The Weird Of The Wentworths Volume I Part 23

"You are an unreasonable brute to-night," answered the Captain. "I come to right all, and you treat me like a peevish child who pushes away the medicine that is to do him good! Come, let us talk you to reason over a bottle of wine, and light your fire, it is cold and dull;" so saying he struck his flint and steel, and kindling some tinder set a light to the shavings, and then walked across the room to a cupboard and took out a stand of silver with cut gla.s.s bottles, containing whisky, brandy, and gin; drawing a table before the fire, he placed the bottles upon it, and seated himself on an arm-chair, lighted his pipe and smoked in silent thought. L'Estrange moodily placed a chair opposite, and seating himself on it watched the fire. When the fire was burning pretty bright, throwing some dry logs on the blazing flames, the Captain opened conversation with:--

"I hope you see your plans are gone to the devil. I have tried to bolster up the sinking fabric, but it is no use; it must all be pulled down and a new erection built out of the ruins."

"I think," answered L'Estrange, "there is an unseen power working against us,--it is useless to do more."

"What will you then do?"

"Leave an ungrateful country and a faithless love, and bury myself in the backwoods of America."

"That were a fool's plan indeed,--by Jove, you are easily cast down,--never say die! if a girl won't love you, make her!"

"That is easier said than done; one man can bring the horse to the water, ten cannot make it drink."

"A girl is not a horse, nor a mule either, but you are an a.s.s to quote the proverb. _Your_ plans have gone to mischief; hear _mine_."

For more than a quarter of an hour the Captain then detailed his scheme.

During the recital, as on a former occasion in Stacy's cabin, the quick changes on L'Estrange's face showed the pa.s.sions within his breast. When it was finished, for a moment he sat mute; then rising, said in a hollow voice:--

"Captain de Vere, I did not know you; you must be leagued with the Evil One to think of a scheme so heartless,--so diabolical."

"Keep your abuse for those who'll stand it,--I for one won't. I see you are a chicken-hearted fool! If you begin to grow soft, better throw up the whole,--faint heart never won fair woman yet,--let her marry,--see her in another's arms! A rare sight for a faithful lover!"

"Speak not of love, you who propose a plan so devilish,--you can never have felt it; your love is base, not true pa.s.sion! I love the girl too well to harm a ringlet of her hair; I will not agree."

"Base ingrate, hear me. I care not what you do--it is nothing to me who gains your sweetheart. I have striven, worked, plotted for your weal; this is my reward--unqualified abuse. You and your paramour may go to the devil. I will have no more to do with you--good night."

"Stay," said L'Estrange, as he rose to depart, "oh, stay--forgive me, I meant not what I said; only give me time to think,--if you knew how I loved her!"

The Captain resumed his seat. "Listen, L'Estrange," he said, "there is nothing after all to call forth such a storm of abuse; you may make your own terms."

"Ah! I see it now in a different light,--but her agony--her fright--her terror--it would kill her,--no, no! I will not."

"Weak, vacillating, inconsistent as a woman, you must be fixed. Hearken, L'Estrange, you have gone too far now to retract; you did not enlist me for nothing; this concerns not only you, but me also; it is of paramount importance to me that Wentworth marries not Ellen; there is but one way to prevent their union,--it must be done; you are a fool to hesitate."

"You know not what you ask; I cannot acquiesce."

"Then by G-- Almighty, I will bring you to your bearings! Either agree and be a man, or else refuse, and I at once go to Wentworth and disclose the treachery."

"It were better,--there needs but this to fill my cup of infamy."

"You are undecided still?"

"Give me time; even the murderer is granted time to make his peace with heaven."

"I am not unreasonable--I will give you five minutes;--there lies my watch," said the Captain, laying it on the table; "it is now five minutes to twelve,--when the clock strikes, your doom is sealed one way or another."

The most dreadful silence followed this action; you might have heard a pin fall. It was worth while to note the different aspect of the two.

The Captain's eye, unrelenting and stern, betrayed a high resolve, worthy a better cause; a scornful smile curled his handsome mouth, as though he despised his weaker victim. L'Estrange's varying pa.s.sions were chasing one another across his face as the shadows of clouds fleet o'er a sunlit field; his countenance was the mirror of his heart,--pity, anguish, despair, unresolve, were all there. One was like the victim, the other the destroyer, and never serpent, tiger, or demon, glared fiercer on its luckless prey than did Captain de Vere on his captive.

Slowly the minutes glided away; till four were past neither spoke. When one minute only remained, the Captain said, "One more only now,--is your mind resolved?"

Speechless agony was in the unhappy man's eye.

"Time is up! What is your answer?" said the Captain, as the clock tolled midnight.

"I consent."

"That is right! Then you are ready for all. You have been an accursed time in coming to this! You will, then, begin your part to-morrow."

"To-morrow? So soon? Besides, you have not considered Ellen is no fool; she will require proofs,--you have none."

"Have I not? I had been a fool like thee then," said his tormentor in a voice that banished his last hope, "look here! What do you think of that?" taking from his cigar case a warrant with the proper signature.

It was the same he had appropriated at Brighton, but was no longer blank.

L'Estrange saw and shuddered. "But to-morrow?"

"What! hesitating again? It is too late now,--to-morrow!"

And without waiting for another word, the speaker rose and left the room. When he was gone, L'Estrange clasped his hands across his forehead, as if to hold his brow from breaking; his eyes seemed starting from their sockets; his whole frame shook with agitation, his thoughts, oh, Heavens! his thoughts! they were fire. "He spoke too true," muttered he from between his clenched teeth, "I have gone too far, it is too late; I cannot retrace my steps, and, whatever is the result, I must go on and reap my reward. Would G.o.d I had never met that heartless, bad man!--would G.o.d I had had the courage to refuse!--would G.o.d I had never called him back! Surely an evil star is ascendant over me. I have gone too far; I am like the vessel that once enters the fatal current of the Maelstrom: I shall be slowly but surely drawn in till sunk in the bottomless pit of iniquity, infamy, and despair. And you, gentle Ellen, what will you think? What will be your feelings? What will be your grief, your horror? How shall I ever look again in your face? You little know what hangs over you. You dream now, haply, of him you love, or, haply, you lie awake and think how happy you will be. It is false. A snake shall enter your border of flowers. Who is that snake? It is I; false villain! But it shall not be; I will at once go and reveal the black treachery. I will throw myself at the Earl's feet and confess all!

Let him kill me, do what he will--I will have a clean heart." He rose; he walked to the door; his hand was on the bolt,--what deterred him?

Pride, false pride! The devil whispered, what will the Captain think?

what will Musgrave think? what will they all think? Will they not regard you as more fickle than a woman--a traitor too--a base ingrate; have they not worked for you; for you risked everything? The pause was fatal,--he lifted his hand off the latch, and returned. Oh, how many a soul has been lost by a pause,--the pilgrim has looked back, turned back, and lost all. That moment L'Estrange felt his good angel take her flight. He did not dream it--he felt it perceptibly, actually _felt_ it.

His guardian angel had spoken her last warning, given her last note of danger; he had refused to hear; the still small voice of conscience was drowned for the last time--it _never_ spoke again. A darkness not of this world settled on his soul; a new power took possession of his heart; the last waning spark of goodness went out. No power, human or divine, could relight it. While the good spirit dwells in the heart, be it never so faint, never so tremblingly alive, there is hope! When that spark is quenched, hope is for ever gone,--the unhappy bearer falls from heaven, "like Lucifer, never to rise again!"

When Captain L'Estrange returned from the door, he was an altered man; his purpose was knit, resolved; nothing could now shake him from it.

Still, though everything divine had taken its flight, something human still lingered behind; the best of human pa.s.sions--Love! so nearly allied to heavenly grace as to be all but divine; rising, like snowy mountains, so near, and yet unable to pierce the lofty skies; standing without the pale, so near, yet unable to enter the holy of holies. All heavenly aspirations had died; not so all human. He was still a man, though his soul was consigned to man's great enemy; and as he thought on Ellen, his thoughts were unenviable, bitter. There seemed now a great gulf fixed between them,--she was on the right, he on the left side of the throne, and he looked up to her as a fallen angel does to the sky where once were his destinies, knowing he shall enter its crystal gates no more. Opening his window, he paced the balcony backwards and forwards for an hour or two. The night air was cool, the stars bright--too bright; he could look at them no longer. So he entered his darkened room again, and by the fitful glare of the expiring embers disrobed himself, and pressed his pillow. How his head ached! how he tossed on that unquiet couch! At last sleep, undeserved, sealed his eyes; he slept,--not the unquiet sleep, scared by wild dreams, the soldier sleeps ere he enters the battle field, where glory and honour point the way to glorious death; but the deep calm sleep, the mental lethargy, of the convict on the night before his execution, when contempt and shame point the way to an unhallowed grave!

When Captain de Vere left his friend, he strode along the pa.s.sage, his clanking footsteps ringing through the arched corridor, disturbing the calmness of night, and, descending the stairs, opened the door of the smoking room.

"You have kept me a confounded time," said Sir Richard; "I have almost finished the bottle."

"It is settled," said the Captain; "he was a difficult leech to fix, a vacillating fool; but I brought him to anchor at last, and he will do so. By G--! he gave his word, and retracted, s.h.i.+fted and res.h.i.+fted; but spite of all his tackings I piloted him to haven at last."

"When does the plot begin to work?"

"To-morrow he plays his part; in a week or ten days you will yours. And now good night; it is late, and it would not do to have it suspected we were intriguing."

So saying the two young men arose and, shaking hands, retired to their rooms,--the Captain calm and self-possessed, as his unhappy victim was stormy in mind, and unstable as the hurricane's gusts!

CHAPTER XX.

"Away, and mark the time with fairest show; False face must hide what the false heart doth know."

_Macbeth._

"And with coming day Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought, Except the absence of the chief it sought.