The vault was long and narrow; on either side were three rows of black marble slabs, on which were placed many coffins, containing the ashes of former generations. Between Lady Augusta's coffin, which was of white velvet, with silver lace-work, on which, too, a wreath of the flower l'immortelle was still as fresh as on the day when it had been placed there, and the gorgeous coffin of the late Earl, they placed the newly arrived burden. Immediately above the slab on which the Marchioness's remains were placed was a singular spectacle—an empty coffin of an infant! The lid was resting against the wall behind, inside was a soft pillow and satin coverings, but on the pillow rested no infant head—it was empty! This was the house of the dead, ready for Arthur Viscount de Vere, whose remains were never found to fill it. By the narrow bed of all that was dear to him stood the Marquis with folded arms; he then clasped his hands together, leant over the head of the coffin, and for some moments seemed as though he could never leave it. Then, summoning all his resolution, he cried, "Farewell, Edith, farewell! my feet may wander far from thee, but my heart lies buried here." He then rushed away from the maddening scene, followed by the others who had descended with him, and they left the departed alone amongst the ashes of the former dead, till the last trump shall sound, and the mortal rise immortal!
When the Marquis reached the castle, he gave himself up to unrestrained grief, and refused to be comforted for many days. He then left for his seat in Ireland, taking with him his infant son, the only pledge of undying love! Frank and his sister left for their town residence, and the castle was shut up, old Andrew and some of the servants only remaining. The escutcheon was edged with black, and the old Towers looked as if they shared their owner's grief, and mourned for the dead. Young Wilton had started immediately for Naples, bearer of the dreadful tidings to the Earl and Countess, who would long be in happy ignorance of the sad event.
Thus was another instance of the early death of the family added to the long and mournful category!
CHAPTER V.
"Oh, do not look so bright and blest,
For still there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest
That grief is then most near.
There lurks a dread in all delight,
A shadow near each ray,
That warns us then to fear their flight,
When most we wish their stay."—Moore.
We leave the darkened home of the De Veres, and shift the scene to the Villa Reale at Naples, where the Earl and his bride are enjoying the soft airs of Ausonia,—happy in their own company, and asking for no friend to intermeddle with their joy. More than a fortnight had passed away on their journey, which was performed by easy stages; another week had flown since their arrival at the villa; still they were ignorant of their bereavement. Ellen had penned more than one epistle to her friend, giving a glowing account of their happiness, the pleasures of the journey, the delightful weather, and the beauty of Naples. Alas! these letters would never be opened by the hand she loved, nor perused by the eyes she wrote them for!
It was near the close of a glorious day, when the orb of light was half-sunk in the embrace of the ocean, that the Countess half sat, half reclined on an ottoman in the balcony of Villa Reale,—breathing the soft airs of the Mediterranean, and gazing with delight on the lovely scene. Behind her stood the Earl; but it was not on the scene he gazed, so much as on his partner, in his eyes,—
"The fairest still where all was fair."
He thought he had never seen her look half so beautiful as on that evening; it was not only the passing loveliness of every feature, nor the grace of every movement, but the soul, the burning intellect that was shrined on her white, broad brow,—which proved how far she excelled in mind her own beauty, as her beauty excelled many another fair being. The Countess was dressed in a light Indian muslin; over her shoulders was thrown a black lace scarf, and her luxuriant hair was confined, as usual, in a frail net, which, with its glossy burden, fell half-way down her back. She rested her cheek on her symmetrically-formed hand; on her fingers shone the plain circle of gold, which told her rank as the wife of him who doated on her, and the ring which she often playfully told the Earl she regarded even with more tenderness than her wedding-ring! Her eye was intently fixed on the west,—there her mind seemed to be also; yet, without being able to explain the paradox, her heart was with him who stood beside her! The sunset was one which northern climes never own,—which northern nations may have dreamed of, but have never seen. It beggared the very powers of description! Those whose eyes have been blessed with such sights must feel how dimly words catch the hues no painter's pencil can fix on canvas. The last tip of the slowly-sinking sun seemed to pause for an instant over the waves, as if unwilling to leave his beloved land to darkness; a broad path of glory glittered along the dancing wavelets,—like a golden highway from earth to heaven; on either side the waters slept intensely blue, for it was only in the rays that the eye could discern any motion in the sea. A felucca craft was slowly rowed across this blaze of light; its white sails seemed like ebony,—every part was cut out black,—every rope well defined against the glowing background. Around and above the setting orb the scene was still more wonderful,—not a cloud sullied the serene of heaven, which yet,