mentina, the
darling of her old age, was a terrible blow; but still the hand of the
slayer of her hopes was not stayed. Her husband, whose devotion had so
long sustained her, followed soon after; three weeks later her eldest
son, the new Earl, died tragically in the zenith of his life; and the
crowning blow fell when, in 1862, her last surviving child was taken
from her.

For five more years she survived her triumphs and sorrows, until, one
January day in 1867, she passed suddenly and painlessly away, and the
world was the poorer by the loss of one of the noblest women who have
ever worn the crown of beauty or held the sceptre of power.

CHAPTER IV

THE STAIN ON THE SHIRLEY 'SCUTCHEON

The Shirleys have been men of high honour and fair repute ever since the
far-away days when the conqueror found their ancestor, Sewallis, firmly
seated on his broad Warwickshire lands at Eatington; but their proud
'scutcheon, otherwise unsullied, bears one black, or rather red, stain,
and it was Laurence Shirley, fourth earl of his line, who put it there.

Horace Walpole calls this degenerate Shirley "a low wretch, a mad
assassin, and a wild beast." He was, as my story will show, all this. He
was indeed an incarnate fiend. But was he to blame? He was possessed by
devils; but they were devils of insanity. The taint of madness was in
his blood before he uttered his first cry in the cradle. His uncle,
whose coronet he was to wear, was an incurable madman. His aunt, the
Lady Barbara Shirley, spent years of her life shut up in an asylum. And
this hereditary taint shadowed Laurence Shirley's life from his infancy,
and ended it in tragedy.

As a boy, he was subject to violent attacks of rage, when it was not
safe to approach him; and his madness grew with his years. Strange tales
are told of him as a young man. We are told that he would spend hours
pacing like a wild animal up and down his room, gnashing his teeth,
clenching his fists, grinning diabolically, and uttering strange
incoherent cries. He would stand before a mirror, making horrible
grimaces at his reflection, and spitting upon it; he walked about armed
with pistols and dagger, ready at a moment to use both on any one who
annoyed or opposed him; and in his disordered brain he nursed suspicion
and hatred of all around him.

When he was little more than thirty, and some years after he had come
into his earldom, he wooed and won the pretty daughter of Sir William
Meredit