CHAPTER XIX.

"Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh; Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word--farewell!--farewell!"--_Byron._

Not a word was spoken either by the Earl or Leonora during their passage through the same long caves by which they had entered. The heart of each was too full for speech. Poor Leonora's dreams of liberation from a life she abhorred were for the present gone. It was, perhaps, the worst and darkest hour her young life had yet met. The shadow of the first cloud seems dreariest, as it sweeps over the sun-lit meadows; the darkness of the first sorrow is deepest, as it spreads a shadow over youth's sunny brow. By-and-by the eye gets accustomed to the frequent clouds; and in later years the stream of sorrows, often passing over the heart, leaves such a stony track behind, the quickness of its sensitiveness is destroyed, calloused, deadened; and what would once have crushed, scarce draws forth a passing sigh.

Whatever were Leonora's feelings, they were then fresh, poignant, and her woe seemed almost heavier than she could bear. Still she had a consolation;--she had hope! Hope that better, brighter days were in store; hope that rose buoyant over the waves of sorrow: and she was in this the happiest of the twain!

Lord Wentworth's thoughts were darker. It was but an hour or two since he had tracked the path he now trode: but in that hour what a mass of strange adventure and harsh truth had been compressed! That space of time had been the most remarkable era in his life; that hour or two had not only enlightened him on the past in a way he could not have dreamed of, but, as it were, undone all his life. He left that cave a different man; all his ideas--all his thoughts--had undergone a change. As the earthquake in a few dread moments overturns the labours of centuries, so had the tale he had listened to overthrown the structure of his mental economy. Not only had a system of intrigue been divulged, but he had been shown how, unwittingly, he had sailed all his life under false colours. The real Earl of Wentworth he was no longer; it had been no fault of his, but he felt he was not any more the man he had been, and he felt displeased that he had so long usurped a false character.

Then he had been made the residuary of a secret in such a questionable way he scarce knew what to think. He had only to destroy those fatal papers, forge an excuse for his absence, live as he had lived, and no being would ever be the wiser;--or, if the treason did come out, it would be impossible to furnish proofs. The Earl banished such thoughts almost as soon as created in his mind, as unworthy of him. Come what might, he would ever be the true man!--he could not endure the thought of bearing a false reputation, or depriving another of his rights.

He would do nothing rashly: calm consideration, quiet, and time, were indispensable; and the matter _should_ have his calm thoughts,--his time,--his whole mental powers. Beyond this, the case would be one which involved much more in a legal point of view; for, although it might be possible to prove that Edward L'Estrange was Viscount de Vere, and in his own right Earl of Wentworth, by his career he had forfeited all title to such honours.

He was a felon by the laws of his country,--a man outlawed, and lying under the ban of God and his fellow-creatures. The point at issue was this: had his marriage been a legal one?--had he any family? For incontestably, could this be proved, then the Earl was no longer so; but the son or daughter of this marriage would succeed to the title, and himself drop into Mr. de Vere.

Lord Wentworth was a man, and felt keenly the degradation of such an issue--it was gall and wormwood to him. Though by blood L'Estrange was his brother, had he in any way merited his love? Had he not been his rival--his bitter enemy through life? And this rival--this enemy--was able to deprive him of his name, his wealth, his future peace!--and all depended on these records he held in his hand. No wonder, as he passed across the thin bridge on his way out, and heard the thundering torrent foaming and swirling beneath, he felt tempted to drop the fatal budget into the wild waters, and trust the secret to the keeping of the waves. We are glad to say his better feelings overcame the trial, and he bore up under a temptation, it is not too much to say, half the world would have succumbed to.

"No," he thought, "I will let law take its course, it were mean not to hear both sides."

The two passed the bridge, and soon afterwards arrived at the spot where they had left their horses, when Leonora unbound her father's eyes. The face of Nature had changed since he was there bound two hours ago; the moon had reached her zenith, a few only of the brighter stars shone out, the air had gradually cooled till it was beyond freshness, and the Earl wrapt his cloak tighter round him.

Leonora blew her whistle--it was instantly answered,--a bandit broke through the woods leading two horses: they were not the same, but equally well bred, and richly caparisoned.

After assisting Leonora to mount, the Earl was soon firmly seated in his own saddle, and, giving a douceur to the man, followed Leonora slowly up the steep acclivity till they regained the road, and the scene of the morning's assault. He was surprised to find all the bodies had disappeared; the two poles were there--their burdens gone! the marks of the fray were still visible, the bodies of the disputants gone.

"What have they done with them?" he asked Leonora, pointing to the spot.

"They have taken them to the cave," answered the girl, "where they will be buried; it is not usually done--but there is fear of discovery now--so they have obliterated all marks."

"Leonora," said the Earl; "I can now talk freely with you. Do you know Naples? do you ever go there? I have my reasons for asking."

"I know Napoli well," replied Leonora, "and I believe our band, at least part of it, is going to travel thither shortly. I can go with them, they will not suspect; but why do you ask me?"

"Because," said he, "though I promised not to beguile you away--yet if you hate your present style of life, and fly to my villa at Naples--the Villa Reale--I see not how I shall compromise myself by offering you a safe asylum there, or taking you to England. However, I must have time to think it over, and I will try the power of gold on the old man."

"Alas! he cares little for money."

"Perhaps so, yet some of his band may not care so little: my first step towards your liberation must be getting a communication with you; I can always be found out, you cannot; so by your coming to me only we can fix a line of connecting link between us."

"I see," said Leonora; "but we should press on; it grows late, and your friends will get alarmed."

"True, my child, let us hurry forward."

With the words he spurred his horse into breathless speed, and side by side the two fleet animals spurned the light sand, and after a long ride reached the myrtle grove from whence they had started. The two dismounted, and then came the farewell; it may seem to some such a farewell would not be difficult, for, whatever the relationship between the two might be, they had in the course of their life been but slightly thrown together: it was not the case; each dreaded the moment, each tried to defer it, but come it must at last; and perhaps the quicker such separations are got over the better for those most concerned in them! It was no common separation--no ordinary farewell: they parted as father and child may for India, knowing they may never see each other again, for Leonora had told the Earl she was never more to meet him as the flower girl of his morning excursions, and she knew not whether she should ever be permitted to see him more; from all they knew of Bill Stacy this was extremely likely, and added much to the bitterness of parting. They never did gaze again on each other's eyes--it was the last parting here below.

"You are not going again to the Val," he said, still lingering; "could you not stay to-night with us?"

"No, it is impossible; there are those near who would prevent any such move! I am a slave yet; but I do not go back; we have many lurking places nearer you than you would believe."

"And I am to see you no more, my poor child,--you are never more to greet me with flowers, and brighter smiles, in the Val?"

"No more; indeed it will be long ere bright smiles lighten my face; but though you do not see me, you will know I love you, and if I live, I live to think of you, and all who are dear to you and me, and when I die, my last thought will be you!"

"And so will I think of you, Leonora! often and often when----but hark! what was that?"

"The signal, I must away. _Addio!_ my dear father."

"Stay one moment, see," said the Earl, drawing forth a ring which he placed on her finger; "if ever you want any favour show that ring to me, or if I am gone, to any of my family, and it will secure it for you, if it is in their power to give it!"

"_Grazzia, grazzia tanta!_" said Leonora; "and here is what will protect you and yours from every bandit in Italy; show this, and you are safe." At the same time she gave him the small paper with the hieroglyphic marks that excited the Marquis' surprise some chapters back.

"Farewell then, Leonora! you will always know where to find me, and keep the ring for my sake."

Pressing his lips to her cheek, he commended her to God's keeping and blessing, whilst she returned the kiss with Italian warmth, but her heart was too full to speak. Then breaking away she fled from him, and was soon lost in the myrtle thicket, leaving the Earl in mute wonder and grief.

In a few moments Lord Wentworth was able to collect his thoughts; he began to think it was high time to hurry home, and give an account of himself. The grove was not far from the villa, and with hasty steps he approached his dwelling, not without those feelings all must know when, bearers of strange tidings, they draw near to relate them to unsuspecting friends.

As he approached he was somewhat surprised to see so many lights about, and still more at the groups of wondering, whispering servants in the hall, the door of which was wide open.

"God be thanked, my Lord; you are here at last!"

"Here, why, what--what on earth is all this--what is the matter?"

"My lady is very ill," replied one.

"Ah, my lady is dying," said another.

"Ill--dying--Oh! it will drive me mad! here, out of the way--make way there. Oh, Ellen--my wife--my wife! I am coming!"

With such disjointed words did the Earl hurry to his partner's side, where, as our readers will remember, he had the joy of seeing her comparatively well again, and asleep; and, after having enlightened the Marquis on the main topics of the extraordinary affair, he retired to rest, first depositing the papers on which so much hung in his bureau, in the study where we first saw him writing. Following the Earl's example we shall also claim a short repose before again proceeding with the story, and thus close another chapter.