly found out likeness, and even before this he had shown great wrath at the allusion. It was never quite evident why he disliked it, but at any rate it was evident he did so. When the ladies were retired, Sir Richard, anxious to gloss over his mistake, began—

"Really De Vere, you take mortal offence at a jeu d'esprit."

"Sir Richard, you seem determined to work me up to-night. I advise you to think twice before you do so, or by heaven you may repent it."

"Why, De Vere, I think you are—I was going to say—crazy to-night: I merely said you were like Earl Hugh—you are like, and there let it end, I shall say no more."

The Captain was not inclined to let matters drop so easily, and replied, "I shan't drop it in such a jolly hurry; the fact is you have laid a plot to annoy me: egad you have, you did it before the ladies, and now you're raking the accursed thing up again, which proves it. You compared me to that d—able old renegade just to enrage me, by G— you did. I like that d—d, round-headed old ——! You have insulted me, Sir Richard. I am not the man to brook insults—you will apologize—I demand an apology."

The whole room were listening in dead silence to the quarrel, and Johnny, who had not yet left, was in high delight at the prospect of a scene. No one interfered yet, and the loud voice of the Captain as he demanded an apology to most seemed at the least ominous.

"I have done nothing to give me cause to make an apology; I appeal to the table, should I make one? Lord Wentworth, what say you?"

"You have insulted me, Sir Richard, and by G— I'll have one, or know the reason why. I don't care who says you should not, I say you shall—I am waiting for an apology!"

"You may wait, De Vere, till doomsday,—you may sit there till you die,—but never will I apologize when I have done no fault."

"You have committed a fault. Ha! I see you are incapable of feelings like a man of honour; you must be forced to feel as you should. Sir Richard, you say you did not intend to insult me, I say you lie most foully in your throat; there—will that do?"

A thrill of horror ran like an electric shock through the company.

"Ha! you give me the lie, do you?" said Sir Richard, blanching with rage, "then take that."

As he spoke he threw a glassful of port wine across the table: the liquid hit the Captain on his mouth and chin, and poured over his orders and medals, for he was in full uniform. The revenge was quick as thought! Uttering a fearful malediction, the enraged officer seized a heavy cut glass tumbler, and threw it at Sir Richard with unerring aim. The Baronet dodged aside from the missile, and saved himself a blow on the centre of his forehead, but he did not escape. The tumbler struck him a terrific blow on his temples, and, as it flew into a dozen fragments, inflicted a terrible wound. In an instant, as by one consent, the whole table sprung to their feet. For a moment, too paralyzed to speak, a deathly silence reigned. The Captain's face was lit by a fiendish smile, as he wiped the red wine off his breast. Sir Richard's face was black with ire, as he staunched the blood that covered his forehead with his kerchief. The two foes looked as if they could have leaped the barrier that severed them, and locked in each other's arms divided not to death.

Soon a confused murmuring arose on all sides, and then voices grew louder.

"I wouldn't stand that," said Wilson.

"Nor I," said Frank.

"Give it to him, pitch into him, confound him, thrash him, Captain," cried the Marquis, whose Irish blood was at boiling point.

"Yes, pitch him out of the window,—kick him out of doors—d—n him," cried Frank, catching the fire. "He had insult enough to enrage a Moses."

"True—by heaven, sir! a glass of wine thrown at his face, good wine too, a most ungentlemanly trick, and unbecoming an officer of his Majesty's service," said Sir Harry.

"They should fight it out," remarked Forster.

"Yes, give it him, Captain, do," said Johnny.

The clamour now grew uproarious, when the Earl's voice was heard, loud and commanding,—"Silence, gentlemen, I insist! I will be heard at my own table. Silence, cease this brawling."

When order was restored, the Earl continued: "I am deeply grieved such an unjustifiable proceeding should have occurred at my table—that a scene which would have disgraced a pot-house should have been enacted here. I am surprised at Sir Richard's resenting an angry insult in the way he did, and at my brother giving him the lie, and then so far forgetting what was due to himself, and to me, as to fling glass at any guest of mine. I fear but one result—an hostile meeting—will wipe out the dishonour. The thing is done now, and cannot be undone, but at least let seconds be chosen, and all done in a decent and gentlemanly way. In conclusion, I am much hurt at my brother-in-law the noble Marquis hounding on the antagonists in the way he did, and at Frank's supporting him. I would have expected a boy, like Johnny Ravensworth might have forgot himself. I do trust this is the first and last time such a disgraceful brawl will occur here, at least while I am master of the Towers!"

The Earl then sat down, and was complimented by several of the gentlemen for thus expressing his opinions. Mr. Power urged the plea of apology, but little heed was taken of him.

"Will you be my second, Arranmore?" said the Captain.

"Faith, not I," replied the Marquis, "I have made fool enough of myself already. I will not meddle in this unlucky matter any more."

"You have no such scruples, old boy," said the Captain.

"Not I," said Scroop, "I am your man."

"And will you be my second, Wilson?" said Sir Richard, his voice tremulous with passion still.

"With pleasure, we are quite au fait at these things on board ship."

"Come, Scroop, let's get to business; after all, Musgrave, he had no business to give you the lie, and you retaliated the broadside well."

"And he found his match by G—," said Scroop, as he and Wilson walked aside, and in the most cold-blooded manner arranged everything with the utmost despatch—Time, place, weapons, and distance. "Time, at once; place, the Holly Walk; weapons, pistols; distance, twelve yards."

When these regulations were announced the Captain ordered Andrew, who then entered the room having got an inkling all wasn't right, to go to his room, and bring a mahogany case down.

"Is't to be a duel?" said the old man, handing him the case, which the Captain unlocked, and produced two duelling pistols with black ebony handles, and inlaid with silver; on each was a silver plate, and on one neatly engraved three names with dates after them,—three victims to the Captain's sure aim!

"You'll gie's permission to hae ane keek at yer shootin', Captain."

"No—go to the devil."

"Sure, Captain, you're no in earnest; I was speerin' if—"

"Come then, but for God's sake cease your clavering," said the Captain, cutting the old butler short.

The whole of the gentlemen then rose and followed the principals and their seconds to the fatal spot. In those days little heed was given to the evil of duelling, and it would have made many modern ears tingle had they listened to the light converse on the road. The Marquis and Major Forster were betting on the likelihood of the Captain's being shot or not, as Sir Richard fired first, and the Major offered ten to one against him, which the Marquis took, saying, he had little fear he would miss his shot, unless he was hit through the head; for even if he was mortally wounded in any other part he would still give a dying, and probably a killing shot—he was so famous for his pistol-shooting. The two antagonists were each conversing with his second; Frank and Sir Harry were laughing and joking; the Earl and a large party were the quietest; and some few, such as Mr. Power and Mr. Ravensworth, came not to see the duel, but to strive and arrange a friendly termination yet. A short distance behind, old Andrew, with a tribe of footmen, followed; the butler was descanting on the wonderful sureness of the Captain's shot.

"I would not be him to-night though, and Sir Richard getting first fire—that's not a gentlemanly plan—both should fire together," said an English valet.

"Deil a fear o' the Captain—an' he be na shot in the heed, he'll hae his man! See him, he is as cool an' unskeered as though he had the first bleeze! Sir Richard is fey, I saw it a' the day—puir young man—his time is oot!"

"It isna the first chiel he has shot," said young Wilton, who appeared just then.

"Deed no, Jack—there's mayhap three, and mayhap mair names scratched on his weapon—Mr. John was ay a quarrelsome-like chiel—I mind him frae his childhood, he was ay fechting and pummeling, an' noo he has grown a man he but fechts wi' pistols."

"If neither are shot will they fight it out still, Andrew?"

"In troth will they—but dinna you trouble yer pate wi' sic nonsense—the Captin is na goin' to miss! Sir Richard I'll na swer to, but I wud tak' my aith he'll no miss."

CHAPTER III.

"It has a strange quick jar upon the ear,
That cocking of the pistol, when you know
A moment more will bring the sight to bear
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so;
A gentlemanly distance, not too near,
If you have got a former friend for foe;
But after being fired at once or twice,
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice."
Don Juan.

The snow, which had fallen on and off during the whole day, had ceased, the sky cleared, a sharp frost had set in, and was already beginning to crisp the top of the snow, across which in varied groups the guests and retainers of the Towers walked. A few minutes brought them to their journey's end, and they all assembled in the Holly Walk. It was so named from the immense holly hedges that rose on each side of the broad green walk, and in the coldest weather was always a warm and sheltered path. Now the hedges were weighed down with the newly fallen snow, and the green grass covered to the depth of some inches. In the north-east was rising the cold round moon, which looked down on a white world with a placid eye, soon to be awestruck by deeds of blood. A few of the brighter stars challenged the lady of the night, and asserted their prerogative of giving light; and over the north and north-west the northern lights shot out brilliant streamers. The air was shrewd and biting, but no wind was stirring, and the only sound that broke the stillness was the cranch of the footsteps on the newly frozen snow surface. In the dark shadow of the eastern side of the holly hedge was grouped the whole company,—excepting the seconds, who were pacing the right distance in the moonlit side of the walk. The Captain was talking in a light manner to Sir Harry; it was not his first, nor second, nor even third encounter, and he seemed to treat the matter with great indifference. Sir Richard had never before fought a duel, and though he had first shot he was not wholly at his ease like his antagonist; he stood by himself and silently watched the distance marked in the snow. Popular feeling was certainly on the Captain's side—he had heard them say there was only one place to shoot his foe if he wished to disable him from firing too, and he secretly resolved to aim for his head. The Earl and several others were speaking in a low tone on the coming dreadful match; Mr. Power, Ravensworth, and Lennox, were all three talking together, and Johnny some distance behind.

"This is a most ungodly and lawless business, Mr. Ravensworth," said Mr. Power; "we should try and stop it—you as his lordship's future father-in-law should have influence to prevent it."

"Mine is a delicate position, Mr. Power; much as I should like to see things amicably settled, I do not like interfering," replied Mr. Ravensworth.

"Certainly in your ministerial capacity, and as a soldier of the Prince of Peace—it seems to me, Mr. Power, this important duty devolves on you."

"Perhaps it does, Mr. Lennox, and I am but an unprofitable servant to fear man's displeasure; I must magnify my office and try what can be done; but I greatly fear it will be useless to try—nevertheless I can but make the attempt."

With these words he walked to where the Captain was standing, but seeing several persons round him he proceeded further, where Sir Richard stood alone.

"Sir Richard, excuse my boldness in addressing a stranger, but as a servant of God I cannot see His laws broken without at least speaking His message. Sir Richard, you are either going to leave this ground with the stain of blood on your hands, or are going to rush unprepared into your Judge's presence. I beseech you pause, and make up this unseemly quarrel."

"I fear, sir, you do not know what you ask; it is impossible for me to back out of this even if I wished,—and I do not wish it,—without incurring the stain of cowardice."

"Alas! Sir Richard, you fear the opinion of your fellow mortal more than breaking your Maker's laws!"

"Sir, I admire your sentiments, and wish I could see things in the light you do; I regret I cannot—it is useless to urge me more, my mind is made up!"

"And God grant your peace with him is made up too!" said the clergyman, turning sorrowfully away towards the Captain, whom he thus addressed:

"Unhappy young man, ere it is too late, forgive your enemy—you will leave this ground with your hands stained in a fellow creature's blood, or—"

"Really, Mr. Power, it is not unlikely I may be shot, you are premature."

"And dare you meet your Maker with all your sins full blown—dare you hurry unprepared—"

"Mr. Power, you came here to dine, and not to preach—Heaven knows you have time enough on Sunday—so you had better keep your sermons for those who will listen to them."

"Ungodly man, I tremble for you—"

"It is more than I do for myself. Come, stow your sermons, old Squaretoes, and for God's sake, if I am to be knocked off, let me end my life in peace. I'd rather stand at a cannon's mouth than yours—Lord knows which breathes hottest!"

Cast down, but not vanquished, Mr. Power next attempted the Earl.

"For the love of Heaven, my Lord, use your authority to put down this breach of God's laws, and man's also; let not murder take place in sight of your castle."

"I am very sorry I have no power in this matter at all, beyond seeing everything is done as it should be—else I would not be here. My motto is let every man mind his own business—you should apply to the duellists."

"I have, my Lord, and woefully I have been served."

"Then, Mr. Power, I have no chance in the world."

"Lord Arranmore, will you not use your influence?"

"What in the devil's name have I to do with it?— besides I have a bet of 50l. on the affair, so am not likely to stop it if I could."

"I wonder to see you patronizing such a meeting, Mr. Power; however, I suppose you are like your lay-brethren, and curiosity overcomes consistency," said Frank.

"Come, Mr. Ravensworth,—come, Mr. Lennox,—let us leave this godless crew—I have done my duty at least."

"I am much obliged, but must certainly stay," said Mr. Lennox, who had no idea of missing the first hostile meeting he had ever come in for. "I am a bit of a doctor, Mr. Power, and my presence may be required—there's Johnny Ravensworth, however, too juvenile for such entertainments."

"Come, my boy," said Mr. Ravensworth; "come along with us," following Mr. Power as he spoke.

"Mayn't I stay, papa?" Then in an under tone, "Confound Mr. Lennox; he is glad enough to find an excuse, and vents his anger on me."

"No, my boy; come along directly. Do you hear me?"

"Let the boy stay, Mr. Ravensworth," said the Marquis. "It is well to accustom them early to this sort of thing!"

"My Lord, I wonder at you. When you have been a father as long as I have you will think otherwise."

"I'faith, were my boy a little older he should have been here," answered the Irishman.

"You had better go, Johnny," said the Earl. "Always obey your father. Sir Harry, here, will tell you discipline is the mother of all good soldiering."

"Indeed is it, my lad; now, quick march; you are delaying the encounter. And, by my stars! it is cold work halting in the snow. I had rather be over that excellent punch, all spoiling," said Sir Harry.

The three proceeded to the Towers without speaking. Mr. Power and Mr. Ravensworth in silence, Johnny often casting a wistful look back, and asking old Andrew if it wasn't a shame to take him away, to which the old butler answered in the affirmative: "Ay, ay, Maister Johnny, it's a sair trial; yet Scripture saith, obey your parents; mayhap ye'll fecht one your ainsell some o' these days."

When the two gentlemen and their reluctant companion reached the drawing-room, they were beset with questions from the ladies, who had a most imperfect knowledge of the affair.

"It is a dreadful thing," said Lady Arranmore. "I wonder you did not try and stop it."

"God knows, madam, I did try. I had perhaps a hearing from Sir Richard; but your brother's heart is as hard as the nether millstone."

"I fear John is too often mixed up in these disgraceful affairs."

"Why, Johnny," said Lady Florence, "I thought you would have been there?"

"And so I would, had I had my own way; but I was dragged off whether I would or no."

"Then you really think they will fight?" said a lady.

"I fear so, madam."

"But perhaps they may miss," suggested Ellen.

"Little fear of John," said Lady Florence. "But it is awful."

"Indeed, madam, I am—but, God love us! there goes one," said Mr. Power.

In fact, at the moment a clear ring of a pistol-shot was heard; and, ere any one could speak, in quick succession another echoed through the woods.

"I'll run and see," said Johnny; and he was gone before any one could stop him.

We return to the Holly Walk. When Mr. Power was gone the Captain said, "Now we've sent Squaretoes to preach to the girls, we'd better be at work. It's d—bly cold, and will spoil our shooting."

"All is ready," said Scroop, handing him a pistol, while Wilson gave another to Sir Richard.

The Captain looked at the cap (the detonating system, but lately introduced, was all the rage, and the pistols were percussion), then let the dogshead press on the nipple an instant, and, half-cocking the piece, walked with Scroop to his stand. Sir Richard and Wilson also took their places.

The scene was awful! Twelve paces from each other stood the two antagonists; their seconds walked back and joined the rest of the lookers on. Not a word was spoken, save by old Andrew, who stood at the end of the walk, beneath a cypress-tree, almost directly behind the Captain, some thirty yards off, and kept up an incessant channering, as the Americans call it. The moon shone on one cheek of each of the foes. The Captain had a devil-me-care aspect; and though he was first to stand fire, seemed to reck little what happened. Sir Richard looked very pale; perhaps it was the moon—perhaps the thought he was about to shed a fellow-being's blood—or be hurled into another world. Old Andrew declared he was "fey."

At last, as if tired of the delay, the Captain's voice was heard clear and loud: "If you are ready, Sir Richard, I am."

Sir Richard cocked; the click seemed as if it rapped every heart that heard it, save his whose life it threatened. He raised the piece slowly, and, pointing it at the Captain's head, took a cool, deliberate aim. A slight frown gathered on the Captain's brow, who thus saw his life menaced. Then came the flash—the explosion—and the ping of the leaden ball, which rung through the cypress-tree, making old Andrew "loup," as he said.

"Missed, by Jove!" shouted Wilson. "It was a shaver, by—"

Before he could finish his sentence the Captain flung up his pistol, and, without seeming to take any aim, fired. The flash—the loud report—and then the thud of Sir Richard as he bounded forward, and fell flat on his face upon the snow!

Every one rushed to the fallen man—save one, the slayer, who stood like a statue, with the pistol smoking in his hand. The seconds turned Sir Richard over on his back; in the centre of his forehead was a round, bleeding hole.

One figure left the crowd, and, walking up to the Captain, said in a husky voice, "Drilled, by G—!"

It was Scroop.

"Where?" replied the Captain.

Scroop put his finger to the middle of his brow.

"Where I generally hit. But I must go and have a look. Not the first soldier I've drilled!"

With a calm face he stooped over his victim a moment, and then, as he walked away, muttered, "Ha! Dick Musgrave! thou wert a fool to quarrel with me. That shortens our count by one. The grave keeps her secrets!"

"This has had a more tragical ending than I imagined," said the Earl. "Andrew, have the remains carried to the castle. Come along home," to Frank.

"Confound my ill luck!" said Major Forster to the Marquis. "Poor Sir Richard seemed all of a tremble; no wonder he missed!"

"Is he dead?" cried Johnny, running up.

"Deed as a nail," replied old Andrew, and away Johnny ran.

Like a wild thing he entered the drawing-room, and all the ladies gathered round him, pale with terror.

"He's killed," cried Johnny, out of breath.

"Who is killed?" said Lady Florence. "Who, Johnny?"

"I am sure I didn't ask. One is; I saw them carrying him."

"You careless boy," said Lady Arranmore. "Oh! I hope it is not true! Here's some one who will tell us. Oh! Captain Wilson, who fell?"

"Musgrave, of course, Lady Arranmore."

"But is he dead? Oh say no," said Lady Florence, trembling with excitement and fear.

"Did you ever hear of a man living with an ounce of lead through his brains, Lady Florence? No, no; Richard of Musgrave breathes no more! The Captain will have to fly the country. Ah! here he comes."

As he spoke the Captain, accompanied by Scroop, both booted and spurred, entered the room.

"Oh! John, how could you?"

"Oh! what have you done?" exclaimed his sisters.

"Lord help us! what's done can't be helped. I am sure I am d—d sorry. But I must be off, so no recrimination. Good bye, Edie. Good bye, little Floss. And you, Miss Ravensworth. What, will you not even shake hands?"

"I cannot—your hand is bloodstained!"

"Ellen, if you knew all you would thank me. You do not know that Sir Richard was he who carried you off," said he, sotto voce.

Ellen hid her face in her hands, and the young officer turned away and clanked out of the room, bowing to the other ladies.

"God forgive you this murder; and may you never feel remorse for the deed!" said Mr. Power, as he strode past him.

"Ha, my preacher! are you primed, and at it again? Nothing like sticking to one's trade. You to your Bible, and I to swords, guns, and pistols!"

"You will think better some day. I trust God will break your heart in his own time."

"I am like to break your head if you detain me any longer, old Snapdragon! Never you mind me. If I get to the devil first I'll fire a salute when you come! Till then, adieu."

Leaving the worthy man to mourn over his wickedness, our hero proceeded to the hall, where all the gentlemen were grouped, talking to his brother and the Marquis. He and Scroop hastened to the courtyard, where young Wilton stood with three horses, ready saddled and bridled, to carry them and Archy to Leith, where they were to set sail at once for the Continent.

"I'll show my face again when this has blown over," said the Captain, as he mounted. "Poor Sir Richard! I am very sorry for him,—unlucky devil as he was. You will see he is decently buried. He'll have a warmer time of it than we shall, if Power speaks gospel."

"Well, good bye, John. Write to us sometimes," said the Earl, giving him a pocket-book. "This has been a most unfortunate night; it will delay my marriage,—and get me into a jolly scrape, too."

"Egad! I'm deuced sorry; but Ellen won't spoil for keeping a bit. Ha, the needful; I had forgotten that. Thanks—"

"An' I was thinking you would aiblins no be sorry to hae a keg of the gude stuff," said old Andrew, handing a big-bellied flask of whisky. "Gude save us, Captain! yon was a grand shot—puir Sir Richard!"

"Why, bless me, you are a better fellow than I thought, Andrew! Here, Scroop, you carry this flask; we shall be glad of it, I warrant. What a d—d night it is; the snow will be balling in our nags' feet, and leave a track for a blind man to follow. But we must be off. Good night, gentlemen. Come, Scroop, for God's sake be mounted and away, or we shall have the hounds on our scent!"

The horsemen then spurred off, and were soon lost in the darkness. The guests returned into the hall, and went upstairs.

When the Earl entered the drawing-room, Ellen drew him aside, and, in the mildest, gentlest manner, told him how sorry she was that this had occurred.

"You are right, dearest. I am very sorry, but it is done now; it will delay our union, Ellen, for six weeks, and that will be punishment enough for me. I have your forgiveness, I hope?"

"Ask God's forgiveness, not mine; for this has been a sad—sad evening."

To tell the truth the Earl was little pleased at the part he had taken in it: but he had a hard part to play; brought up without the least religion he had only lately come to see the harm of duelling. Ellen's example was silently doing a world of good, and she saw it, so she said no more: those few words told more on him than a hundred sermons.

The irreligious character of the Towers was well known; and the way in which this awful affair was treated will sufficiently show it, and our readers will see how difficult it was for the Earl to change his course all at once. He had laughed and joked on such occasions before, and he was not so changed yet that he was beyond the influence of the evil current.

As he left Ellen, Frank entered the room, equipped for riding.

"Why, De Vere, where the deuce are you off to?" said young Pringle.

"I am going to Piershill—do you think I am going to sleep here to-night, with Sir Richard lying below?"

"Oh, Frank," said Lady Florence, "I wish you had not put that into my head; I am quite nervous—I wish I did not sleep alone!"

"Then you should make friends with his ghost, Floss!" said her brother, laughing.

Without appearing to notice his remark, Lady Florence prevailed on Ellen to share her room that night.

"I wouldn't be you, youngster," said Wilson to Johnny; "you are next cabin to him."

"Oh, bother it!—Lord Wentworth, may he be moved?"

"No, no, Johnny," said the Earl, who could not help relishing the dreadful jest—"he has been knocked about enough for one night. You may sleep in another room; but I put my veto on moving him again."

"Well, who will come to Piershill?" said Frank; "I am not going to ride alone—Arranmore, come along!"

"Faith, not I—I never feared Musgrave, alive or dead! Besides, I am married; I have my wife to defend."

"Ah, that's well enough; but we poor devils who have no wives must look out for company. Come, will no one accompany me?"

"I think I had better weigh anchor and be off," said Captain Wilson; "I have had far too much to do with it to moor myself here and be snapped up by the sharks!—only for God's sake don't put me aboard that vicious craft young Nimrod again."

"Good night, then—and don't dream about ghosts, Florence," said Frank, as he and Wilson descended. "It is not I am really afraid you know, Wilson; but I want to tell the news at the barracks."

The two young men were soon mounted, and riding along to the cavalry barracks, where the 10th Hussars were now quartered. When they reached the barracks, they found the yard full of men and officers, crowded round a soldier who had lately dismounted.

"Hallo! here's some one who can enlighten us better than this d—d Paddy!"

"How are you, De Vere?—so you've had a duel at the Towers?" said Captain Ross.

"How the devil did you learn the news? Well, that's a nice sell for me,—coming all this way to tell you stale news."

The explanation was given that one of the troopers had been supping at the Towers that evening, and, with true Irish wisdom, having heard there had been a duel, and one of the duellists killed, without staying to inquire which had fallen

"much aghast,
Rode back to Piershill fiery fast."

He could only tell that the Captain and Sir Richard Musgrave had had a duel: one was shot dead, but he could not say which.

When Frank came with the full particulars, he slipped away and had a long argument with a stolid Scotchman, about who fired the first shot.

"Come, De Vere, who was the slain?" said Major Cathcart;—"I will bet five to one it was not John De Vere!"

"You're right;—Musgrave was done for—shot clean through his forehead."

Frank then detailed the whole to a throng of officers and sergeants in the mess room, and did not omit the joke about his riding there for fear of the dead man.

"You should have brought him here," said the Major; "we are not afraid of dead bodies!"

A yell of laughter followed this savage jest; and they then all sat down to a wining party, and drank the dead man's health in silence ere they retired!

Captain Wilson departed next day for the Continent. Sir Richard Musgrave's remains were interred in the vaults at the Towers; and the Earl had some trouble to clear himself of the scrape. The marriage was deferred till the 18th of December, the Earl choosing the same day he had met Ellen a year before at the Duke's ball. A letter from the Captain arrived shortly before that day, saying he was at Hamburgh; had met a delightful young Polish officer, Count Czinsky, who was also there for a similar lawless deed, and they were to proceed to St. Petersburgh almost immediately.

CHAPTER IV.

"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]