CHAPTER XXII.

"Lovely in life, and unparted in death."--_Anon._

About two months after their arrival at the Towers, the Earl and Countess in the garb of deep mourning were walking together down the Holly Walk. We do not know why they chose that peculiar place, fraught with so many sad recollections; however, they silently trod the verdant path, and seated themselves on the selfsame bench where young Ravensworth had last sat, where Lady Florence and Ellen rested on the morning of his departure.

"Ellen," said the Earl, "we have now been united for twelve years, and never has one unkind word or action marred my domestic bliss; you have been my partner in joy, my solace in woe, and as our family tree is stript leaf by leaf, and we two, and our bud Augusta are alone left, I often think what should I do without you."

"My dearest Wentworth, I have often told you it is but my duty--a delightful one--to try and be a helpmate instead of hindrance to you; and I may say too during all our married life I have never seen an unkind look,--you have been my love and faithful lover in a way unhappily too rare."

"Yes, we were made for each other, Ellen; they say marriages are made in heaven: I am sure ours was, for by my union with you I have won everything in this world and the next. I have lived to see and admire your silent example, lived to see its blessed fruits in my two sisters, lived to follow and value religion, and to feel the assurance that our hearts are bound not only now, but to all eternity in cords of everlasting love."

"Give to God the praise, dearest Wentworth; if I have been the unworthy instrument of leading you from earthly dross to eternal and unchangeable riches, I have been _only_ the poor instrument, but this seems my happiness; to hear my best loved speak so is the bright answer of many, many prayers. I knew they would be answered. I felt sure you were mine both upon earth and in heaven!"

"Ah, Ellen, it is in this one sees the reality of religion. What are rank, earthly honours, position, wealth, if only to be used or abused here? What are all to a dying man? Yes, it is one thing to talk of death, one thing to enjoy life, as if death existed not,--it is another to know our end is near, to feel we must soon lose all; leave the world naked as we came into it, tread out on empty space, quit our firm footing below! had we then no assurance that around us were the everlasting arms, what would all earthly joys do for us? but thanks to heaven, and to you for leading me to seek that treasure where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, I feel that if called to die this night I could die happy. There might be the pang mortal man must own when his breath forsakes him, there might be the human dread of the cold tomb, the pain of the wrench from those we love below, but my mind would be happy, happy in the thought I should soon see you again, and those I loved, and have darkly lost."

"True, dearest, and earth has so little left us now, it seems as if we were called to think more on heaven! Every tie seems severed but one--our daughter. I would endure to live for her and for you, but certainly most of our dear ones are beyond the grave, and there my heart often soars too."

"I have a strange presentiment, dearest Ellen, that I shall not long be spared to you. Since my brother's death I have felt the shadow of the tomb overshading me! Whether it was the awful scene of his self-destruction, or the air of the damp dungeon in which he was confined, I know not, but I have never felt the same man since. I think I shall soon go too!"

"Ah! say not so," said the Countess. "Oh, Wentworth! you must not leave us. It is a different thing to speak of death and to see our dearest fade beneath its cruel breath! You must take advice, dear, and change the air. This uncertain climate, after so long a residence in Italy, is not suiting you. Promise me you will take advice."

"It is needless, love; no doctor could avail. Remember the Weird; remember what I told you in the grot where I sought and won your hand and heart. Ours is a strange family! Coming death with us casts his shadow ever before. I have long been under that shade. No, Ellen, it is come at last; I shall never see the summer roses! Spring is now putting out her buds and early leaves, but summer's flowers will blossom over my tomb."

"Oh! my dear husband," said the Countess, with tears in her eyes, "do not talk thus, and break my heart. Oh! live for your Ellen! it will kill her if you die. Live for Augusta! Oh, do not--do not leave us."

"I hear the voice that calls me, Ellen; you must not weep so; it will only be for a little while we are separated; it is but a _narrow_ stream, and you will live and bring up our pledge of fondest love, little Augusta; let her be your second self, and I will look down on you, and be very near you still, only the thinnest, airiest veil will lie between us. I believe, and I think many believe with me, our departed friends are close beside us. I doubt not Edith and Florence are very near now; we cannot see, nor feel, nor hear them, but 'tis only the breaking of life's silver cord that severs us."

"Wentworth, if you die your Ellen will not long survive you. Do you recollect too what I told you when we pledged our faith? that not even death should part us--it will not, I feel sure. But here comes Augusta with early flowers, dear child; let us speak of happier things. Come, darling, you must banish these thoughts of gloom; you will be spared long to us both, I am sure."

The Earl shook his head, and rose to greet his little daughter, who had made a bouquet of sweet primroses, violets, and snowdrops, gathered by the burn's side, for her mother. The Countess received the offering with a smile, kissed her daughter, and the family group then returned to the Towers, conversing on ordinary topics. Still through the remainder of the day a cloud often darkened over the Countess's face as she thought on the morning's conversation; and her husband's words, alas! too prophetic in their doom, rung like a death-knell in her ears.

She could not help noticing a peculiar and unusual heaviness about the Earl; he was not like himself all day, and retired to rest at an early hour. Lady Wentworth's fears were, however, partially chased away by the good spirits in which her husband rose next morning. He asked her to accompany him on horseback, with Augusta, to some of the surrounding farms, which she gladly acceded to. They returned at luncheon time, and shortly after that meal her anxiety was first awakened by a rather alarming giddiness and faintness which suddenly attacked the Earl. It was some time ere he recovered his sensibility, and then a severe headache oppressed him, growing so bad that before evening the Countess prevailed on him to allow her to send for the physician. The latter at once perceived it was from fever that he was suffering, and ordered him to bed. For some days no bad symptoms were observed; the doctor was quite sanguine, and told the Countess that he doubted not but that the unimpaired physical strength of the Earl would get the better of the disease. About the eighth day, however, unfavourable symptoms first showed themselves, and the fever assumed the low typhoid form. Another medical adviser was called in. From the first, however, the Earl had told the doctor he should not recover; but this was kept from the Countess, who hoped on still. The fell disease ran on its course, every day the fever became fiercer, and at last even Ellen saw there was little hope of his recovery. The fever did its work of ruin with ruthless vengeance, prostrating its victim, and undermining his strength, till the stout Earl was reduced to the mere shadow of what he had been. From the eighteenth day more or less delirium and stupor set in, and he knew no one, not even Ellen, who with unremitting care had watched him through his illness, and never once left his side, scarcely closing her eyes.

The crisis arrived: for twenty-one days he had been stretched on the bed of sickness,--for nearly four delirium triumphed. About noon he opened his eyes, and when he saw his pale loving wife sitting by him holding his hot dry hand in her own, and chafing his temples, he smiled and articulated the word "Ellen." She eagerly drunk the sound--it was life in death to her.

"You know me then, dearest, you are better?"

"Yes, I know you now, my love. I feel better, but I am very weak. Go and take some sleep, dearest, I shall be better soon."

Exhausted with the exertion of speaking so long, he sank back on his pillow. Ellen kissed his brow softly, and whispering, "I shall soon be back, darling," left him to seek Nature's great restorer, of which the gentle lady had so much need. She never saw him again; she never more came back to sit at his loved side. The fatigue of twenty-one days' watch, twenty-one nights' sleepless vigil, was too much even for her system. Her head ached throbbingly, she could not sleep, so hot and fevered she grew; and when trying to wrestle with tired Nature's demands, she again rose to continue her labour of love, she sank exhausted on the ground. She was placed on a sofa and restoratives employed, but without effect, and about the hour of sunset the doctor pronounced life fled! The Earl recovered from the fever, but not from its effects. He never rose from the bed on which he had so long lain, but during the five days he still survived he was blessed with the full possession of his reason. He missed his kind attentive wife, and often asked after her. Fearing the effects of his learning the sad news, the doctors for some time deceived him so far as to tell him she was only ill, very ill, or would be beside him.

"Why is she not brought here?" he asked. He read the answer in the face of his attendants. "Tell me the whole truth, hide nothing from me--Ellen is no more."

"She is in heaven,--she is happy. My daughter is safe now beyond the storms of life," said Mr. Ravensworth, who stood beside his couch.

"She has been faithful to death," said the dying man, "and has received her crown of life before me. I can die calmer now. I shall see her again very soon. Call my daughter, Augusta; I must bid her adieu. Has the Marquis arrived yet?"

"He is expected every moment," said Mr. Ravensworth. "Mr. Power is also here. Would you like to receive the Sacrament?"

"Yes, much--very much. You will share it with me, will you not?"

"I will. Shall I call Mr. Power, then?"

"Yes, now,--and Augusta."

The dying man sank back, and closed his eyes,--he seemed lost in prayer,--so much so he did not notice either Augusta, the clergyman, nor the Marquis, who had just arrived by express speed, and stood by his friend's bed with clasped hands, and eyes wet with tears. The Earl opened his eyes.

"Call Andrew and Philip. I feel death's hand upon me now. I must take leave of my faithful servants."

Some one left the room quietly; and soon afterwards the _leal_ old butler, and Philip, as well as several other servants, amongst whom came Wilton, entered the chamber of death.

It was the hour when early dawn first glows the orient skies. That rising sun would be the last that would ever lighten the Earl's eyes! It was a lovely morning in late spring,--a dewy coolness breathed over the woods and plains,--the first rays were shedding their radiance on the distant hills,--the old Towers were just catching the descending glory,--birds were singing, flowers unfolding, and timid deer shaking the dew-drops from their flanks. It was the infancy of the day,--the birth of the light,--the morning of the natural world,--the spring of the year. It was all this without. To have walked over the verdant park,--to have wandered through the green woods, with their vernal leaf,--to have tracked the bubbling rivulet,--to have breathed the fresh morning air,--to have watched the matin glow,--to have heard the bird's early carol,--to have glanced at that fine old mansion,--who would have thought of death? Everything was life! Everything was gladness without those walls! Who would have thought of death within? And yet the owner of these broad estates,--these woods,--flood and fells,--the lord of that ancient castle,--the master of all we see,--was then _dying_. The lady of his love,--the mistress of all we see,--_dead_![I] Ah! what a different scene is within that pile! Let us open the door of the banqueting-room--the room where wine and merriment had often made the long winter evenings seem short--the room where we have seen so many of the noble family and their friends pass the wine-cup that circled the halls with glee! Let us see what is there now. The great table is clothed with crape; the walls are draped with black; and on that table lies a narrow coffin. There is nothing funeral about its appearance; it is covered with white velvet, and ornamented with silver; white silken ropes pass through the handles, and each has a wrought-silver tassel. A bright silver plate shines in the centre,--above it the coronet and arms of the Wentworths are engraved,--on it are the simple name and age of the departed one,--

ELLEN, COUNTESS OF WENTWORTH, Aged 31 years. She sleeps in peace!

On the lid a wreath of white roses has been placed, as a tribute of undying love, by Augusta. There is something bright in the death of such a being,--it is the birth into glory!

Let us next ascend the staircase, and, passing along the corridor, open the door of the Earl's room. Here another sad sight awaits us. On his dying bed, supported by pillows, he sits up, his two hands placed on Augusta's fair hair; she kneels beside her expiring parent, and weeps with wild despair. A beautiful girl of eleven, she is early called to suffer bereavement! Her mother lies cold below,--her father lies sinking before her. No marvel the poor child weeps! She is losing a fond father,--has lost a fond mother. Beside her stands the tall, stalwart Marquis of Arranmore. His face is buried in his hands. He is losing a dear friend and brother! At the foot of the couch kneels the clergyman, at the side of Mr. Ravensworth, offering a prayer to heaven to support and comfort in the hour of death, and look with pity on the orphan. He is losing a kind patron. Near the door are grouped the weeping servants. They are losing a generous master. There is one other occupant of the chamber,--the Earl's Newfoundland dog. That dumb animal knows well his lord is dying, and with wistful glance watches his every movement. On a small table beside the bed are the sacred Elements, about to be administered. All are silent. Nought is heard save the subdued weeping of men, and the unrestrained sobs of the only representative of woman, poor little Augusta. That still silence is broken. Who speaks? The dying man. Every ear is attentive,--every heart responsive as he speaks!

"Andrew, you have ever been a faithful servant to me; when I am gone, for my sake, be a faithful servant--nay friend--to my child!"

"Gude bless you! I will--I will!" cried the poor old man. "But, oh! it is a sair trial to lose you, my good master!"

"I say the same to you, Philip, and the rest. Adieu to you all."

The Earl ceased. Again the voice of weeping was heard. Poor old Andrew came forward and pressed his master's hand to his lips, then retired, whispering the rest to follow him, leaving only the family in the room.

"And now, my little Augusta, your papa is dying, love! You will be an orphan, my child; but the God of the fatherless will be your God! Promise me, darling, to seek early that friend,--the only friend on the bed of death. Kiss me, love. And I am sure your uncle will be a kind uncle to you when your papa is no more. Farewell, my little Augusta, God bless and keep you!"

Another pause:--then, addressing the Marquis, he continued: "You will be a father to my child when she is left an orphan. Oh! bring her up so that she may resemble her sainted mother. And you, my dear Ravensworth, you, too, will remember my daughter's spiritual welfare. You are her Godfather. Oh! act up to your sacred office! I should like to see you alone, Arranmore, now,--only a few moments, and then I will receive the Communion."

At the hint Mr. Ravensworth led Augusta from the room to an ante-chamber, whither he and Mr. Power also retired.

The Earl then said, "My dear Arranmore, I wished to see you privately about the possibility of there being yet a claimant to my title. Should such a one come forward, promise me, as a friend and brother, you will abide by justice. Not even for Augusta, to whom I commend your fondest love, depart from the right, or swerve from truth. You will promise me?"

"I will," said the Marquis, scarcely articulating the word in his grief.

"And you will be Augusta's guardian and guide. You and Ravensworth I have made co-trustees and guardians. Oh! bring her up to emulate her dear mother,--this is my dying wish,--let it be sacred! I should of all things like the union of our families in Augusta and your Arthur, but only if they love each other. You will bury me side by side with Ellen. And that is all. You may call Mr. Power now."

The last Sacrament was then devotionally received by the dying man, his pastor, the Marquis, and Mr. Ravensworth. Then the Earl, whose breathing became short and painful, expressed a wish to be left alone for some short time. He kissed Augusta, and pressed the hand of his friends, who adjourned to the ante-room, so as to be in hearing of the slightest call. They heard his difficult breathing grow shorter and fainter, till at last the gasps were few and very distant from each other, and then ceased to be heard.

"He must be sleeping," said the Marquis. "I will go and see."

He stole to the bedside. The Earl's hands were clasped in the attitude of prayer, his lips slightly parted, his eyes closed,--and for ever! Through the door of his lips the breath no longer flowed. The feather held to his mouth was unswayed,--the mirror untarnished. Without a sigh he had passed away, and had calmly sunk into his long last sleep, smiling while all around him wept.

"Weep not so, my child," said Mr. Power to Augusta, as she threw herself on her father's breast. "Weep not so. Your papa is happy now, and in heaven with your mamma."

But the child wept on, till her uncle and grandfather gently drew her from the scene, each resolving he would be all to that fatherless, motherless little girl, that ever her fond parents could have been, had they been spared to her youthful years.

CONCLUSION.

Our tale is finished. We have seen the curse, pronounced long ages ago, fulfilled on a whole race! Each in the flower of her age, each in the pride of his strength, has been remorselessly cut down by Death.

First the accomplished Edith, burned on the night of the wedding-ball of her brother; next the fair-haired Florence, broken-hearted at her young lover's death; then Frank, on the field of glory; then the terrible death of the Captain shocked us, and the self-wrought doom of the unhappy Edward L'Estrange, the hero of the book,--the unhappy, ill-starred man, who should have lived and died, as his happier brother the Earl lived and died. Our heroine, Ellen, faithful to death, fulfilled her promise, Ruth-like, to go where her husband went; to lodge where he lodged; his people became her people, and her God his! When he died she died, and nought parted them--not even death! We cannot dismiss our favourite without a few passing words on her character.

In early youth, too much tinged with romance, she committed a great fault, for we must not shut our eyes to the fact,--she most decidedly jilted her first lover for the young Earl. Our readers may excuse her if they like. We might excuse her,--but she never excused herself! True she really loved him not, and the Earl was her first true love; but she learned a bitter lesson, how wrong it was to encourage what she could not reciprocate; how wrong to lead on a lover to distraction! Ah! hearts are brittle ware, and easily broken! Ellen then committed _one_ great fault!--but her whole life suffered for it; never was sin more bitterly visited. Our readers, however indulgently they may view her error, must mark the fatal consequences one swerve from TRUTH entailed on herself and all connected with her.

And now we need only add that the Earl and Countess were laid side by side, followed to the tomb by the whole surrounding neighbourhood--high and low, rich and poor; no eye unwet; no voice but praised the dead, and sympathized with the poor little orphan Countess.

Another orphan sympathized and wept with Augusta,--Caroline Lennox, who had safely returned home.

We now leave the story to our readers' acceptance, and conclude with the best wish--that from these incidents the young may learn to follow the good, and to forsake the wrong. That it is better to live, and die, like the Earl and his Countess, than like Captain de Vere, or the unhappy Edward L'Estrange!

ENDNOTES:

[A] See Note I. _The Funeral._

[B] A fact.

[C] See Note K. _Val di Bovino._

[D] See Note L. _The Vardarelli._

[E] The costumes of Leonora and this bandit are true to life.

[F] See Note M. _The Mysterious Guide._

[G] Scuffle, or shindy.

[H] N.B.--Having dropped Bill Stacy's lingo, we shall not reintroduce it.--_J.S._

[I] See Note N. _Deaths of Earl and Countess._

APPENDIX.

_Note_ A, _vol._ i, _page_ 6.--OLIVER CROMWELL.

The Protector, as is well known, died on the anniversary of his two greatest victories.

The 3rd of September, 1650, beheld him victor at Dunbar, the 3rd of September, 1651, at Worcester; the 3rd of September, 1658, he yielded up his ambitious soul.

A terrific hurricane swept over England the night he died, and it is worthy of record that a similar convulsion of the elements took place at the deaths of Napoleon Bonaparte, Pitt, George IV., and other men of note.

_Note_ B, _vol._ i, _p._ 10.--WEIRD OF THE WENTWORTHS.

_Weird_, derived from the Saxon, means _fated_; it is here used as a substantive; more frequently it is found adjectively, _e.g._:--

"The _weird_ sisters, hand in hand."--_Macbeth._

"To the _weird_ lady of the woods."--_Old Ballad._

Sir Walter Scott uses it as a substantive throughout his novels. _Vide_ Guy Mannering, chap. xlvi. "The Weird's Dreed."

The original _weird_, _curse_, or _fate_, is to be found in the archives of a good English family; I forget where I read it, but it made a great impression on my mind.

The name _Wentworth_ is selected merely as one connected with the author's family, and has no historic reference to the Straffords, or any other title in our peerage.

_Note_ C, _vol._ i, _p._ 55.--QUEEN'S DRIVE.

The road _probably_ did not exist, _certainly_ not as the "Queen's Drive," at the time of our tale. If any critic catches up the anachronism, I can only defend myself with Cowper's lines:--

"No matter when, a poet's muse is To make them grow just where she chooses."

_Note_ D, _vol._ i, _chapter_ xi.--SWITZERLAND.

The descriptions are drawn from nature, and the impressions those which a tour, in the loveliest weather, through the romantic country created in the author's mind. He, however, believes he has crowned Rigi with an hotel before due time.

_Note_ E, _vol._ i, _p._ 140.--DEVIL'S BRIDGE.

_Le Pont du Diable_ is a thread-like bridge spanning a tremendous gap made by the Reuss through the rocks near Fluellen. The author, with some friends, saw it under the circumstances here described, and the little incident narrated actually took place among the party.

_Note_ F, _vol._ i, _p._ 148.--THE TOWERS.

Though the main topics of the scenery are true to nature, it is almost needless to say no such castles as the Towers ever existed near the Lammermoors save in imagination. The same may be said of the scenery in the next few chapters. Individually each spot is as faithful a picture of _some_ place as the author could draw, but _en masse_ they are grouped without any attention to topography beyond the general resemblance one spot has to another in Scotland's romantic land.

_Note_ G, _vol._ i, _p._ 237.--JUSTIFIABLE SUICIDE.

The author is aware that some demur may be raised against the lawfulness of suicide under _any_ circumstances, and that many deem it irreconcileable with a Christian profession in _every_ contingency. He begs to leave it an open question. During the Indian mutiny, and in similar cases of certain death by human violence, he believes that suicide was not only attempted, but committed, by truly religious persons. The moral character of the heroine was only gradually developing itself, and he trusts all final judgment upon her will be reserved till the close of the romance.

_Note_ H, _vol._ i, _p._ 258.--REBECCA.

Owing to corresponding incidents a certain resemblance to the celebrated scene in _Ivanhoe_ was almost unavoidable; the author hopes he has steered clear of any intentional likeness, but if he has caught a faint echo from the immortal Scott, he is not ashamed to own it. "_Sequiturque patrem, non passibus æquis._"

_Note_ I, _vol._ ii, _p._ 45.--THE FUNERAL.

The scene at Lady Arranmore's funeral was taken from the description of the impressive and beautiful ceremony performed on the occasion of the late deeply lamented Prince Consort's sepulture.

_Note_ K, _vol._ ii, _p._ 126.--VAL DI BOVINO.

This Val is a narrow defile formed by the _Cervaro_ through the Apennines, and has always been the celebrated haunt of brigands. The following scene is not fictitious, though names are of course changed.

_Note_ L, _vol._ ii, _p._ 129.--THE VARDARELLI.

This was the name of some notorious banditti in the beginning of this century. I have no reason to believe they were not true Italians, though here a foreign parentage is given to them.

_Note_ M, _vol._ ii, _p._ 175.--THE MYSTERIOUS GUIDE.

This story is taken from an adventure which in part happened to a countryman of the author's.

_Note_ N, _vol._ ii, _p._ 259.--DEATHS OF EARL AND COUNTESS.

The end of our heroine and her lord is also taken from real life.

THE END.

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