EPILOGUE. That room, The floor and THE Fourteenth of November, darkest night of all, came at last. Within the confines of the third chamber, knelt the old man. was hung with black velvet, drooping in heavy folds to the floor. vaulted roof, were all of the same dead hue. On a small table, standing near the centre of the room, stood a tall wax candle, flinging a brilliant light around. All was silent there. Without the storm was heard, bursting in all its fury above the towers of Monthermer. The thunder mourned, ever and anon from the ravines of distant hills. The old man, the proudest of the English nobility, the ruler of broad domains, where revenues might have purchased the life-blood of thousands, knelt there alone, in the last extremity of despair. At last he arose, he drew aside the hangings, in one corner of the room, and then started back with clasped hands. The picture, of a beautiful woman, in the blush of maidenhood, gleamed in the light. Beautiful she was, as the shadows of the hangings, gathering darkly around, made that painted canvass, seem a living woman, beautiful she was, with one small foot advanced, from the white dress, the fair hand uplifted twining among her flowing dark hair, but it was a strange, a wild, almost a supernatural loveliness. The face, clear and white as alabaster, reddened by a solitary flush in the centre of each cheek, the large dilating eyes, fringed by long lashes, the small mouth curving in a smile, the young form, with limbs and bosom, just starting into the bloom of womanhood; it was a picture to love and look upon, the whole day long. The contour of these features, was not European, but moulded in a beauty, that was at once, original and indescribable. A loveliness that seemed born of deep forests, nursed into bloom, by the music of mighty cataracts, under the blush of stainless skies. The old man advanced, and fell on his knees before the picture, calling on God for mercy. "Adele, my wife, for twenty-three years, have I borne in my breast the agonies of the damned. Now hear my last confession-forgive me-pray to God that I may die. Twenty-four years ago, we were married, in the wild forest of Wyamoke. You know that I loved you; that I never loved, but you. But a letter from my father called me home-I was to marry a proud lady, a Countess, who would give a new lustre to the House of Monthermer. My father bade me, to return. I struggled-agonized-yielded, and was a villain! When I gath "I returned, married my noble bride, and an eternal remorse. ered her to my breast I thought of you. You were my soul, my dream; at last the agony warmed my very blood and-One morning my wife, the Countess, was found dead on her couch, with a mark about her throat. I murdered her because she slept on the bosom, which was your's. "Then the hell of my life began. Then I built these rooms, each consecrated to an awful memory. One, to the Seventeenth of July, when I fled from your side-one, to the Eleventh of September, the anniversary of my wife's marriage and death-and the last, O God be merciful-to the Fourteenth of November, the day when we joined hands and heart, in the dim woods of Wyamoke. Then I began the awful penance, which has endured for twenty years. In one room, the lash, in the other, the dead body of my murdered wife, in the last your picture; these awaited me. Say, Adele, have I not suffered, enough? Is not the cup full? Can one more drop of agony, be wrung from my withered heart? 66 I "Old before my time, my name the proudest among the proud, but an eternal memorial of my guilt; the meanest peasant who digs for his bread, is my superior. Now Adele, may I not die? Speak-tell me that I have suffered enough! "Yes, Adele, you know it; wrung by the memories of twenty-four years, have sent my son, heir to the broad lands of Monthermer, across the wide waters, to search out and bless your child, our child, with the testimonial of his mother's honor! I learned the story of your death, the fraud of the villain who usurped your lands, the existence of our son, but three months ago, by a wanderer from Wyamoke. Tell me, have the brother's met ? A fearful dream flashed over my brain, on the night of the Eleventh of November, but it was but a dream! Tell me have the brothers met, have they embraced ?" "They have met," a voice rang through the chamber, like a knell, “They have embraced!" The old man, turned his head over his shoulder. With a shudder, he beheld that proud form, rising like a shadow from the other world, the bronzed face with its waving locks of dark brown, the gleaming eyes, shining steadily into his soul. "They have met in battle, they have embraced in death!" The stranger drew from his breast, a piece of steel, and flung it at the old man's feet. "That steel is red with his blood! My brother-your son!" "Who art thou?" shrieked the old man. "Thine heir. The Earl of Monthermer when thou art dead, but that I scorn your race, your title and your blood now coursing in my veins !" The Earl rose tremblingly to his feet. He gazed in the bronzed face of that strange man, now glooming with unutterable woe, and then sprang forward, with outstretched arms: "Child of Adele, be merciful to thy father!" “Back,” shrieked the stranger, "Back, by the memory of my mother's shame, by the cold corse of my brother. I warn ye! Touch me not! My name is Wyamoke." He folded his arms, and gazed in the face of his father, with glaring eyes. His frown, his look were terrible. His deep voice thrilled the blood of the old man. For a moment they stood regarding each other, the father and the son. Deep silence reigned throughout that chamber. "I come to visit your last hour, with a curse," said the stranger, "The curse of the widow, who died broken-hearted, from her shame, the curse of the orphan who became a fratricide for you! Go old man, go to your God, this curse upon your soul !" The Earl looked upon his son, for a moment, and then sunk to the floor, with the blood spouting from his mouth. At the moment the child of the Indian woman looked up and beheld his mother. That face, the smile, came over his soul like a spell, driving the gloom from his brow, the phrenzy from his heart. He knelt beside the Earl, with outstretched hands: 66 "Father," he groaned in a husky voice, "It is a dark world-what are we all, but the playthings of a merciless fate? Father-I have endured much, but I forgive! Father, my mother's fate was dark, but she smiles forgiveness on you now!" The old man raised his pale face-smiled faintly and was dead. "Now," said he, whom we have called Randulph the Prince, as he arose, Now I am Earl of Monthermer !" A mocking smile quivered on his compressed lips. "And now, the rude Indian, the Earl of Monthermer, trampling this pomp and power beneath his feet, will seek his forest home. Wyamoke! long to breathe your air again, for now my mother's face shines serenely on my soul, Blanche! For you, the Earl of Monthermer forsakes his princely home, his lands, the smile of Royalty, the pomp of power-Blanche I come!" THE END, |