CHAPTER XX.

"His heart was formed for softness--warped to wrong; Betrayed too early, and beguiled too long; Each feeling pure--as falls the dropping dew Within the grot--like that had hardened too; Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed, But sunk, and chilled, and petrified at last."--_Corsair._

On the morning following these events the Earl and Countess, with the Marquis of Arranmore, deliberated over the strange tale at their breakfast table. Lord Wentworth had told everything to his wife during the early watches of the morning; and if she was even more surprised than he had been, she yet bore the trial with still greater calmness and patience. Lord Arranmore, perhaps of the three, seemed most affected; but their different ideas will best be exemplified by part of the conversation across the table.

"If you do wisely, Wentworth," said the Marquis, "you will keep this story precious quiet; if it gets about it will kick up a desperate row!--excuse the word, Countess, but least said soonest mended; and to try the case can do no possible good to unfortunate L'Estrange, and will certainly do you plenty of harm."

"But still, Arranmore, right is right; and if I am aware I am an usurper, I have no longer any right to remain so."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow; look quietly at it. Here is a fellow, a cut-throat, an assassin, a murderer,--and you, without any flattery, an ornament to our peerage; and because another old villain tells you he is your brother,--_ergo_, my Italian cut-throat becomes an English Earl, and my Lord of Wentworth sinks into a plain gentleman!"

"You forget, he is rightful heir, and only by an adverse fate was kept from his own. Surely, Arranmore, if you were proved to be spending another's fortune by misapprehension, your duty is to restore it, as well as all you have spent."

"It might be my duty, but I should certainly never stoop to it; besides, the case is different. Suppose the cleverest lawyer in the kingdom proved to a demonstration a convict murderer was the rightful Marquis of Arranmore, d'you think I would give up name, title, and possessions to him?"

"I did not say so; but if this convict had a son how would it be?"

"You have no proof L'Estrange ever had a son. Take my advice,--burn the papers, and never trouble your brains about it again. I grant it maybe very romantic, and there may be a degree of likelihood in the story; but for romance I would never let solid reality slip away. Think of your wife and Augusta;--as a father you are not bound, on mere report, to bring them to ruin!"

"I hope," said the Countess, "as I have shared my husband's prosperity, I shall be enabled to share his adversity, if it is God's pleasure; and I do hope Wentworth will be ruled by right; and whatever may happen, at least I will not add to his trials by impatience or complainings."

"I am quite sure you will always be faithful for better for worse," said the Earl, with earnestness. "No, Arranmore, depend on it, whatever course justice points to, I will go; and though it would be a trial--a heavy trial--to lose rank, wealth, and authority, still the hand that gave them takes away, and we have no right to murmur. At least it will not be for long; but, however protracted the trial may be, I trust I shall have grace to bear it."

"That's right, dearest; I am so glad to hear you speak thus," said the Countess.

The Marquis did not appear at all of the same opinion; but with a slight toss of his head,--as much as to say, "You're a precious fool to lose all for justice,"--asked, "What do you mean to do first, if you are resolved to run such an absurd course?"

"First," answered the Earl, "I shall leave for Naples, and by all possible means try and find out this brother of mine, and then frankly tell him the truth, and leave him to decide what is to be done. The case will go before the House of Lords, and he will, I am sure, see the impossibility of his establishing any claim for possession; but if he has a family, the title must descend to them I fancy. However, the first lawyers will decide."

"And we shall lose our title either way, I suppose," said the Countess. "Poor little Augusta! I feel most for her. It will be a dark hour; but we must try by the sunshine within us to lighten its gloom."

"On my faith it is too hard! Certainly heaven doesn't seem to favour her children; for if anybody living should have been free from trouble, it was you, Countess! It's hard lines, I swear; and to think it's all in your own power. I call it a kind of tempting of Providence."

"You forget, Marquis, we are nowhere exempted from the common trials mankind is heir to; at the best we are all unprofitable servants; and as we have so long enjoyed the beams of fortune, we are least excusable if we faint before the first cloud. It is not I, but my husband, that is to be most pitied,--for I merely return to my former position in life, whilst he sinks to unaccustomed trials! But one thing I will promise him, and that is, he shall never know any difference in me,--except that by fonder love I will try my best to ameliorate his troubles."

"God bless you, Ellen!" said the Earl; "you have ever been my better angel."

"Oh, do not say so, Wentworth; after all I only do what it is my duty to do. Think you, when I took the solemn vows at my marriage they were empty words? I have loved you in health, and wealth, and happiness; and if a few dark days have occasionally interrupted the long career of pleasures, they have been few and far between. Really, I am almost impatient to show you how well I can fulfil that part of my vows which speaks of sickness and sorrow! We have tried the better together,--perhaps," said the Countess, with a winning smile, "we are to try the worse."

The Earl looked lovingly at his beautiful partner, thinking he had indeed found a good thing when he gained such a wife. The Marquis shrugged his shoulders, as if not much liking the turn of the conversation. The Countess arose, and left the room. When she was gone he again addressed the Earl:

"I say, Wentworth, it's uncommon rum to think, if that yarn is true, that L'Estrange was so much at his own house without knowing it! that you and he should have been after the same girl; and what made you the happiest of men, made him the most miserable."

"It is more than strange; now that all is laid open I sometimes wonder the idea never struck me. His age, likeness to poor John, extraordinary early career,--so many points of resemblance! It is hard still to fancy him, not only my brother, but eldest brother; his associations too with Ellen are so curious! I see it is a painful subject to her; so I may give you the hint now to say little about it."

"Yes, by Jove! for though she was free to love whom she liked best, and was very wise to make choice of you, there is no possible doubt but that her refusal drove him distracted. After all, she got hold of the wrong man!"

The Marquis laughed; but Lord Wentworth was apparently little inclined for humour, and did not join in the joke.

"Let's have a squint at these papers," said the former. "I only just glanced at them last night; we shall see at once if they are forgeries or not. I wish, i' faith, they would turn out so, as you are determined to act like a fool."

Without replying, the Earl led the way to his study. The window was open,--the desk, unfinished letter, everything exactly as he had left it. There was, however, something present which excited his surprise, and this was a large case of mahogany left on his table, and a letter on the lid.

"By Saint Patrick, the Countess's jewel-box!" exclaimed the Marquis.

"This grows stranger and stranger," said the Earl, as he found his bureau burst open, and the papers gone.

"Are you sure you put them there?" asked the Marquis.

"Sure as death! There is some vile conspiracy yet! If they break faith with me our contract is ended; but let us read this letter."

"A d--d cramped piece of penmanship,' as the poet says," remarked Lord Arranmore; "can you read it, Wentworth? I am not very clever at decyphering these hieroglyphics."

"I will try; let us see,--it runs something like this:--'My Lord: The jewels are turfed again, but the papers was gave in a hurry, and are taken away. Think no more on last night, but forget you ever ran foul of Bill Stacy!"

"The villain is too clever by half," said the Marquis, "but really I am uncommonly well pleased it has turned out so; now you can have no possible excuse for making a noise. Take the writer's advice if you are wise, for whoever he be his advice is sound and good."

"I am really perplexed what I should do: I must go and talk it over with the Countess; meantime we must inform the authorities here about the savage murder last night, but I will not let out a word about my midnight adventure. If you will take a weed, I will go and see Ellen, and join you again presently."

The Marquis, conformably to advice, lighted his havanna and poured out a tumbler of light wine, anathematizing the country that produced no beer, and calmly enjoyed his "_otium cum dignitate_," whilst the Countess and her husband were busy talking over the case, and deciding what the next move should be. In about half an hour the Earl again entered the study.

"Well, Arranmore, we are at last come to a decision: we leave this immediately, first for Naples, and then England. In London I shall privately obtain the best legal advice as to the course I should pursue, and we shall then quietly await the _denouement_. I think I need not in any way be the prime mover, but time must elapse before the excitement of the case is passed away, and we are able dispassionately to consider its _pros_ and _cons_."

"Well, I congratulate you, my dear fellow! I for one shall be glad to leave for the old country, for I have paid you a long visit, and am anxious to be back at Claremont, and see my boy--at the Easter holidays; he is getting on capitally at Eton; I heard from him to-day."

"Oh did you? you generally hear pretty regularly, I think; he is a fine fellow, and we must have him up to Scotland in the summer. Dear me, Arranmore, if he and Augusta took a fancy to each other what a nice thing it would be!"

"Ha! I have long thought of that as a likely match; I hope I shall live to see them married. Faith! broadlands, and fair owners would meet. Augusta promises to grow a rare prize, and Arthur, dear fellow, he is getting up to me in height, though only twelve last October," said the Marquis, considerably overrating the young Anak's height.

A week after this conversation a travelling carriage drew up at the Villa Reale with the Earl, his wife, and daughter, and the Marquis, who was in high spirits at the thoughts of being homeward bound; he was to leave on the succeeding day, the rest following in a fortnight, as the Earl's yacht was then undergoing some slight repairs, and would not be ready before. On the next day Lord Arranmore left for Ireland, _viâ_ Marseilles. After seeing his friend off, the Earl called on the Count d'Azalia, prefect of police, to inquire if the whereabouts of Adrian Vardarelli were known, intending, if he could gain the information, to try and obtain an interview. Here he learned a piece of intelligence he was least prepared for. Scarcely had he named his brother than the Count, rubbing his hands together with joy, exclaimed--

"Ah, Signore, do I know where he is? Santa Maria, do I not! safe at last in prison!"

"In prison? impossible! in prison? how did you capture him?" asked the Earl, growing very pale.

"He gave himself up, the rascal; he will never more trouble the State with his atrocious villanies. He has assassinated Luigi, his brother, and now we are only waiting the king's pleasure, before he pays the penalty of his crimes with his life. He will tell nothing about his comrades, but the rack will find him a tongue. But my Lord, you are ill, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing, a passing faintness; I'll thank you for a glass of water."

The Earl drained the cooling beverage, and then asked, "Could I see this prisoner? in what gaol is he confined?"

"My Lord! see the prisoner, and why? Santa Maria, he is in no place suited for my Lord to enter, a felon in chains--ah! it is impossible, I fear."

"I have reasons for wishing to see this man, he is connected with my family in an extraordinary way."

"Well, my Lord, you are too well known here to incur suspicion, but you must be accompanied with soldiers, and also with a padre acquainted with the English language. There is no intention of prying into your conversation; and any secrets, if not affecting the State, will remain as safe with the holy man as if from the confessional. It is a form we cannot depart from."

"This would be extremely unpleasant to me, Monsieur le Comte; if I give my word of honour there is nothing to affect the prisoner's security, could I not see him alone? I do not doubt the honour of your priests, but not belonging myself to the Catholic persuasion I should be as well satisfied without one; it is in a family matter only the prisoner is useful to me."

"Well, Signore, as a friend, and as a great favour, I will give you a permit to see him for an hour or two: as he voluntarily gave himself up there is no fear of his trying to escape; if you will wait a few minutes I will write a permission."

"Given himself up, in a dungeon heavily chained, tortures and death in prospect, and he my brother! he the scion of a noble race, the true possessor of lands, title, and riches! to what has he fallen!" thought the Earl, as he watched the Count pen the permit.

"I think it right to inform you," said he, as he received the pass, "it is likely I may ask the life of this Adrian Vardarelli; he is not what he seems, Comte, he is not an Italian, and I have reason to believe that more hangs on that man's life than you are aware, and possibly the British Government may relieve you of the charge. I say I believe it only, I am not quite certain, but my interview with him will tell me all; meantime there is no chance of his immediate execution is there?"

"No, my Lord, it would not take place for months. There seems some mystery about this man. I have heard before he is an Englishman."

"He is, and I have reason to believe he is a great Englishman,--a man of rank and importance."

"Ah! that would be strange, but you will not be able to see him till the evening; it is against usual regulations, and must be done under the shadow of night; and, my Lord, you will tell no one of this permit."

"I will not, not even my wife. To-morrow I will come and see you again, and if he turns out what I believe him to be, as I said, his life must be spared until the Britannic minister has corresponded with his Majesty's government. I wish you a good day, Monsieur le Comte, and am much obliged for your kind services."

True to his promise, not even the Countess was made a confidante; she observed there was something on her husband's mind, and even inquired if all was right, but seeing his desire not to be interrogated, forbore asking more. About eight at night he told the Countess he had an engagement, and also bade her not to be alarmed if he was rather late in returning. Soon after he left in a close carriage and drove to the Castel Capuano, the ancient palace of the Swabian dynasty, now used as a court for the different tribunals--the Court of the First Instance, the Criminal Court, and Court of Appeal. Beneath the palace are dark dungeons in which many a captive has pined,--justly in requital for his crime, or unjustly, and that often, as the victim of injured innocence. At the palace the Earl's carriage stopped; he descended and was met by the Count, who to his surprise led him through the intricate passages, and then descended to the deep vaults below. A soldier of the guard carried a torch before them, and at last stopped before a heavily iron-clamped door, and taking a huge bunch of keys fitted one into the ponderous lock, and, turning it with difficulty, next unbarred and unchained this portal of captivity, and allowed the huge door to swing back on its rusty hinges with a grating, harsh creak. Two more soldiers with lanterns and muskets joined them, and the Count and turnkey then motioned the last mentioned to stand near the door, and the Earl also to enter. He did so, the great gate was again closed, he heard the bars drawn across, the chains coupled, the massive key turn in the wards of the lock, and the footsteps of the Count and his attendant fade away. An involuntary shudder passed through him as he felt himself actually within the walls of one of those dread prisons, and in a cell that the captive's voice vainly strives to pierce, whether innocent or guilty. One of the guards then addressed him, warning him he had not too much time, and had better not waste it; giving him also a lantern, and pointing to the darkest corner of the dungeon as the spot where the bandit lay. He received the lantern, and walked forward to the point indicated; by its glimmering ray he saw that the floor was uneven, and in many places so damp it resembled a marsh. The walls were old and mouldy, the moisture glistening on the huge stones of which they were built; near the floor were many bolts of mouldy iron, built into the masonry, and from them depended rusty chains, dragging their long length on the damp cold floor, or rather soil, beneath his feet. As he pursued his way down the great dungeon he came on a dread relic--a skeleton still bound by the gyves and fetters that held it a living prisoner long years ago. A shudder again ran through him: who had that victim been? was it man or woman? he was not anatomist enough to tell; had the victim been guilty, or innocent, a noble or peasant? who should say. He passed on; the opposing wall now appeared; in the corner, on a bed of maize-straw, a chained prisoner was stretched; could that be his brother? he turned the lantern's glare on his features; he almost started back; it was as if the Captain lay before him; never had the resemblance seemed so striking before. The light, blinding the captive, caused him to pass his hand over his eyes. The Earl could see him, he could not see who his visitor was, perhaps a messenger of death. Still the Earl gazed on him, still he could hardly summon resolution to speak. It was years since he had seen that face,--years of trouble, danger, exposure, hardship; vices had left their trace behind, they had not swept away old likenesses. Last time he had seen that man was, when, tiger-like, he stood over Ellen Ravensworth, and shot the servant who saved his (the Earl's) life. And here he lay, pale, dejected, hungry, bound, with the sentence of death weighing on him, and his own dark thoughts for a prison friend.

What a fall! what an end! The gay gallant young soldier, the ardent lover, what had he come to? first abductor, then murderer, escaping from prison and just doom--not to repent, not to reform, but to sink, step by step, to descend bar by bar, the ladder of infamy till he was now on the very ground, a condemned felon. And this is my brother still, and he is cold, and in prison, and I have come to visit him, and must speak.

"L'Estrange," said he at last, "I grieve to find you here."

The convict started up to a sitting posture; his wild eyes dilated, his hair seemed to stand, his whole frame shook, and as he clanked his gyves together the Earl thought he had never seen anything so dreadful, or any picture so like Apollyon bound.

"Ha!" cried the wretched man; "it only wanted this to complete the sum of misery; you are come to glory over my fall, to reproach me for my base attempts on Ellen, to throw my crimes in my teeth; but hear me before God--the God I have scoffed at, and all my life offended--I wished not to slay your brother, I knew not what I did; and yet it was he who brought me here--he who led me on from folly to sin, from sin to vice, from vice to crime--he who has destroyed me soul and body. Yes, abuse me for abusing friendship, mock at my woe, I have deserved it well."

"I have not come to reproach you, nor taunt you with crimes which, had it not been for a restraining Providence, I might have done myself. I came to tell you I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and to see what I can do for you, to treat you as a brother, as you are."

"To treat me as a brother!" said the unhappy man, with a look of extreme surprise. "No, no, no; do not treat me as a brother, that were worse still. Taunt me with my crimes, I can bear it; with my ingratitude to you,--to you who were ever a friend; crush the viper who stung his benefactor beneath your feet, but treat me not as a brother, I cannot bear that; leave me to perish as I deserve."

"Listen, Edward L'Estrange, I speak not allegorically, I speak plainly. I come to treat you as a brother, because you _are_ my brother; you may have striven to hurt me, but you have really done me no harm, I have no cause for feeling angry. I regret your unhappy life, I mourn over your many and deep crimes, I hate the sin, I can love the sinner: take my hand, my brother, for I feel sure I shall prove you to be so--take it as it is given."

"I cannot," replied the wretched man, "I cannot do so; you are the first who has spoken a kind word for years; the first who has cared for the outcast. I honour, I love you for it, but I cannot take your hand, it would be defilement to you, agony to me; let light and darkness embrace first."

"The sinless One--our great example and guide--ever sought sinners; take my hand, I intreat you, and forgive me as I forgive you from my heart. I know unintentionally I have been the prime cause of your stumbling, let me be the first to recover you, and lead you back to virtue. Now listen to me--I have much to say to you, and when you have heard all you will take the hand you still refuse; first answer me a few questions--do you know who was your father?"

"I never saw him,--my birth is wrapt in mystery. I have heard he was some great man, and I was the unrecognized son of some one of rank in England; my early life I have told you. One only clue, or what might be a clue to the secret I have got, it is this." As he spoke he drew out a small steel casket. "It is locked; when I received it I swore never to open it till on my death bed. I am on my death bed now but I have not yet opened it; there is the key, you may unlock it."

"I will then open it," said the Earl.

He did so, and produced a small vellum on which the truth was engraved in the following words:

"This is to certify that he who was commonly known under the name of Edward L'Estrange was first born son of Richard, 17th Earl of Wentworth, Arthur Plantagenet Vere de Vere, Viscount de Vere, who was reported to have been drowned, but was carried off by me, William Hermiston, _alias_ Mad Helder, _alias_ Bill Stacy, and brought up as a pirate till rescued by the captain of the Arethusa, and afterwards adopted by him and named Edward L'Estrange. That this is true can be sworn by me, by Farmer Forbes, Jeanet Forbes, his wife, and many others if required.

"Signed, BILL STACY."

The Earl then handed it to the unfortunate man, who by the dim light deciphered the writing.

"You will know now why I sought you,--why I called you my brother, and why I asked your forgiveness?"

"Oh! this is awful news," exclaimed Viscount de Vere, as we shall now call him, without giving him the title he was rightful possessor of, as it would only make confusion. "And I have been a fratricide, and all my life waged war against my family!"

He covered his face with his hands, and his thoughts were burning, intense, horrible!

"That miscreant Bill! If I ever saw him again--and you think it is reliable. Ha! how often have I heard about Arthur de Vere, and his strange loss: little I thought it was I. And the Towers my own house, and you all brothers and sisters, and I have made some wretched, and slain my brother, and disgraced my race and name! Would God I had filled that little empty coffin I have seen in the vaults at Dun Edin Towers! Oh! if I had been drowned. Why did I live to become the monster of guilt I am?"

"It is useless to sigh over what is done; you must try and reform and make the future redeem the past. Yours has been a wayward fate,--born to rank and honour which you never succeeded to, born with a mind meant for better things, a rich soil on which not flowers, but weeds, have luxuriated! The victim of bad men, you have sunk to infamy; but 'though your sins be as scarlet' recollect they may be made 'white as snow!' the greatest sinner may yet repent!"

"Too late--too late." They were the only words the hapless man could utter, so overwhelmed was he at first by the intelligence.

The Earl stood silent too, then Viscount de Vere spoke:

"Wentworth, whatever are my rights I have forfeited them. Will you grant my dying wish, and that is never while I live mention this. When by my death I have atoned for my crimes record my unhappy fate on my tomb stone. Keep your name--use your wealth as you ever have done, shine the star you have ever shone, and leave your poor misguided brother to end the short time he may yet have to live in prison."

"I have no right to do so if you have any family;--tell me, had you ever son or daughter?"

"Never that I knew of; it is true I did marry, but I left my wife very shortly after our union, and since have never heard of her."

"At present," said the Earl, "all I can do for you is to try and have you removed to a more comfortable place than this damp dungeon, and supplied with bed and proper food. I shall, I think, have influence with the government to enable you to pass the remainder of your life in seclusion, with every comfort that money can bring; of course you must remain abroad, and let me beseech you to devote your time to religion, and seek to enjoy endless happiness above! You need not think it is too late--greater sinners than you have found pardon and peace; and then if your life here has been a sad one, it will all be forgotten there!"

"It is useless--there is no hope for me in this world, nor the next. There is one thing I ask, and you will grant it I am sure; it is this, that the Countess would come and see me. Oh! if I could only see her once more, and know she forgave me I could die happy."

"I am sure I may promise you that request. I shall see you again to-morrow; till then adieu, for I hear them at the door. Is there anything you would like that I could procure?"

"Nothing but rest, and I am not likely to get that."

"Adieu, then, and God in his mercy grant the reigning powers may give a favourable hearing to your case; at the worst I can appeal to the House of Lords, but even then there would be little hope."

The brothers then parted, and the Earl left with the Count. In conclusion we need only say nothing could be done for the prisoner without an interview with the King, which the Earl solicited for the following day; but he obtained leave for the Countess to pay a visit to the unhappy man, and then bidding the Count good evening, and placing a purse of gold in the guard's hand to procure any comfort his brother might wish, he drove home, and recounted the adventure to his wife.

"Will you go and see him there?" said the Earl.

"It will be a great trial, but I must nerve myself to it. How impossible it seems to believe that he is your brother and mine too!"

"I shall crave an audience of the King to-morrow after leaving you there, and whilst I am away you can converse with him. If I procure his freedom we must try and get a residence either in Sicily, or some of the neighbouring islands, where he can lead a retired life, and occasionally see his friends. There is one thing sure, and that is his life is now a short one,--he has already reached an age few De Veres ever attained, but I only hope your influence may yet do something to lead his mind to better things. I wish I could have seen in him repentance rather than remorse for his life of crimes."