Part 3

"Just then we entered the gloomy Hermitage: all was dark and still; the echo of our steps alone broke the awful silence. The men who accompanied us lifted their torches to throw a fuller light into the cell; and--ah! my Ellen, I dread to shock your tender nature by describing the horrid scene which met our view.--Imagine our sensations when we saw the unfortunate Rosolia extended on the earth! her white garments dyed in _blood_! in that blood which some hand, either accidentally or by design, had shed! for on raising the body, by this time stiff and cold, a wound was discovered in the back of her head, which was evidently the effect of a pistol-ball, and had caused her death. You tremble and turn pale, my love: it grieves me to distress you, but think what was _my_ distress, when Edmund, who, in frantic despair, had thrown himself by his murdered sister, found the fatal weapon which had done this deed of horror, and I saw at once it was the fellow pistol to that I had in my hand when he met me in the hall, remarkable for its peculiar construction and workmanship; the very one, in short, which I had given to De Sylva. Never, never shall I forget the glance of his dark eyes at that moment: I saw the direful suspicions he, at that instant, conceived, and which were still more fatally confirmed by what immediately followed.

"My poor Bayfield, full of grief and horror, was arranging, with all the care circumstances would admit, the removal of the body to the house, when seeing something glitter amidst the horrible darkness which surrounded us, and our fading torches scarcely broke, she stooped and picked up _my ring_, that well-known ring, which I indeed had lost, but had not said so; and which she, from some impulsive feeling, perhaps fearing the sight of it in that place might implicate me in the late sad event, attempted to conceal in her bosom.

"What is that?" exclaimed the half-frantic Edmund, darting towards her and seizing her hand. '_Your ring_, my Lord, _your ring_! at this time--in this place. The pistol too--those dreadful threatenings of revenge.--Ah God! Ah God!--what horrible conviction flashes on me.--Rosolia! poor dear sister!--Ah, basely, basely murdered!' and he fell senseless on the ground.

"The domestics who attended us were Spaniards, and did not understand a word he said: but Bayfield stood the image of dismay.

"Ah, my Lord,' said she, 'fly, if indeed your hand by accident has done this deed, for think what will become of you amidst the bigotted Catholics, who will seek to revenge it.'

"Fly!' I repeated, 'my good old friend! Can you believe me guilty?'

"Oh no, my dear Lord,' she replied, never, never! but think what these unfortunate appearances will say against you to those who know you less than I do.'

"Whatever they say, I will brave,' I exclaimed: 'nor care I much after this dreadful moment what becomes of me; but never will I, by an ignominious flight, tacitly avow myself guilty, when I know and surely cannot fail to prove my innocence.'

"In a few minutes one of the men, who, on Edmund's falling into the deathlike trance from which we yet vainly sought to recover him, had fled towards the house for more assistance, returned with almost all the domestics, who eagerly crowded to satisfy their curiosity, and whose astonishment and impatient questions may be easily conceived. Between them they conveyed into the house their murdered mistress, and the still insensible Edmund, whose spirit we at one time imagined had really followed hers. To paint the confusion which ensued would be impossible: one express was instantly sent off to the Duke de Castel Nuovo, and several men I sent into the mountains and round the neighbourhood to seek for De Sylva, by whose hand I doubted not the fatal wound, either by accident or design, had been given. I described his person and appearance, saying that such a man had been seen lurking about the house the night before.

"Some of the servants having remarked the capricious character, and, of late, the melancholy manners of Rosolia, suggested an idea that she had destroyed herself; but the situation of the wound prevented such a possibility. Forgive me, my love, these shocking details: they are indeed unsuited to the tenderness of your nature; but without a very accurate account of this unfortunate event, it would be impossible for you to judge what evidences there were of my apparent guilt, or real innocence.

"Edmund slowly recovered from his deep swoon, but his reason for a time was flown, and all the skill of the medical people about us failed for weeks to recover it. Yet still he knew me--still with an expression of the most vindictive hatred his eyes pursued me. His words frequently pointed out the nature of his suspicions; but he raved so constantly, that they remained unnoticed, save by me and Bayfield: too fatally, alas! we understood them. To her I fully explained all that had passed, and she told me she had no hesitation in believing that De Sylva was the author of this direful tragedy. To find that villain appeared impossible: my servants returned, after a week's search in every direction, without having discovered the slightest trace of him. Indeed, to track a fugitive in that wild romantic country is extremely difficult: immense woods, deep caves, and the recesses of vast ruins, might easily shelter such a one from pursuit.

"To the servants I held out an idea that some banditti from the mountains had found their Lady in her lonely walk, as indeed they all knew I often had feared would be the case, and had murdered her for the sake of the money and jewels she had about her; and in truth many of them had seen her go out with some rich ornaments, which she generally wore, and which certainly were removed from the body.

"On searching the Hermitage the next morning, a parcel was found, containing a complete Spanish habit for a boy, and a letter--at least a part of one, for part was torn away, and the remainder contained only these words:

_At the Hermitage this evening we must fly directly St. Aubyn will wait for come alone_

"I easily imagined this was part of a letter from De Sylva, appointing Rosolia to meet him at the Hermitage. 'St. Aubyn will wait for' evidently alluded to my waiting for him at the place he had appointed to meet me; yet even these words seemed fatally to implicate me in this horrid transaction: whereas, if the whole had been preserved, it would have entirely exculpated me from blame: so unfortunately did circumstances combine to throw the appearance of guilt upon me.

"When my messenger returned from Madrid, I learned that the venerable Duke de Castel Nuovo was too ill to travel: he left the whole management of this melancholy affair in my hands, expressing himself convinced that some of the banditti, who it was well known infested the Sierra Morena, had been the murderers of his granddaughter. He entreated me to take the greatest care of Edmund, and invited me, when he should be sufficiently recovered, to accompany him to Madrid, or if I could not make that convenient, to send him by some person in whom I could confide, and who would see him placed safely under his own care; and concluded by very kind expressions of regret that it had been so totally out of his power to pay me those personal attentions during my stay in Spain, which he had so anxiously wished to do.

"Thus then I found myself completely exonerated from all suspicion of having had any share of the late dreadful event, except in the mind of Edmund, who had by this time recovered his reason, and was by slow degrees regaining his health, yet still looked on me with horror and aversion, and was buried in the most profound and gloomy melancholy.

"Unable long to bear this state of estrangement and anxiety, I one day went to his room, and sitting down by the couch on which he lay, 'I see, Edmund,' said I, 'too plainly I see, the horrible suspicions you have formed, and the gloomy hatred so unnatural to your character, which preys upon your vitals. Neither can you long support a state so wretched. St. Aubyn was not born to be the object of suspicions so cruel, nor Edmund to endure them. Hear me then patiently; and though, in tenderness to the memory of the unfortunate Rosolia, I would, if possible, have concealed her misconduct from the whole world, and most of all from you, yet circumstances call on me so imperatively to disclose it, that I can no longer be silent.'

"I then, my Ellen, related to him every circumstance, as I have done to you; and though he evidently wavered, yet so strong was the prejudice he had conceived, that he was not wholly convinced.

"For the pistol," said he, 'you have in some measure accounted: it might, if this story be true, have been placed there by De Sylva: his accursed hand it might have been which shed that blood--that precious blood, which yet in imagination I see flowing at my feet! But ah! St. Aubyn, whence came that _ring_--that well known ring, which I so often have heard you declare you valued more than all the jewels in your possession?'

"Fully to account for that,' said I, 'is not in my power; but on my honour, I assure you, I had missed it several days, though, in hopes of discovering the thief, I did not mention it. You know several of Rosolia's jewels have lately been lost; and many times, since we have been here, she has asked me for sums of money, though here she could have had no use for them; but willing to gratify her in even her fancies, while they did not militate against my peace and honour, I never denied her, or desired any explanation; yet, in searching her escritoire and drawers, no money has been found. This leads me to believe, nay, to be sure, that either the wretch, De Sylva, stole this ring and the other valuable articles missing, or she gave them to him in the meetings which Bayfield now owns she is convinced they _have of late_ frequently had.'

"Impossible, impossible!' cried the noble but prejudiced youth: 'Rosolia could not have condescended to favour, even with her friendship, so mean a wretch as one who would have received money or jewels at her hands. This story, my Lord, hangs ill together, and for it I have only your word--the word of one to whom it is of the utmost importance that I should believe it. But think, O think, what a chain of circumstances appear in proof against you!--The threats _I_ heard you utter, that your own hand should that very evening revenge your injuries! My meeting you, heated and confused, after two hours absence, no one knew whither, with one pistol in your hand--the fellow pistol found discharged by the dear murdered Rosolia--and, more than all, your ring, which Bayfield, impressed no doubt by similar suspicions, strove to conceal! Place all these in array against you, and tell me, tell me yourself, what I must, what I ought to believe.'

"'It is enough,' I replied: 'I yield myself then to your will. Take me, if such is your desire, to a prison, to death: your evidence I well perceive will be sufficient to convict me--to rob me of my honour and my life. But do you reckon for nothing your former knowledge of my character and disposition? Am I a man likely to have committed such a deed?--to have invented such a tale to excuse it, if I had? I swear to you, Edmund, by all that is most sacred, _I am innocent_--I will swear it to the latest moment of my existence.'

"Moved by these words, by the remembrance of all my former friendship for him--permit me to say, by the remembrance of years which I had so spent as to impress him with a firm opinion of my virtue and veracity, the generous youth paused awhile, and at length said--

"Well then, my Lord, since in this contrariety of assertion and evidence it is impossible that I should know what to believe, I will for the present, at least, act as if I thought you innocent. Seek this De Sylva--seek him if you will throughout the world. I will breathe no word, hint no suspicion, that may impede you in the search. Should you be able to bring his confession in evidence of your integrity, I will then entreat your pardon for my disbelief. If, on the contrary, any new appearances of guilt arise against you--should any new discoveries inimical to your innocence be made, I shall still know how to reach you.

"Here let us part! As soon as my weak state will permit, I leave this fatal, this detested roof, and will join my grandfather at Madrid: from his letters I learn what you have led him to believe on this shocking subject. If, indeed, your tale be true, I ought most thankfully to acknowledge the lenient tenderness with which you have treated my poor sister's reputation.--But oh! could she, could she be so guilty?----At all events, it is well the Duke should credit your statement. At his age, the doubts which shake me thus would kill him!--Let us meet no more at present--Should De Sylva be found, write to me: write in English, and the people about me will not understand your letter. All farther search into this matter I must postpone till the commencement of my majority shall leave me my own master; then I must once more visit England, such is my father's will, to take possession of my estates in that country, and to receive the accounts from you. Then, my Lord, we will finally consider all the proofs which shall then have been obtained of your innocence or guilt; and I shall then either bewail the faults of Rosolia, or revenge her death, either by my sword or the hand of the law, as I may think most proper. I shall then be a man, and more able, both by improved judgment and bodily strength, to assert my own convictions. Most earnestly do I wish, long ere that period arrives, your character may be cleared: yet, ah! how can I wish it, if by that acquittal my poor Rosolia must be proved so guilty!'

"In a few days after this conversation, Edmund, under the care of a person in whom I could confide, set out for Madrid; and I soon after discharging all my servants, except Mrs. Bayfield and my valet, whom I sent to England, left also this fatal spot. I hired a mule, and alone passed through the Sierra into La Mancha; and at Civedad I engaged a servant, not choosing to take one with me who had known any thing of the late painful transactions. On mules we proceeded, making every inquiry for De Sylva. Not even my servant knew my real name and rank; as I thought by concealing these I might have a better chance of finding the villain I sought: but still my search was vain. From Toledo, where I rested a short time, I wrote to some of the officers of De Sylva's regiment at Seville, to know if he had returned thither, though it appeared most improbable he should have done so: but I was desirous of trying every chance by which he might be discovered. In answer, I learnt De Sylva had obtained leave of absence about two months before; but though it had been some time expired, he was not yet returned: so that the charge of desertion was now added to those others, which I doubted not induced him to keep himself concealed. I travelled through Spain, avoiding Madrid, where I knew my friend and correspondent, the Marquis of Northington, who was resident there in a diplomatic capacity, would make every search for De Sylva; and passing the Pyrenees, entered the frontier of France, though with great risk and hazard, had I been known to be English; but I passed everywhere for a Spaniard, speaking the language as a native, having from my childhood been accustomed to speak it with Rosolia and Edmund; and I fancied in those wild mountains I might meet with De Sylva, who was likely to assort with the desperate characters with which they at that time abounded. But vain was my search, and at length I returned to England; and thinking that in London, perhaps, I might find this wretch connected with gamesters, I sought him at every house where such persons are likely to be found; but still, still the search was fruitless.

"I then came hither for awhile, to rest my wearied spirits. Here, vanquished by the constant harassings I had so long undergone, I fell into a severe fit of illness, through which my good Bayfield nursed me with the tenderest care; and as she alone knew all the griefs which oppressed me, I could without restraint give vent to my sorrows in her presence.

"Immediately after my recovery I had a letter from my friend Lord Northington, who had at my request, by himself and his agents, made every possible inquiry for De Sylva. He informed me that a person of suspicious character had lately been arrested, and stood charged with various crimes; and amongst the rest, of desertion; that from my description of him, he fancied this man to be De Sylva. I instantly wrote to Edmund, that I hoped the object of my long search was found; that I should go to Spain immediately, and would see him as soon as any thing was ascertained: but alas! after all my trouble and fatigue this man proved to be totally unlike De Sylva, and in no way connected with him.

"Mortified and disappointed, I yet went to Seville, where Edmund then was. The Duke de Castel Nuovo had been dead a few months, and his grandson, under the care of Mr. O'Brien, and some other ecclesiastics, appointed by the Duke's will to be the guardians of his person and his Spanish estates during his minority. It was not without difficulty that I obtained a private conference with him; for these Catholics were jealous of my supposed influence over his mind.

"I found him greatly altered in person, and evidently a prey to gloomy and anxious thoughts, which the life he led amongst persons of severe and superstitious habits did not tend to dissipate. His prejudices I still found unconquerable, and that he was determined on coming to England, should I be unable clearly to substantiate my innocence, either to avenge his sister's death by the sword, or to impeach me as her murderer--a dreadful alternative, and one from which I knew not how to free myself: for to find De Sylva seemed impossible, and if found, I knew not how to bring him to confession; and even of his having been at my villa, near the Sierra Morena, I had no witness but Mrs. Bayfield, whose evidence in my favour might, and most probably would, be deemed partial.

"Thus, and with this shocking prospect constantly before me, the time has passed since the fatal day of Rosolia's death. Anxious for your peace and safety, I wrote to Edmund, who ought to have been here three months ago, and entreated him to delay coming hither till this time, stating my reasons, with which he complied, and arrived in England only a week since. Hither he was obliged to come, as Mordaunt had all the papers belonging to his estates in his possession. You know he has been too ill lately to go from home, and his signature was absolutely necessary.

"After O'Brien and Mordaunt went into the library last night, I again endeavoured to convince Edmund of my innocence; and although I think now his judgment is matured, and his passions have had time to cool, he is more inclined to believe me, and to let the matter rest where it is, I could by no means get him explicitly to acquit me; and this house reviving the memory of his sister, and all the past events so forcibly, no doubt was the cause of his nocturnal wandering.

"What will be the event of all this I know not; but if I find him still inexorable in a conference I mean this day to hold with him, I think appearances are so much against me, I must at least for a time withdraw with you and our boy to some safe retreat.

"I have wearied you, my Ellen, and am myself weary with speaking so long, on such an agitating subject: but tell me, my love, oh! tell me, that you at least think me guiltless of this direful act!"

"Guiltless!" cried Ellen (whose many tender exclamations and agitated interruptions had given frequent proof of the interest with which she had heard this melancholy narrative). "Oh, heavens! the evidence of my own senses would fail to make me think you otherwise. But in this case all appears to me so clear, so easy to be traced, that I am astonished the generous youth you have described can hesitate in his belief a moment.--Ah! my dear St. Aubyn, let _me_ speak to him; let me tell him of your virtues, of your gentle nature, of your tender and affectionate disposition. Surely he will hear me: surely he must yield to the conviction these must give, that you were not, could not have been guilty of a deed so horrid!"

"Yes, my dearest, my beloved Ellen," replied St. Aubyn, "it shall be so. Your soft, your persuasive words and looks will, I am sure, impress him with conviction that the man you love cannot be a villain.

"Yet, Ellen, do not meanly compromise my honour or your own dignity; argue, and even, if you can, persuade him to believe me innocent: but if in this you fail, do not sue to him. I could not accept of life and honour merely from his _forbearance_; yet for your sake, and that of our child, I will in some measure set my proud spirit aside, and yield to terms I would otherwise disdain."

Here they parted, and Ellen retired to her dressing-room, to refresh her wearied spirits, to kiss and weep over her infant, and to offer up a fervent prayer for every grace of speech, which might subdue and convince the prejudiced but generous Edmund.

CHAP. IV.

We do not know How he may soften at the sight o' the child. The silence often of pure innocence Persuades when speaking fails.

WINTER'S TALE.

With an air how different from the usual cheerful greetings of the morning at St. Aubyn Castle, did the party now there assemble in the breakfast-room.

The Earl and Countess, wearied with the alarm of the night and the late agitating conversation, scarcely could assume spirits to smile upon their guests and give them that hospitable reception which every one generally felt assured of from them. Lady Juliana, stiff and severe of countenance, scarcely deigned a bow to the salutations of Mr. O'Brien; and the pale melancholy Edmund, who, constraining his feelings, advanced towards Lady St. Aubyn, and attempted an apology for what had passed the evening before, for of his nocturnal wanderings, and her consequent alarm, he had not the least idea: from St. Aubyn he appeared to shrink with less aversion than usual, but when seated at the breakfast-table, his eyes and whole attention seemed fixed on Ellen, who, pale and mournful as were her looks, yet spoke with such gentle sweetness, as appeared instantly to attract him, while the soft and pensive character her beauty had assumed was precisely formed to sooth and tranquillize the too vehement emotions of this deeply feeling young man. Her power, indeed, over the heart, of which all who saw her were sensible, arose from the united charms of voice, person, and demeanor, all of which were so sweetly harmonized with each other as to form one charming and consistent whole, and that, so regulated by the most perfect purity of manners, the most refined delicacy of sentiment, and the most affectionate tenderness of heart, as ensured not only the admiration, but the respect and love of all who knew her; yet more, of all she sought to win or soften. No wonder then if the young and generous heart of Edmund leaned towards her, and felt before the breakfast hour was over that for worlds he could not have pained or wronged her.