“Better question the servant,” suggested the surgeon; “the patient himself is quite incapable of giving us any information; the concussion has affected the brain, and he is now delirious.”
The only information to be gained by this means was, that the servant believed his master had no relations in England; he had heard that he had been brought up in Italy, and therefore imagined that his family resided there; he was able, however, to tell the name of his man of business in London, and a messenger was immediately despatched to summon him. Having done this, at the surgeon's request I accompanied him to the chamber of the sufferer.
As we entered, Wilford was lying in bed supported by pillows, with his eyes half shut, apparently in a state of stupor; but the sound of our footsteps aroused him, and opening his eyes, he raised his head and stared wildly about him. His appearance, as he did so, was ghastly in the extreme. His beautiful black hair had been shorn away at the temples to permit his wound to be dressed, and his head was enveloped in bandages, stained in many places with blood; his face was pale as death, save a bright hectic spot in the centre of each cheek, fatal evidence of the inward fever which was consuming him. His classical features, already pinched and shrunken, their paleness enhanced by contrast with his black whiskers, were fixed and rigid as those of a corpse; while his eyes, which burned with an unnatural brilliancy, glared on us with an expression of mingled hate and terror. He seemed partially to recognise me, for, after watching me for a moment, his lips working convulsively, as if striving to form articulate sounds, he exclaimed in a low hoarse voice:—
“Ha! on the scent already! The staid sober lover—let him take care the pretty Clara does not jilt him. I know where she is?—not I—that's a question you must demand of Mr. Cumberland, sir. I beg your pardon, did you say you doubted my word?—I have the honour to wish you good-morning—my friend will call upon you. What! Lizzy Maurice! who dares to say I wronged her?—'tis false. Take that old man away, with his grey hair—why does he torment me?—I tell you the girl's safe, thanks to—to—my head's confused—the 'long man,' as Curtis calls him, Harry Oaklands, handsome Harry Oak-lands. What did I hear you mutter? that he horsewhipped me?—and if he did, there was a day of retribution—ha! ha!—Sir, I shot him for it; shot him like a dog—I hated him, and he perished—the strong man died—died! and what then?—what becomes of dead men? A long-faced fool said I was dying, just now—he thought I didn't hear him—I not hear an insult! and I consider that one—I'll have him out for it—I'll”—and he endeavoured to raise himself, but was scarcely able to lift his head from the pillow, and sank back with a groan of anguish. After a moment he spoke again, in a low, plaintive voice, “I am very ill, very weak—send for her—she will come—oh yes, she will come, for she loves me; she knows my fiery nature—knows my vices, as men call them, and yet she loves me—the only one who ever did—send for her—she will come, it is her son who wishes for her”. Then, in a tone of the fondest endearment he continued, “Lucia, bella madre, il tuo figlio tia chiama”.
“He has been speaking Italian for some time,” observed the surgeon in a whisper.
“That man Spicer told me he thought he was of Italian extraction,” replied I.
Low as were our voices, the quick ear of the sufferer caught the name I had mentioned.
“Spicer,” he exclaimed eagerly; “has he returned? Well, man, speak! is she safely lodged? Cumberland has done his part admirably then. Oh! it was a grand scheme!—Ha! played me false—I'll not believe it—he dares not—he knows me—knows I should dog him like his shadow till we met face to face, and I had torn his false heart out of his dastardly breast. I say he dares not do it!” and yelling out a fearful oath, he fell back in a fainting fit.
Let us draw a veil over the remainder of the scene. The death-bed of the wicked is a horrible lesson, stamped indelibly on the memory of all who have witnessed it. Happy are they whose pure hearts need not such fearful training; and far be it from me to dim the brightness of their guileless spirits by acquainting them with its harrowing details.
Shortly after the scene I have described, internal hemorrhage commenced; ere another hour had elapsed the struggle was over, and a crushed and lifeless corpse, watched by hirelings, wept over by none, was all that remained on earth of the man whom society courted while it feared, and bowed to while it despised—the successful libertine, the dreaded duellist, Wilford! I learned some time afterwards that his father had been an English nobleman, his mother an Italian lady of good family. Their marriage had been private, and performed only according to the rites of the Romish Church, although the earl was a Protestant. Availing himself of this omission, on his return to England he pretended to doubt the validity of the contract, and having the proofs in his own possession, contrived to set the marriage aside, and wedded a lady of rank in this country. Lucia Savelli, the victim of his perfidy, remained in Italy, devoting herself to the education of her son, whom she destined for the Romish priesthood. Her plans were, however, frustrated by the information that the earl had died suddenly, leaving a large fortune to the boy, on condition that he never attempted to urge his claim to the title, and finished his education in England. With his subsequent career the reader is sufficiently acquainted. On hearing of her son's melancholy fate, Lucia Savelli, to whom the whole of his fortune was bequeathed, retired to a convent, which she endowed with her wealth.