Ellen heard her with silent but tumultuous emotion, and hastened as much as possible towards the Parsonage, sending the men however to meet their lord.
The Parsonage being nearer to the beach than the Farm was, Ellen and her friends stopped there, and begged Mr. Griffiths would hasten back to St. Aubyn, and say where he would find her: she then requested Ross would go into his study with her, and there, knowing he was perfectly acquainted with the circumstances which had happened to St. Aubyn in Spain, she entreated his advice how to proceed, and that he would endeavour to calm the violent emotions which the discovery of De Sylva had excited in the bosom of St. Aubyn.
"Surely," said the pious Ross, "the hand of heaven is evident in this extraordinary event! The kind humanity which prompted Lord St. Aubyn to save the poor mariners in the storm, was not only the means by which the life of my son was preserved, and the grey hairs of his mother and myself prevented from going down with sorrow to the grave, but has also, I hope, procured for himself the satisfaction he most earnestly wished, by bringing De Sylva once more within his reach. Wonder-working Providence! from what apparently improbable causes does thy Almighty hand bring forth the most interesting events!"
As he spoke, a bustle was heard without, and St. Aubyn rushed into the room, pale, agitated, almost breathless. Charles Ross, Griffiths, and two or three sailors, followed, leading, or rather bearing the miserable De Sylva: miserable indeed was his whole appearance: his Turkish turban had been torn from his head, and his long black hair streamed round his face in wild disorder. That face which St. Aubyn remembered a few years before glowing with animation and manly beauty, was now pale, haggard, and displayed marks of premature old age.--Those eyes, once so full of life and gaiety, now rolled in horrible dismay; and that form, so agile, so graceful when with the unfortunate Rosolia he led the sprightly dance, was now bowed by sickness, and shrunk by fear.--Oh, what havock does guilt make in the human face and figure! such as he stood, with looks that terrified each beholder. De Sylva was then but little more than thirty years of age, yet the vigour of his constitution, exhausted by excess, his soul a prey to every agony which racks the criminal--his course was run; the grave opened to receive him, and a few short days it was evident must terminate his life and sins together.